Page 19 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

I'd hoped he might sit in the front seat on the drive back to the fortress, but no. He's right beside me, too close, filling the backseat with his sandalwood-and-danger scent. My muscles tense like before performances, only this time there's no music to lose myself in, just the quiet hum of the car and Antonio barking orders into his phone.

"I don't care what Moretti's men are saying," he growls to whoever's on the other end. "You keep the shipment moving through Palermo. If anyone tries to stop you—" His voice drops lower, more menacing. "Handle it. Permanently."

He hangs up, immediately dialing someone else. This time, his voice shifts. Still deep, still commanding, but with an undercurrent I haven't heard since our wedding night. A woman answers, her tone playful even through the speaker. I catch a laugh from him that sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine.

Is it Paola? The woman whose body he claimed while making sure I watched? The memory makes my skin prickle with something that definitely isn't jealousy. Definitely not.

God, I want to scream until my lungs give out. But that would take energy I don't have. SVT always leaves me wrung out like a ballet costume after final performance, my body hollowed and heavy. And who knows what I'd end up spilling in this exhausted state? Something he'd just use against me, or mock me for, or turn into another weapon in his arsenal of cruelty.

I yawn loudly, pointedly, but he doesn't even glance my way. Just keeps talking, keeps ignoring the wife he decided was worth bringing to the hospital but not worth acknowledging now that the crisis has passed.

My eyes drift closed against my will, and the image that dances behind my eyelids makes me clench my teeth. It's him—right before we left for the hospital. "I'm not going anywhere," he'd promised, his voice rough with what sounded almost like concern. And yet, once more, I've never felt so completely alone.

My eyes flutter open, latching onto the Italian countryside speeding by. None of this should bother me. For one stupid moment, I'd thought we were making some kind of progress, and I wasn't prepared for the resilient butterflies that fluttered in my chest at his unexpected protectiveness.

Pathetic, really. Like they're Sleeping Beauty, and their wake-up kiss was just one ounce of decency from the man who locked me away for three months.

One. Ounce.

One ounce of decency isn't enough. It cannot be enough. Especially when it's clearly a lie, just like everything else about him. He'd checked my pulse as if I might be faking, as if even my heart's rebellion was some elaborate scheme against him.

I force myself to keep staring out the window as he continues another conversation, this one in English. "The dinner will take place at a secure location," he says, tension threading through his voice. "Of course she's here. She's with me right now."

I swear if he asks me to say hello to whoever's on the line, I'll bite him. Hard. Right through that expensive shirt.

But he just hangs up and starts texting, fingers moving across the screen like his life depends on it. I inhale deeply, counting beats like my cardiologist taught me. The last thing I need is another SVT episode.

At least this time, the adenosine didn't feel like death. The last time they administered it. It felt like teetering on the edge of oblivion. Like I was about to take one final, gasping breath before everything went dark. The dread had been overwhelming, panic crushing my chest worse than any tumor ever could.

This time, I'd glared at Antonio through the whole procedure, focusing my anger on him instead of my fear. Under the sterile, unforgiving lights of the hospital, his scars seemed to tell their own story—a story I still wish I could have prevented. But unlike the fairy tales I used to believe in, I don't have three wishes, and we can't turn back time.

The silence stretches between us as my gaze remains fixed on the passing landscape. A bakery with its warm glow speeds past, then rugged cliffs and the endless Mediterranean—scenes froma life I'm barred from exploring, trapped as I am in that desolate wing of his fortress.

"Drink." He thrusts a bottle of water at me, his voice a command, not an offer.

I scowl, every fiber in me wanting to shove it back at him or open it and throw it in his face. But Dr. Draghi's orders echo in my mind. "Hydration is critical with your condition," he'd said, eyeing Antonio like he was assessing whether the Beast actually cared about his wife's health.

I take the water, unscrewing the cap with more force than necessary.

The doctor's other comments still hang heavy in my thoughts. The beta blockers might not be enough anymore. An ablation procedure might be necessary. And then the question that hit like a physical blow: "Are you currently seeing an oncologist?"

That casual inquiry about routine check-ups, his comments on my good blood work, on not finding any suspicious lymph nodes—even as he reminded me he was no hematologist—had tightened something in my chest that had nothing to do with my heart's rhythm.

Antonio had nodded like he's the one deciding my medical future. I know I need to go back for a check-up, but I loathe those appointments, the way they strip me bare, leaving me more exposed than I ever felt during performances.

I take another sip of water, the cool liquid soothing my throat. Returning to the fortress—I refuse to call it home—brings a flicker of relief. Maybe it's the absence of that clinical hospital smell, or the prospect of seeing Elena and Signora Martha. But then memories of the previous night intrude, the sound of heavy footsteps outside my door sending a different kind of shiver through me.

"Where were you last night?" The question comes out sharper than I intended, catching Antonio mid-text.

His head snaps up, brow furrowing. "Why do you care? I do what the fuck I want." Those dark eyes narrow, assessing me like I'm a potential threat.

"Great. Not my point." I lift a shoulder in what I hope looks like indifference, even as something twists in my stomach at the thought of him being tender and true with someone else. "Spend the night in whatever bed you want. Were you doing rounds or something near my room?"

"What do you mean?" His voice lowers, that dangerous edge creeping in that makes the hairs on my neck stand up.

"I just... I thought I heard steps, that's all." I try to keep my tone casual, not wanting to show how much it had unnerved me. "Might've been dreaming." I wasn't, though. "Or possibly one of the guards on their rounds?"

"Maybe," he concedes, but the single word hangs heavy with unspoken meaning. His fingers pause over his phone before he adds, "If you ever hear anything like that again, you tell me. Clear?"

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