Page 40 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

It's only Franco, carrying more appetizers that smell absolutely heavenly. My stomach contracts with need, garlic and butter wafting through the air, the dynamic duo of deliciousness that reminds me of life before cancer, before betrayal, before everything burned. When the bread arrives, warm and crusty, I tear into it like I'm breaking my fast after Lent. It's indulgent and exactly what my body craves after years of my ballet instructors trying to starve the curves off me, after months of hospital food and then prison rations.

"You look worried," Antonio observes as Franco arranges the bread on the table. But instead of leaving, Franco nods in agreement.

"You really do. You're playing with your ring, and that's a tell." Franco's voice carries none of Antonio's sharp edges. "Don't forget, everyone at this dinner will be looking for signs that not everything is going smoothly." He points to a folder on the table. "There's background on the Greeks coming tomorrow."

I flip through the pages, narrowing my eyes at the photos. Three brothers I don't remember seeing at the auction, their eyes carrying the kind of calculation that makes my skin crawl.

I clear my throat, deliberately turning my full attention to Franco. The man has been decent to me, and he doesn't make my throat tighten with conflicting emotions. "Can you tell me why it's so important that we show a united front? It's not like anyone believes this is a love marriage." I pause, searching my memory for scraps of information about these guests. "Also, why weren't these guys at the auction? Please tell me they're decent human beings who don't think winning someone's hand is really the way to go."

I glance at Antonio, who's watching me with an intensity that sends electricity racing down my spine. "And yes, that was a dig at you," I add with a pointed tone that has Franco letting out a surprised chuckle. I think I hear him whisper something about Antonio meeting his match. If only he knew. We're not a match made in heaven but in the kind of tragedy Greek myths warned about.

"Well, maybe tonight is more about you two ironing out some of your differences to make it believable tomorrow." Franco pauses, leaning forward. "I'll bring the entrées and dessert. And maybe you should tell her, Antonio." His words grab my attention like a physical touch.

There are more secrets? Of course there are. When has anything in this life been straightforward?

"I don't—" Antonio starts, but I cut him off, unable to contain the storm brewing inside me.

"He doesn't trust me," I chime in like Franco's our reluctant therapist. "We have trust issues. I mean, that's not surprising, since he seems to believe I murdered his mom—who I loved and actually thought I might be responsible for her death, which had me dealing with crushing guilt for so many years it was hardto breathe and sleep." The words tumble out like I'm back in chemo, fever-high and filter-gone. "Oh and also that I'm like this evil mastermind who's been planning and plotting since we've known each other. Never mind that he shoved me into a freaking jail and played with my emotions and shattered me. Oh, and I almost died in the hospital while he thought I was living the grand old life thanks to Daddy Dearest, but okay?"

Franco steps away, something akin to both understanding and sadness creeping across his face. "I'll leave you two to it," he says, and part of me wants to grab his sleeve, beg him to stay, maybe pull up a chair and act as buffer during this twisted dinner date. Because Antonio is no longer just looking at me. He's consuming me with those eyes that see too much and too little all at once.

And I'm not sure I want to hear whatever he's about to say. But of course, Antonio being Antonio, he simply says, "I'll be serving you first."

And why—dear God, why—does his tone remind me of that night? Of his growled promises as his mouth worked between my thighs, making sure I came first. First and loud and completely. Heat floods my face, and I hate how my body betrays me with memories I should have buried with my dignity.

As Antonio reaches across the table to refill my wine glass, his arm brushes against mine. The contact—barely there, a whisper of skin on skin—shoots through me like I've touched a live wire. I inhale sharply, my nerves lighting up with an awareness I've tried desperately to suppress. Damn him for still having this effect on me, even after everything he's done. After all the tears I've shed in that stone prison. After all the broken promises.

He frowns as whatever he sees on my face gives me away. Is it anger? Desire? Both?

"You don't have to drink," he offers, his voice softer than I expect.

"Hmm... why, because you poisoned it? Oh, is this the night you finally put your plan into gear and kill me?" I grab another piece of bread, watching him as he sets the bottle back on the table with calculated precision. I can see the muscle in his jaw ticking—that familiar tell I've come to recognize during our twisted history. When I lick a stray drop of olive oil from my lips, his gaze drops to my mouth, lingering there for a heartbeat too long. A flutter of satisfaction mixed with visceral need stirs low in my belly. It's a small victory, knowing I can still get under his skin, but it's also a reminder of the dangerous game we're playing. Of how thin the line between hatred and hunger truly is.

"Knowing you might have died makes it fucking impossible to think straight." His voice scrapes like gravel, that deep rumble that used to send shivers down my spine for entirely different reasons. "So no, I'm not planning to murder you, Bell'cenda. Not yet, anyway."

The nickname, not Bella Ballerina, at least, hits me like a sucker punch. I take a long sip of wine, letting the rich Barolo coat my throat, buying time while my pulse performs its dangerous dance. The alcohol warms me from inside, but it's nothing compared to the heat that floods my veins whenever he looks at me like this.

My fingers can't stay still, tracing anxious circles around the wine glass stem like I'm marking the boundaries of our broken relationship. Round and round and round. Antonio watches every movement with those predator's eyes, tracking me like I might bolt at any second. I straighten my spine the way I used to before stepping onto stage, channeling whatever grace cancer and captivity have left me.

"Cut the Bell'cenda crap," I whisper, my voice coming out sharper than intended, brittle as my bones felt during treatment. "We both know you're incapable of love. You’re incapable of anything but hatred."

Only then do I dare meet his gaze fully, bracing myself like before a doctor's verdict.

His eyes darken to that dangerous midnight I remember from our wedding night, pupils expanding until there's barely a ring of amber left. The scar that maps his face pulls tight as he leans across the table, invading my space until I can smell the sandalwood and danger that clings to his skin.

"Look at me," he commands, voice dropping to that register that seems to reach inside me and tug at something primal. "Franco's right. You need to understand what's been happening behind all this. Why those Greek bastards weren't at the auction. What your father's been doing while you've been in that room."

His hand reaches across the table, not quite touching me but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. It's a promise and a threat all at once.

My heart hammers against my ribcage, the rhythm skipping and stuttering in that way that used to send nurses running. Because what I see in his face isn't just the Beast's rage anymore. Oh no, it's more complicated, more terrifying.

It looks almost like truth.

Chapter twenty-two

Antonio

Incapableoflove.

---