Page 89 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

When she screams my name, it's like a lightning bolt straight to my core.

"That's it, Bella. Come for me. Let me feel you."

My balls tighten, drawing up close to my body, and I'm spilling inside her, filling her up. I growl her name like it's like it's the only word I know.

"Isabella... fuck... you're everything."

As we come down, still connected so deeply, I can't help myself. My teeth sink into the soft flesh where her neck meets her shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark. I need to leave something of me on her, in her, with her. The taste of her skin, salty with sweat, lingers on my tongue.

She chuckles, still breathless, her walls fluttering around me in aftershocks that threaten to drive me insane. "Is that for me or for them?"

Them. Those Greek bastards who are taking her away from me. The thought makes my blood boil, but it's tinged with the bitter taste of fear. The image from my nightmare flashes through my mind - Isabella floating lifeless in the Mediterranean, her eyes accusing. I'm the one who pushed her away first, aren't I? The one who nearly destroyed everything we had.

I hold her tighter, my cock twitching inside her, as if my body's trying to keep her here. Safe. With me.

"It's for me," I start, my voice rough with emotion. "For them." My lips brush against her marked skin, soothing the bite with my tongue, chasing away the phantom taste of blood from my dream. "For you." I pull back, meeting her eyes, searching for any trace of the lifelessness I saw in my nightmare. There's none - only warmth and desire. "For the whole fucking universe."

I pause, swallowing hard. The words feel heavy, loaded with all the shit we've been through. "I want the world to rememberyou're mine, Isabella. And whatever happens to you, happens to me. You understand?"

It's a promise and a threat all rolled into one, but it's also a plea. A desperate attempt to make up for all the times I've failed her, to keep the nightmares at bay. Because like this, heart to heart, skin to skin, joined in the most intimate way possible, I can almost believe we're one person. That I haven't fucked everything up beyond repair.

I press a kiss to her temple, inhaling her scent, committing this moment to memory. "You good?" I murmur, my voice rougher than I intended.

She nods, a soft "Mhmm" escaping her lips.

I should feel triumphant. I just fucked my wife six ways from Sunday, marked her as mine. But part of me wonders: what if—despite this moment—she realizes she can't fully forgive me? What if this connection, as intense as it is, isn't enough to erase all the shit I've put her through?

I tighten my arms around her, as if I could keep her here by sheer force of will. Tomorrow, she leaves for Greece. To face a past neither of us fully understands. And I'm left here, powerless to protect her.

"Remember this," I growl softly, my lips against her ear. "Remember us."

It's not just a command. It's a fucking plea and vow. Because I'll move heaven and earth to keep her safe, to keep her mine.

And yes, I’m fucking terrified she might decide to stay away. But if fear is what it takes to protect her, then I'll embrace that shit with open arms.

Chapter fifty-three

Isabella

Thefortressisstillsilent, even as the smell of homemade bread wafts through the air. Someone is up at the crack of dawn. Sunlight creeps through the window, catching on the dust motes dancing in the air. So different from the moldy darkness of that forgotten wing where I spent three months. I find myself studying Antonio's face. The scars I never feared—not even when he first came back—look softer in sleep, less like battle wounds and more like maps of survival. His jaw, usually so tense, is relaxed. I resist the urge to trace it with my finger, the way I used to before everything burned.

When did this man, this supposed monster, become my safe haven again?

I stayed the night. After weeks of circling each other like wounded predators, after Greece and revelations and truths we both tried to deny, after discovering my mother is alive, after everything… we talked, laughed, and... Antonio made me seestars so many times, I lost count. My body aches in the best way possible, in ways chemo and captivity made me forget were possible.

I stretch, intending to slip back to my room before the household wakes, but his strong arms tighten around my waist. Through the thin fabric of his shirt I stole somewhere in the night, I feel him hardening against my thigh. Despite the soreness—a different kind of soreness than SVT episodes or treatment side effects—I crave more. More of his touch, this connection we've rekindled from the ashes.

"Pass me that cream," I murmur, nodding towards his nightstand drawer. The formula he's promising to distribute to cancer survivors worldwide once his chemists perfect it. It works wonders on the dryness from early menopause, but sometimes I still need a little help.

There's nothing detached about how Antonio watches me. His eyes never leave me, dark as midnight and burning with something that makes my pulse flutter for reasons that have nothing to do with my heart condition. When I settle on top of him, it's like two puzzle pieces clicking into place. Not perfect, both of us chipped and scarred in different ways, but fitting together nonetheless.

His calloused hands—hands that have both taken lives and saved mine—run down my back, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. The sheets tangle around us, a mess of cotton and limbs and need. The way Antonio fills me... it's like my body was made for him, despite everything cancer tried to steal. Each thrust sends sparks flying behind my eyelids, a pleasure that makes me forget about Greece and contracts and vengeful fathers, if only for these stolen moments.

I dig my nails into his shoulders, needing an anchor as the world narrows to just us. This connection, this raw intensity…it's addictive. Dangerous. Nothing like the fever dreams that haunted me in that stone prison.

It's quick, intense, almost desperate. Like we're both trying to memorize this moment before reality crashes back.

I haven't told him I love him. He hasn't told me he loves him.

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