Page 35 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

A whisper slithers through the darkness of my mind:Am I?

My mother wanted to protect Isabella, and I tried to destroy her. The irony tastes like blood and ashes on my tongue.

The weight in my chest grows heavier with each memory that crashes through my defenses: Isabella's shattered expression the morning after our wedding night, when I tore her heart out and stomped it into dust. The raw sobs that wracked her body last night after I made her lose control. The fucking mold-infested prison I confined her to for three months.

Each memory twists inside me like a serrated blade between ribs.

What if she truly didn't know? What if she never realized the consequences of her words until it was too late? What if she never understood who her father really was until he'd already destroyed everything?

There's a crack in my armor, the one I forged from revenge and hatred, and suddenly my mind can't separate truth from the lies I've been telling myself. All I can see is Isabella's face, the pain etched into features I've memorized against my will. Her own father had plans for her that no father should ever contemplate for his child.

I'd never do that to Elena. The mere thought of something happening to my daughter ignites a fury that threatens to consume everything in its path. But being responsible for her pain? The idea wraps around my throat like a garrote, tightening until I can barely breathe. I dig my nails into my palms hard enough to draw blood, forcing myself to focus on something, anything, besides the storm raging inside me.

"Dean." I lean forward, the leather of my chair creaking under the tension in my body. "Why didn't you tell me about this tournament before?"

His mouth opens, closes, opens again like a fish thrown onto shore. His eyes dart around the room as if searching for an escape route. "Why didn't I tell you about that tournament?" he repeats, buying himself time.

I wait, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth.

"Because you didn't ask me," he finally says. "And I assumed you knew." He shifts his weight between feet, glancing at Isabella before returning his gaze to me. "You entered this tournament. I thought maybe you would enter the one back then, too. I didn't think it was important." He pauses, swallows. "The florist... your mom loved flowers. Taking her to get them wasn't strange at the beginning. And the tournament and auction?" His shoulder lifts in a half-shrug. "It's not like Luciano Martino is going for Father of the Year."

I feel my scar pull tight as I grind my molars together.

"Your mom trusted me. Mostly," he continues. "But the reason I respected her is because she made sure never to put me in a difficult position with your father. When she was going to Naomi's place, she always made sure there were plenty of people at the house too."

My fingers move of their own accord, pulling open the drawer where I keep the photo I couldn't bring myself to burn. My mother, smiling with me as a child. Before she married Luciano. Before she sacrificed herself for me, for Isabella, for a life that didn't involve being under the thumb of a man who cares for nothing but his own power.

"Fine." I snap the drawer shut. "If you remember anything else, even something you don't feel is important, I need you to come to me immediately. Understand?"

"Got it, Boss." He straightens, tension visible in every line of his body.

"You can go." The words scrape out of my throat like gravel.

Both Isabella and Dean stand, chairs scraping against hardwood. I shake my head. "Just Dean. I need you to stay for a few more minutes, Isabella."

Her name feels different on my tongue now. The bitter hatred that usually accompanies it doesn't surface. Part of me wants to cling to that hatred, to the clarity it provided, becauseacknowledging I might have been wrong opens a void I'm not sure I can face. What if my obsession with revenge led me to destroy Isabella for... nothing?

The thought makes my insides twist like they're caught in Henrik's blade. That crack in my armor widens, becoming a shadow of something that feels dangerously like remorse.

What would have happened if she'd married Henrik? That sadistic bastard would have broken her piece by piece. My breath catches in my chest at the image of her fear, her pain. The thought of her suffering at his hands makes me want to burn everything to the ground. All because her father was willing to sacrifice her to strengthen his grip on power.

Dean leaves without another word. The door clicks shut behind him, and I focus on Isabella. She looks like she's seeing a thousand ghosts at once, and not one of them is friendly.

"Do you remember that day we watched Casper?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

Her eyes widen and she shakes her head, clearly caught off guard. "I do. But please tell me you have a point."

"Just that there might always be more than meets the eye." My voice drops, rougher than I intended. "I know what you just heard was a lot." Understatement of the fucking century. Learning her father planned to auction her off years ago must feel like being gutted. "Did my mother mention anything else in those letters?"

She takes a sip of water, then another, her fingers trembling around the glass. Guilt slams into me like a freight train. How could I forget what the doctor said? Minimum stress. Water. Food.

"Do you want something to eat?" I ask, tension making my words come out harsher than I meant them to.

She lifts her chin, crosses her arms over her chest, that familiar defiance that both infuriates and fascinates me. Herfather wanted her married to someone who repulsed her, someone known for his violence, someone who competed with her father for the title of biggest asshole in our world. Of course she's shaken.

Hell, I'm still reeling from the revelation, already mapping out exactly how I'll make her father burn the way he made me burn.

"I'm fine," she says, voice only cracking slightly. Someone else might miss it, but I catch it immediately. That tiny fracture in her composure makes my jaw clench tight enough to send pain lancing through my skull. If her father were in front of me right now, I'd tear him apart with my bare hands until nothing remained but blood and bone.

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