Page 24 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

My grip tightens around the knob, a mix of resolve and recklessness driving me forward. This isn't about falling for her traps, I convince myself: it's about facing whatever manipulation she's playing at. The door yields with a groan under my force, and I step through without hesitation.

"Damn."

The word escapes me, a guttural sound made of pure frustration and something else as heat licks my spine, fills my veins, drums up my pulse at the sight in front of me.

Isabella with only a shirt on, her eyes closed, moaning my name again and again and again while her fingers work between her thighs.

Am I in Hell already? And if yes, where the fuck is my throne?

.It's not a throne I'm claiming. It's a fucking descent into madness.

When I thought I understood the rage burning in my veins before, I was dead wrong. Because now? Now it's molten lava scorching through every nerve ending, consuming whatever's left of my control. And all because of her.

Her voice. Her moans. My name on her lips like a prayer she can't help but whisper.

She's writhing on the bed, twisted in sheets that hide too much and reveal enough to torture me. I step forward before I can stop myself, drawn by something more powerful than hatred or revenge. My cock strains against my zipper, painfully hard, throbbing in rhythm with the organ I thought had turned to stone in my chest.

I won't touch her. I fuckingcan't. But I can't make myself leave either.

Her scent surrounds me – not just the honeysuckle that's haunted my dreams since our wedding night, but something deeper, richer. The musk of her desire calls to the Beast in me, wrapping around my throat like a silken noose. I push a chair closer, telling myself it's just to get a better view of my enemy's weakness.

For one heartbeat, she goes still. Then her hand slides beneath the sheets, finding what she needs. The frustrated groan that escapes her lips makes my cock impossibly harder, a drop of precum soaking through my boxers. A bead of sweat traces down her temple, and I want to catch it with my tongue. Want to taste every inch of her. Want to remind her body who it belongs to.

This desire for my wife – my prisoner, my enemy – is torture beyond anything her father could devise. It's purely physical. It has to be. The alternative would destroy whatever plan I've meticulously crafted.

Yet I want to hear her cry my name again like she did on our wedding night, when I buried myself inside her and she looked at me like I was something more than the Beast everyone fears.I want to lose myself so completely in her that neither of us remembers where the hatred begins and the need ends.

My jaw clenches hard enough to crack teeth, but the thoughts remain, spawning a tidal wave of fury that crashes through my chest, my mind, the shriveled remains of what I once called a heart.

I've spent months plotting her downfall, rehearsing my revenge, and yet wanting her feels like walking through fire with my eyes wide open – fully aware of the inevitable burn, but incapable of turning away.

All those memories I've locked away, those dangerous moments when I let myself care – they're not breaking free, but they're seeping through the cracks in my armor, mixing with the molten rage in my veins.

She moans again, softer this time, less satisfied. Before I can stop myself, I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and growl words meant to wound and arouse in equal measure: "That's my cock you want, isn't it, Bell'cenda? You want me inside that pretty little pussy."

Her eyes flutter open, clouded with dreams and need. Instead of shock at finding me here, she simply nods, still half-lost in whatever world she inhabits between sleeping and waking. Her fingers find mine, electricity arcing between us as she pulls me toward her.

A smile touches her lips even as her brow furrows. "I hate you, you know. This is just a dream."

"Or a nightmare," I reply, my voice stripped to gravel and hunger.

"Touch me," she murmurs, her voice thick with sleep, like she isn't sure if this is real or fantasy. "I need you to touch me. Make me feel alive like you know how. I need to feel alive."

Then her lips find mine, and whatever control I've been clinging to shatters. The kiss isn't gentle – it's war and surrender and need so raw it burns.

"You want me to kiss you?" The Beast in me wants to rip away the shirt covering her body, burn the sheets hiding her from my gaze. No matter what lies between us, she's mine. She's always been mine. My curse, my obsession, my downfall.

I let my mouth wander down her body, finding a perfect pink nipple that hardens beneath my tongue. Her back arches as I continue my path downward, one hand clutching the sheets while the other tangles in my hair, urging me toward the heat between her thighs.

A deep, primal satisfaction rumbles through me as my tongue finally –finally– tastes her, finding the nectar I've been craving despite everything. She shivers beneath me, or maybe I'm the one trembling. When I glance up, our eyes lock, and hers widen as reality crashes through her haze of pleasure.

My shoulders stiffen as I wait, balanced on a knife's edge.

If she pushes me away, I'll slam the door between us and throw away the key. Build walls higher than before. Make sure I never come this close to weakness again. I won't put her back in that forgotten wing, but I'll never let myself touch her, never let myself want her.

If she doesn't... this still can't be more than stolen moments. She's too dangerous to let close. She's my greatest vulnerability, the chink in armor I've spent years forging.

After an eternity compressed into heartbeats, she opens her legs wider, giving me better access, and I groan against her flesh – "Finally" – before feasting on her like a starving man. I circle her swollen clit with my tongue, working her with practiced precision until she's nothing but need and surrender, until I'm nothing but hunger and possession.

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