Page 31 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

"Bella rosa," I repeat, mimicking her perfect accent. My pronunciation must be atrocious because she giggles, clapping her hands with delight, and for a second, I forget the Beast in the tower watching our every move.

I glance back toward his window. half expecting to see the hulking shadow of the man who only yesterday made me come undone with just his tongue. But he's gone.

Yet I still feel him. Still feel the rough scratch of his stubble grazing my inner thigh, his calloused hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise, his growl vibrating against my most sensitive flesh. The memory alone has my body humming with a need I hate myself for feeling.

Get it together, Bella. For God's sake.

I mentally slam the brakes on that runaway train of thought. I've spent three months in stone isolation building walls brick by brick, meticulously constructing a fortress against him in my mind, only to have it all crumble with one touch, one kiss, one taste.

When did I become this weak? Was it during those long nights in the hospital when I fantasized about him coming back? When I pictured him holding my hand during treatments? Or was iton our wedding night when he mapped my scars with reverent fingers, treating each one like a masterpiece instead of medical wreckage?

I inhale deeply and focus back on the little girl beside me. Elena's questions about flowers, many I can't fully understand with my limited Italian, keep me grounded in reality instead of spiraling into memories of his touch. They prevent me from running back inside the fortress and locking myself in the bathroom, the only space where I might have true privacy from those eyes that see too much, that spark something in me I thought cancer had stolen.

"My mom..." Elena whispers in English, and the word makes me hold my breath, giving her my complete attention. She rarely speaks about her mother, and her chin quivers as she tries to continue, clearly fighting tears. My chest tightens at the sight, at the pain this child carries.

"Credi che..." She pauses, speaking slowly in Italian now. "Forse anche mia mamma amava i fiori?"

I struggle to understand her question; my Italian lessons with Signora Martha haven't progressed far enough. As if summoned by my confusion, Signora Martha, standing nearby, whispers a translation: "She's asking if you think her mother loved flowers too."

My heart fractures at the simplicity of the question, the profound loss behind it. Elena has mentioned her mother so rarely that every reference feels significant, a small window into the grief she carries alongside her childhood joy.

"Non lo so. I don't know," I admit, taking her tiny hand in mine. "I wish I did." We settle onto one of the stone benches that must have witnessed countless moments throughout centuries, lovers, fights, secrets, reconciliations. How many women before me sat here, hearts torn between hatred and desire? How many waited for men who never changed?

I refocus on the present, on the little girl watching me with eyes too wise for her years. "You know, maybe you could draw something for your mom," I suggest gently. "Something that makes you think of her. And you can tell me things you remember, and I'll write them down for you."

I attempt to reinforce my suggestion with hand gestures when my Italian vocabulary fails me. Signora Martha has stepped back a bit, but she's watching to ensure Elena understands.

Elena nods solemnly but stares at the ground, sadness weighing her small shoulders until Signora Martha calls our attention to a bird perched on the garden wall.

We both look up, and I can't help wondering what it must feel like: to be free to fly away from stone walls and painful memories, from prisons both literal and figurative. To soar above all this mess below, to leave behind the sweet torture of a man who claims to hate you while his tongue paints love letters against your skin.

"My mom called me her little bird," Elena murmurs, a mix of Italian and English flowing together. "Because I like to sing and dance. She really knew how to sing." Her voice drops even lower, vulnerable as an open wound. "Do you think she can hear me if I sing to her?"

The question hits me like a physical blow. What am I supposed to tell her? What words could possibly fill this void without creating new scars? I don't know what happened to Elena's mother, but it sounds like whatever it was, she didn't choose to leave. Unlike my own mother, ripped away by a drunk driver on a rainy day. Unlike Antonio's mother, who was planning an escape only to disappear entirely.

I wrap my arm around her shoulders, and she burrows against me like she belongs there. "I think she'll always be in your heart," I say carefully, managing a few words in Italian that SignoraMartha nods approval at. "And if you sing, she'll hear you right there."

"Okay." Elena lifts her head to look at me again, her eyes swimming with tears that break my heart all over again.

God, I wish I could fix this for her. Take away her pain. Build a ladder to that bird so we could both fly away somewhere the Beast's shadow doesn't reach. Yet even that thought feels hollow; would I really want to leave him if I could? Or am I just as drawn to his darkness as I am repelled by it?

"It's okay to cry," I whisper, and when a sob escapes her, it feels like someone's performing grand pliés on my chest. I hold her tighter as Cerberus, sensing her distress, comes charging across the garden, tail wagging frantically.

He stops abruptly in front of us, nudging his wet nose against Elena's hand. When she whispers his name, he immediately flops onto his back in a ridiculously dramatic display that would put every diva at Juilliard to shame. Elena slides off the bench to pet him, the distraction working its magic. Cerberus rolls back to sit up, nudging her again, and Elena throws her arms around his neck.

As she inhales deeply against his fur, her lips form a small smile.

"It's also okay to be happy," I tell her softly, hoping the words translate across our language barrier.

"Good boy," she says in English before adding in Italian, "He's the best dog. He's my friend. You're my friend too."

"We're friends," I agree, warmth spreading through my chest despite the chill in the air. "And he's the best boy."

He's also a traitor who should be sleeping outside Antonio's door rather than mine. But he's got good taste in women, at least.

The moment shatters as Franco approaches, his stride purposeful but not threatening. Though his expression remainsserious, there's something almost benevolent in the way he looks at us, enough to keep my heart from performing that dangerous staccato it favors when I'm stressed.

"He wants to see you," Franco states simply.

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