Page 29 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

My fist connects with the punching bag. Once, twice, again and again until the rhythm of my knuckles against leather drowns out her voice in my head.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

My muscles scream as sweat soaks through my shirt, trickling down my back, stinging the cuts opening on my knuckles. Blood smears across the bag's surface. The pain should center me, should bring the clarity I need, but all I can see is her face when I made her come. The way she looked at me afterward, like I was still worth saving.

Isabella may be alone in that room, but her ghost follows me here. Dancing around me, just out of reach.Ballerina mia. She's forged her way into my veins, into whatever's left of my soul, and no matter how hard I punish this bag, how hard I punish myself, I can't shake the sound of her voice when she told me to go.

It cut deeper than her shard ever could. Because part of me—the part I've tried to burn away—still aches for her. Still wants more than her body beneath mine. Still wants what we glimpsed on our wedding night.

I was right all along.

Being around her is Hell, and my fucking throne is made of flames and agony. She's my damnation. But the worst part? Shesits on the throne right beside me. My damned Queen I can't seem to overthrow.

Or want to.

Because even as everything in me scalds and scorches, I crave her. Her fire that burns like pure lava. Just her.

And that's the cruelest torture of all.

My muscles scream like they've been carved with Henrik's blade, punishment for pushing too hard in last night's workout. But physical pain is a fucking luxury compared to the nightmares that chased me through what passed for sleep, ghosts dragging me through memories I've tried to burn away.

And now? The morning light doesn't do shit to burn away the primal need for Isabella that's dug under my skin like shrapnel. Her words from last night still echo in my skull, impossible to silence.

She talked about hope. She talked about hoping for me. The bitter fucking irony, she was hoping for a man who died in flames, replaced by the monster I've become.

I slam my fist against the desk, making the papers Franco's been nagging me about jump. Charts, data, projections. Turns out running an empire requires more than just knowing where to cut and when to kill. The numbers blur together, bleeding red across the page. Supply chain's moving like it's drugged, and the discrepancies in the books smell like betrayal waiting to happen.

We might be winning some battles, but the war's far from over. The philanthropic work that keeps our territory loyal needs funding, and my men require both payment and respect. Without both, loyalty shatters faster than bone.

But that fucking word keeps circling like a vulture over carrion: Hope.

Who was my mother hoping to meet? Who betrayed her?

She couldn't have orchestrated an escape by herself, not in our world where walls have ears and shadows have knives. Someone has to know the truth. Someone who was there, who saw the pieces before they burned.

"I need to talk to Dean," I bark, cutting Franco off mid-sentence.

He stiffens, that muscle in his jaw twitching—the one that says he's pissed but too smart to show it. "I was explaining that there might be a serious issue with our club in Messina. One of our main cash flows." His voice stays level. The calm before the storm. "And now you want to talk to your mom's driver?"

"Is there a fucking problem?" Ice coats every syllable. "If you've got something to say, say it." My hand drifts to the scar bisecting my face, tracing the line that divides the man I was from the Beast I've become.

Before Franco can answer, Elena's laughter floats through the window like music, piercing through stone walls like they're paper. Christ, what kind of tactical genius designed this office with a direct view of the garden?

I stride to the window, ready to slam it shut against the distraction, but my body freezes at the sight below.

Isabella's with Elena, their hands linked like it's the most natural thing in the world. Her curls catch the morning light, a halo of fire around features that shouldn't still haunt me. She's wearing nothing special. Black sweatpants and a long-sleeve shirt. But my cock hardens like she's wrapped in nothing but silk and sin.

This reaction isn't normal. It's some kind of poisoned response, blood redirected from my brain to my groin. My body doesn't seem to give a fuck about betrayal when it comes to her.

My eyes track the curve of her neck, and my mouth waters with the need to taste her skin, to bite down hard enough to mark her as mine. I want to drag her against me, bury my face in her scent—that intoxicating blend of strawberry shampoo and honeysuckle that's carved into my memory like another scar.

They're examining flowers, Elena bouncing between patches of color while Isabella watches with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. There's an ocean of sadness lurking there, a depth of pain that makes something twist in my gut. Is this another performance? Another way to worm under my defenses?

Franco clears his throat, dragging me back from the edge. "So, about the club?" His voice carries a hint of concern that should piss me off more than it does.

Tearing my gaze away from my wife feels like removing a blade, necessary but excruciating. Isabella's settled on a stone bench now, Elena tucked against her side like she belongs there. She's whispering something to my daughter, something that makes Elena nod with solemn understanding.

What lies is she feeding her? What promises that can't be kept?

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