Page 20 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

I can't help but raise an eyebrow. "Sure. I'll use my telepathic powers to chat with you about the weird noises I hear from the jail cell you locked me in. Sounds like a perfect use of abilities I didn't even know I had."

His gaze darkens, dropping to my lips before slowly rising to meet my eyes again. Heat creeps up my neck, unbidden and unwelcome. "From now on, it'll be easier to just tell me," he growls, the words somewhere between a threat and a promise.

Before I can respond, Dean—one of his mother's old friends turned loyal soldier—calls from the driver's seat, "Following your orders, boss, taking the longer road back."

Like I need more alone time with my former stepbrother turned jailer turned... whatever the hell he is now. My husband, technically. As if that word could possibly capture the toxic tangle between us.

I turn back to the window, letting the silence build its walls again. Tomorrow there will be more performances to give—the dutiful wife at his precious dinner, the makeshift fairy godmother for Elena. But for now, in this car with the Beast who refuses to be tamed, I'll focus on surviving one moment at a time.

Just like I learned to do during chemo. Just like I'll keep doing until I find my way out of this twisted fairy tale.

I must have fallen asleep for a bit because Antonio's deep voice stirs me awake. "Assicurati che sia tutto pronto." Something about making sure everything is ready. I pinch my eyes shut because if he thinks I'm still sleeping, maybe I'll hear what plan he's getting ready, maybe I'll even find some sort of way out of this.

Plus, if I'm sleeping, Antonio can't really say anything to annoy me or confuse me or hurt me, but of course, The Beast has other plans. He puts his phone away. "I know you're awake," he rasps out. "You stopped snoring."

Great. I snored. I'd care if he hadn't shattered my heart and danced on the shards he scattered. But I want to know where we are, so I open my eyes as he crosses his arms over his chest, turning his full attention to me. Oh joy.

"We need to discuss the dinner."

"Discuss?" I repeat.

"Yes."

"You do realize that discussing would mean that you listen to whatever I have to say," I inhale deeply, before taking another sip of water. My heartbeat has finally settled—the adenosine worked—but my nerves haven't. I'm trying and failing not to lethim get a rise out of me. Maybe it's the fact that for a split second I thought he was going softer on me or that he did care. "You're implying I have some sort of say, when we both know that I don't."

"Fine." He doesn't even pretend to argue with me. "I need to tell you a few things about the dinner."

"And that can't wait until later?"

"Why? Do you have plans I'm not aware of?"

Ouch. "Yes, I want to plan how to stop believing you can be a decent man."

Did Dean's eyebrows raise in the mirror at my words? How much does he know about what's been happening in the shadows?

"You do need to stop believing that," Antonio growls. "Fairytales aren't real, Bell'cenda." The nickname slips out seemingly without him realizing it, and I catch the way his jaw tightens afterward.

"No shit," I reply, and hearing me say shit has Antonio's lips lift into a half-smile. An involuntary one it would appear, since he gives me yet another signature glare.

"We need to show a united front on Saturday evening," he announces, watching my reaction.

I frown. "Why? It's not like everyone doesn't know you paid for my hand. You and all the other men decided that entering a tournament was the best way to get a wife. They know this isn't..." My words stumble but I manage to croak out. "Love."

"They need to believe you are on my side."

"I'm on no one's side. You and my father can rot in Hell for all I care."

"I wouldn't rot in Hell. I have a fucking throne there with my name on it, can't you tell?"

"The Beast. The Devil. What other nicknames do you want? Please do let me know... so I can be sure I can call you by the correct name, dear husband."

I'm not sure if it's the nap I took that's making me spew out whatever comes through my mind or maybe it's the accumulation of everything that has me out of control. I'm like one of those music box ballerinas pirouetting the truth until the music stops and I'm forced into silence once more.

The music hasn't stopped yet. And hearing that he wants me to believe that we have some sort of agreement, when I've been stuck in some sort of dark and moldy room before he suddenly realized I could have better use has me feeling some type of way.

"You know what?" I ask. "Let's make a deal then if you're the Devil."

"A deal?" He looks intrigued and why is my gaze now focused on him uncrossing his muscular arms and his finger tapping on his strong thigh like it's some kind of metronome? "A deal."

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