Page 41 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

Her words fucking rip through me, each syllable carving deeper with every goddamn repetition. My jaw locks so tight I taste blood, fingers white-knuckled around the fork like I'm calculating exactly how deep I could drive it into someone's throat. Because I want to tell her she's wrong. I need to tell her.

But I can't. We can't.

She's right, and that's the fucking hell of it.

I was stupid enough to believe I could have it all. Have her. Maybe because I swallowed every pretty lie instead of hunting for the truth that was rotting underneath. Maybe because for years, believing she helped orchestrate my mother's death tore my heart from my chest and left it in bloody pieces on the floor.

My heart's fucking Frankenstein now—stitched together but not truly alive. Not really beating.

I clear my throat, watching her fingers trace the rim of the glass with a delicacy that makes my cock throb despite everything between us. She's looking at me like she can see straight through to the darkness I've spent years cultivating, and I don't know why she's not running for the fucking hills, screaming at the monster she finds inside.

Probably because she just doesn't give a damn anymore.

And I need to get my head back in the game. This dinner isn't about my cock or my bleeding heart. It's about keeping her safe. Keeping everyone safe.

"From what we've dug up, the three brothers didn't show at the auction because they don't buy into the old ways," I say, my voice rougher than I intend. "Marriage alliances aren't their style." A dark laugh scrapes up my throat like it's lined with broken glass. "Guess they had a point. I should've known your father would stoop as low as he did."

"My father and you could be captains of the same twisted rotten boat..." She shakes her head quickly, and even that small movement draws my eyes like a predator tracking prey. "So why are they coming now?" Her fingers return to the rim of the glass, and I can't help imagining those same fingers digging into my shoulders as I drive into her. "This whole dinner thing, it's archaic if you ask me. And if they don't believe in marriage alliances—which, got to say, makes them a hell of a lot less problematic in my book—why do we have to play the happy couple?" She takes a sip of wine, and I track the movement of her throat as she swallows. "Let's be real, I don't think we're cut out for that kind of acting." Her tone could freeze the fucking Mediterranean.

"They're part of a new breed of Greek crime lords," I growl, leaning forward, invading her space just enough to make her pulse jump. "They think bigger, more global. Not just moving contraband. They're sinking their hooks into legitimatebusinesses, pulling strings in markets, building professional cartels." I hold her gaze, letting her see the beast lurking beneath the suit. "They skipped the auction because they don't need marriage to climb. They make power moves through corporate takeovers and politicians with price tags."

"Again, doesn't explain why we have to put on a united front." She doesn't back down—never has, even when she should. "This marriage, or whatever the hell it is, it's not even smoke and mirrors. It's broken promises and bullshit."

"Bullshit?" I raise an eyebrow, something dangerous stirring in my blood.

"It's bullshit," she repeats, color flooding those cheeks I once traced with reverent fingers. "You were all about getting back at me, at my father. And yeah, you wanted to expand your empire, but now what? You and my dad are basically aiming at each other from every angle. You're both winning one day, losing another..."

I lean in until I can smell her—honeysuckle and defiance—my voice dropping to that register that used to make her shiver. "You think this marriage is bullshit? Fine. But we're married. You're. My. Wife." Each word comes out like a separate brand, searing possessiveness into the air between us. She presses those perfect lips together, but the frantic pulse at the base of her throat betrays her. I know her body better than she does, know exactly how it responds to my voice, my touch, my cock. "And we have to make them believe we're in this together, that we're a force to be reckoned with."

My eyes drop to her lips, remembering how they parted for me, how she tasted like sin and salvation. The heat between us is a fucking inferno that could burn this whole fortress to the ground. Her words echo in my head like a death knell: I am incapable of love...

Isabella raises an eyebrow, challenge sparking in her gaze like she's daring me to prove her wrong. "And what makes you think they'll care about our relationship? What do we have that they don't?"

I stare at her, willing her to understand what's at stake. Not for me, for us, but for everyone under my protection. "Your father made promises, yes. Promises that should mean something." My voice drops lower, each word heavy with the weight of blood debts and broken oaths. "And your mother? She wasn't just some pretty face when your father married her. She was a Malis from her own mother, Isabella. Greek. And that name still carries weight in our world." I watch understanding dawn in those eyes that still haunt my dreams. "Your father's men, the ones who've been with him since the beginning, they remember. The brothers remember, too. They respect that legacy, even if they don't always show it."

I pause, letting that sink in, watching her process the gravity of what I'm saying. "So when the Greeks look at us, they're not seeing just a husband and wife." My hand finds hers on the table, grip firm enough to communicate this isn't a request. "They're seeing a power couple, bloodlines crossing centuries. That's the play, Bell'cenda. We wine and dine the Greeks, make them believe we're the perfect fucking power couple." The old nickname slips out before I can stop it, and I see it hit her like a physical blow. "And maybe, just maybe, we walk out of this alive and on top. Because trust me, the alternatives?" My thumb traces over her knuckles, sending a current of electricity between us. "They're not fucking pretty."

I hold her gaze, heat and darkness and history crackling between us like lightning in a storm. She might hate what I've become. Hell, she might know better than anyone the monster beneath this scarred skin. But right now, I'm the only thingstanding between her and wolves who'd tear her apart without a second thought.

And I'll burn the whole world to the ground before I let them touch what's mine.

"So are you ready for some ground rules?" The question comes out like a challenge, my lungs feeling like they're filled with smoke instead of air. Because if she's not with me on this, we're both fucked.

All of us.

Chapter twenty-three

Isabella

Antonioslidesafileacross the table, his eyes meeting mine briefly before he returns his attention to the truffle risotto. The aroma is heavenly, and I can't help but savor each bite, letting the richness melt on my tongue. It's a momentary escape from my situation. A fleeting comfort in this chaos. A small thing I can enjoy.

And God, I need to enjoy the small things.

But of course, it doesn't last.

With a silent sigh, I reach for the file, my fingers hesitating before I flip it open. The weight of its contents settles on my shoulders like those lead X-ray vests they used during scans. Another reminder of the dangerous game we're playing.

The first thing I notice is their eyes. All three brothers have the same piercing dark blue gaze. The eldest, Alexandros, has a hardened expression, his jaw set and brow furrowed. He lookslike a man who's seen too much, who's had to make difficult decisions. And who's willing to make more of them.

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