Page 33 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

Antonio steps toward me without a word as Franco closes the door behind him, leaving us alone. My husband (the word still feels foreign, dangerous) hands me a bottle of water.

I raise an eyebrow and he grunts, "Doctor's orders, remember?"

"Sure." My hand trembles slightly as I take it, being painfully careful not to brush his fingers. Even this non-contact feels like playing with fire.

Needing to do something, anything, other than stare at him in silence, I take a sip of the cold water. And another. And another. I did forget to hydrate while I was in the yard with Elena, and the fact that he remembers shouldn't fill the crater he carved in my chest with even an inch of warmth. He only wants mefunctional for that stupid dinner coming up. Just another chess piece positioned correctly.

Dean enters the room before I can say another word or blurt out something stupid about Antonio's Phoenix tattoo on his arm. His very muscular arm. That shirt is criminal, really. And why do I suddenly want to scream or break something before whirling around and slamming the door behind me? My brain feels simultaneously on overdrive and wading through fog. Maybe it's Antonio's cologne lingering in the air, reminding me what it was like to feel his powerful body against mine, his lips brushing my neck, my breasts, my thighs, my—

Shoot. What are they saying?

I shake my head and realize I'm the only one standing. Wonderful. Way to stay present, Bella.

Antonio gives me a knowing look like he was watching that very private movie reel playing in my mind.

Well, Beast, do you also remember how that night ended? With me sobbing until I couldn't breathe and you escaping my room without a single word.

I smooth my hands over my sweatpants again, straining to hear the soothing rhythm of the ocean beyond these fortress walls, and settle into the leather chair next to Dean. It's comfortable enough that in another life, I could pretend this is normal. Like, pretend I wasn't sold at an auction to my former stepbrother who only wanted revenge but somehow still makes my body betray me with want.

Yep. That's the game we're playing.

Antonio doesn't clear his throat. He doesn't need to. He simply leans forward, and that's enough to command the attention of the room. The Beast in action.

"I asked you both here because I'd like Dean to recount what happened before my mother's death."

He's keeping his word to me about looping me into the investigation, and that relaxes my shoulders a fraction.

Dean frowns. "I already told you everything I know."

Antonio glares at him in a way that makes Dean seem to physically shrink in his chair. I shift on the leather seat, the material crinkling beneath me like hospital bed sheets.

"Maybe go back further," Antonio says. "You mentioned my father and my mother had been having arguments."

"Everyone knew that," I interject, finding my voice. "You knew that too." I meet his gaze directly, refusing to be the timid ballerina he expects.

Antonio tilts his head, his fingers tracing patterns on the desk that have me mesmerized. Why do his strong, calloused hands make me clench my thighs together? He gives me one of those looks that makes me wonder if he's as attuned to my body as I am to his.

"You're right," he growls after a few seconds charged with electricity. "But there's information Dean shared that I didn't know. Apparently, my mother used to visit Naomi's father. Alone."

"Alone?" I frown, trying to make sense of this new piece. "Naomi's father?"

"Yes."

I search my memories for any rumors, any whispers about them. Nothing surfaces.

"Do you think he's the one who betrayed her?" I narrow my eyes, but even if something was happening between them, he had everything to lose by coming clean. He was the one person who seemed to truly care about Naomi, about protecting her. That kind of love doesn't coexist easily with betrayal.

Antonio gives me a knowing nod. "It doesn't make sense, does it?"

"No. No, it doesn't." For once, we're aligned in our thinking, and the realization is more unsettling than comforting.

Dean waits for Antonio to signal him to continue, like a soldier awaiting orders from his general.

Once he does, Dean sits straighter. "I drove Simona to that house more times than I can count." He pauses. "But she wasn't hiding it."

"She wouldn't have asked you to drive her anywhere she wanted kept secret," I murmur, and Dean glances at me, surprised I've made the connection.

"She could trust me." He sounds almost indignant, and I wonder if he realizes what kind of web we've all been caught in.

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