Page 3 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

She giggles. "Princess. Story." She claps her hands and I guess she wants me to tell her a princess story. How much English does she know? I slide the piece of paper under the heavy door and there's another giggle.

So, bracing myself, I start in a mix of Italian and English, "Once Upon A Time, there was a princess named Elena..."

And for once, I hope that someone—anyone, even Antonio—realizes that this child has gone missing and finds her before she grows tired of my story and continues to explore a wing that is far too dangerous for her.

My fingers trace patterns against the door as I speak, as if I could somehow protect her through solid oak. The steps in this wing are steep, winding, treacherous. A child could tumble down them in seconds. The windows have no safety bars. Some of the stone floors have crumbled away near the edges, leaving drops straight to the rocks below.

I embellish my story with details of brave princesses who rescue themselves, who don't need princes or beasts to save them, but my ears strain for any sound of approaching footsteps, any sign that someone is searching for this child.

Elena giggles at the dramatic voices I use, clapping when I describe the princess's magic powers. Through the gap beneath the door, I can see her tiny fingers reaching for the drawing I made her.

"More, more!" she demands, and I oblige, spinning the tale longer, keeping her anchored in place with my words.

The Mediterranean crashes against the cliffs outside, and wind howls through the cracks in ancient stone. This wing isn't just dangerous. It's deadly for a child left unattended.

I press my palm flat against the door, willing my voice to remain steady and enchanting while my mind screams withworry. Who let a child wander here alone? Whose responsibility is she?

"Princess fight dragon?" Elena asks, her limited English somehow perfectly clear.

"Yes," I answer, "the princess is very brave. She fights her own dragons."

As I continue weaving this story I'm making up on the spot, I find myself hoping. I hope that someone, anyone, even the Beast who locked me away, remembers this child exists. That they notice she's missing. That they find her before my voice grows hoarse or my story ends and she wanders away.

For the first time in three months, I'm not worried about myself. I'm not counting days of captivity or wondering when—if—Antonio will remember the wife he imprisoned.

I'm just trying to keep a little girl safe with nothing but my voice and a hand-drawn princess on a crumpled piece of paper.

Chapter two

Antonio

"Thisisnotacceptable."

My knuckles crack as I press them against the mahogany desk. The wood's expensive, imported, like everything else in this fortress that isn't stone and shadow. Franco stands opposite me, tension radiating off him in waves. The scar on my face pulls tight as I clench my jaw, a constant reminder of flames and betrayal.

I rise, the chair scraping against ancient stone. Henrik's knife wound throbs under my shirt, a phantom pain that flares whenever rage builds, like my body's keeping score of every fucking betrayal.

"This was supposed to be clear." Each word drops like a blade. "Moretti should be bleeding out, not expanding. Yet I'm told he's establishing new supply lines in Palermo. Building fresh alliances in Turin. The bastard who tried to have me killed at my own wedding is laughing while we're still burying our dead."

Franco shifts, that look in his eyes that says he's about to deliver more bad news. Three years as my right hand, and he still braces for impact when he has to tell me shit I don't want to hear.

"Look, boss, I hear you. But we've got bigger fires burning. Since that tournament and the wedding massacre, we're stretched thin. Those alliances you secured by winning Isabella? They're demanding more than we can deliver."

I drag in a breath that doesn't quite fill my lungs. The fortress carries salt from the Mediterranean, stone older than any of our grudges, and sometimes—when the wind hits just right—a ghost of honeysuckle that claws at whatever's left inside my chest.

Three months since I locked her away. Three months of waking up hard and aching, her taste still on my tongue. Three months of telling myself this hatred is cleaner than whatever else might be growing in the wreckage.

Easier to hate her than admit seeing those scars mapping her body broke something in me. Easier to blame her for my mother's death than question the narrative I've built my vengeance upon. Easier to leave her locked in that forgotten wing than face what happened between us on our wedding night.

But logic is a ruthless master, and it demands she stay contained. No matter how many nights I wake up with the phantom memory of her body under mine, her trust in those eyes before I shattered it. She's exactly where she belongs. Away from me. Away from everyone.

The dreams are the worst. Two months back, I caught myself at her door, hand on the key before I realized what I was doing. Torture of a different sort. One of my newer men decided to test his luck: "Heading back to tend to your wife? Wouldn't mind taking a turn with her myself."

I didn't think. Just reacted. My fist connected with his jaw, the familiar crunch of bone giving way. Not the first time I'vemade someone bleed for speaking about her like that. My crew should've learned by now. Henrik or Radomir would get the same treatment, only I wouldn't stop at one punch.

"And boss, there's chatter," Franco interrupts my spiral, eyes wary.

"From who?" My hand instinctively finds the scar on my neck. One of the first lessons in our world, delivered by Isabella's father after I'd pledged myself to his service like a fucking fool.

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