Page 50 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

And based on the inferno building with each breath we share, that might be the biggest lie of all.

His warm and calloused hand finds mine, and his touch doesn't just scorch through me—it brands me. Every callus, every ridge of his fingerprints feels like they're being etched into my skin. My breath hitches in my throat, the sound embarrassingly audible in the quiet hallway. When our fingers interlock, electricity surges up my arm, and it shouldn't feel this right, this necessary, this inevitable. Yet here I am, clutching his hand like it's the only anchor in a storm I've been drowning in for months.

This isn't some teenage fantasy where the bad boy finally notices the good girl. We're in a goddamn fortress in Italy, surrounded by killers and liars, about to perform the greatestdeception of our lives. And my traitorous body can't stop responding to him like he's oxygen and I've been suffocating.

I force my mind to stop its dangerous wandering, but it's nearly impossible when he leans closer. His cologne—that spiced, earthy scent that's uniquely him—wraps around me like a physical caress. Each inhale fills my lungs with memories I've tried to burn away: his mouth on my scars, his hands claiming every inch of me, his voice rough with need as he whispered Italian against my skin.

If I turned just slightly, I could press myself against his chest, feel those muscles I've memorized with my fingertips, my tongue. I could bury my face in the crook of his neck where his pulse beats strong and steady. I could taste him again, feel those demanding lips claim mine until I forget why I should hate him.

"Isabella," he rasps, my name like a prayer and a curse in his mouth. His voice drops an octave lower, vibrating through me like the deepest note on a cello. "You're thinking too loud."

Desire doesn't just shoot up my spine. Oh no, it consumes me, spreading like wildfire through my veins. Heat pools low in my belly while goosebumps scatter across my skin like stars. The butterflies in my stomach aren't gentle flutters—they're a hurricane of need and want and fear all tangled together.

And the tightness in my throat is more than anxiety. It's need. Raw, primal need I've been denying for months.

Tonight isn't just about playing happy couple. I'm going to see Naomi again, and that thought carries its own weight of responsibility. If we mess this up, what happens to her? To Connor? To whatever fragile safety they've managed to carve out?

And Elena... God, Elena. Her laughter earlier was pure sunshine, untouched by the darkness surrounding us. If I fail at this charade, if I slip up even once, she could pay the price. Thethought wraps iron bands around my lungs, squeezing until each breath feels like a battle.

"You got this," Antonio says, his voice deep and steady. The sound wraps around me like the warmest cashmere—soft, comforting, and impossibly tempting. His thumb traces circles on my palm, each swirl sending sparks shooting up my arm. "I'm more worried about me fucking this up than you. Remember when you danced through a twisted ankle?"

"It wasn't a great idea," I mutter, remembering the searing pain, the doctor's stern warning that I could destroy my entire career. The memory pulls me back from the dangerous precipice of wanting him.

"Or when you thought Pavarotti was lost but you still danced your heart out, pretending everything was fine..." His voice softens on the edges, like he's handling something fragile.

"I cried behind the curtains." The memory stings, fresh tears threatening. Pavarotti. My fluffy companion through chemo, through sleepless nights, through everything. Does he even remember me? Does anyone from my old life? The grief cuts deeper than any scalpel ever could.

His cologne fills my lungs with each breath, both intoxicating and infuriating. That scent was once as familiar to me as my own heartbeat, as necessary as air. Now it's a reminder of everything I lost.

"You know how to act, too," I remind him, my voice catching on the jagged edges of truth. "I have the scars to prove it. They may not be visible like yours, but they're there—bright red and burning beneath my skin." My eyes lock with his, refusing to look away. "And you know how to hide things. How did you keep what happened to your brother for so long?"

He tilts my chin up with one finger, the touch feather-light but commanding. My lips part instinctively, my body responding to his proximity like it's been programmed from birth. His eyes—those midnight pools that drown me every time—darken as they focus on my mouth.

"Because if I talked about it, I wouldn't have just shattered or lost my shit." His voice drops to that dangerous register that makes my core clench with need. "I would have turned into a fucking atomic bomb, destroying everything in my path, leaving radiation for decades." The raw honesty in his tone scrapes against my defenses, finding chinks I thought I'd sealed.

He inches closer until our breaths mingle, until I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "You have no idea how much I want to kiss you right now," he growls, each word vibrating through me like a physical touch. "How much I wish we could turn back time and burn the world differently..."

My pulse thunders everywhere: my throat, my wrists, between my thighs. Each beat echoes like music begging to be danced to, a rhythm my body is desperate to follow.

But the splinters he left behind still pierce too deep. A fault line running through my heart that threatens to crack wide open whenever he's close.

"But that's the thing." My voice emerges as both plea and warning. "If we jumped back in time, who knows if it would be better or worse?" His brow creases, but there's understanding beneath the frustration. "How many other lies would we have told? How many other deaths? You and I... we're not just fire—we're a goddamn inferno that could consume everything in our path, including each other."

I don't shy away from his gaze, even as his fingers tighten around mine possessively. "Fire may warm us from the inside out, but flames aren't enough. Flames are attraction and lust..." The next words slice my throat raw as they emerge. "They're not trust. They're not love."

I expect him to withdraw, to dismiss me with cold indifference. Instead, his free hand rises to cradle my face,his calloused thumb stroking along my jaw with devastating tenderness. My body both trembles and steadies under his touch, caught in the contradiction that defines us.

"One day..." He leans in until his lips brush the shell of my ear, his voice a dark, velvet promise that sends liquid heat pooling between my thighs. "One day, I'll fucking prove you wrong, Isabella. I'll show you that some fires aren't meant to be extinguished. They're meant to be controlled, channeled, savored."

My heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to escape and throw itself at his feet. My breathing is shallow, quick little gasps that can't fill my lungs properly. For one dangerous moment, I sway toward him, moth to flame, knowing I'll burn but unable to resist the pull.

But I can't surrender to this spell again—this particular magic that morphs so easily into torment. I force myself to step back, though every cell in my body screams in protest.

"We need to go," I whisper, my voice husky with want I refuse to acknowledge. "Our guests are waiting."

As we exit my room, his hand finds the small of my back, fingers splayed possessively over my spine. Each step down the hallway echoes with unspoken promises and unresolved hunger. The ballroom appears before us, transformed into something from another era—crystal chandeliers casting prismatic light, soft music weaving through the air, candles flickering like captured stars.

Antonio must sense the tension thrumming through me because his arm slides around my waist, pulling me flush against his side. His lips brush my temple, sending shivers cascading down my spine.

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