Page 11 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

I lean back, the weight of leadership heavy on my shoulders. "It's about holding the reins tight, Franco," I say, my voice laced with the steel needed to navigate these treacherous waters. "Isabella's father doesn't have an inch of sway with the Greeks. With Connor by our side, Isabella becomes our ace with the French. But it's not just about holding cards; it's about how you play them." My eyes narrow as I plot our next move. "This isn't about dodging bullets or avoiding a war with the other families.It's about launching a full-scale offensive on him. The Greeks sidestepped the auction for reasons we can exploit. We're going to make sure they're seated at our table next week."

Dimitri owes me. Blood debts never expire in our world. And the Greeks' hatred for Moretti runs generations deep. Something about territory in Sicily and a betrayal that cost them dearly.

My words hang in the room, a testament to the lengths I'll go to protect what's mine. "It's a calculated move, not just for show but a strategic play to secure our hold and send a clear message. We have one week to get them here. And one week to get our shit in order."

I don't add what we're both thinking: one week to make Isabella play the dutiful wife. One week to bring her into the light without letting her escape. One week to present the united front this contract demands while containing the damage she could inflict if given the chance.

And as Franco nods and stands up, my gaze finds the garden again where Isabella and my daughter are now playing with Cerberus.

I can't get distracted.

I won't.

Isabella will need to play her role, too. Show some sort of united front. I wince. How is that going to go?

Three months of isolation hasn't broken her. That much was clear from the steel in her eyes earlier. If anything, captivity has honed her edges, made her more dangerous.

I need to find a way to make her cooperate without rekindling whatever burned between us on our wedding night. Need to balance the contract's requirements with keeping her at arm's length. Need to remember that honeysuckle is just a scent, not a siren call.

But watching her dance in the sunlight, I can already feel the Beast's chains straining.

Chapter seven

Isabella

There'sanoiseinthe eerie silence of the night. And it's not a bird, or the waves crashing. Footsteps.

My eyes snap open, and instinctively, my hand darts beneath the mattress, gripping the shard hidden there.

I hold my breath, unsure whether I'm still in the grips of a nightmare or in my nightmarish reality.

Another footstep. Closer this time.

I struggle to swallow, to stay completely still, holding the cold shard so tightly warm blood trickles down my hand. The stinging bite feels real.

The moon's glow spills into the room, throwing shadows that dance and twist and turn, each one a secret I'm scared to think about. I can't just sit here, a prey to be hunted, waiting to be caught or something worse. So, I edge my feet onto the floor, the thick socks hopefully quieting any sound, and creep towards the door as silently as I can. If invisibility were my superpower, rightnow, I'd use it. Or maybe transforming into the Hulk wouldn't be too bad either.

The steps outside are too faint, too distant for a peek through the keyhole or to catch a whiff of any familiar scent. Could it be Antonio? Is he back to finish the job? Upset that his daughter took a liking to me?

But no, I know he can't. He still has a use for me.

The French dinner he mentioned – the one where I'll need to smile and pretend we're not one step away from killing each other. God, will he expect me to hold his hand? To let him touch me, his fingers brushing against my skin like they did on our wedding night? The thought sends an unwelcome heat through my body that has nothing to do with fear.

I press my ear against the door, straining to identify the intruder. These past days since our walk outside have been torture. The memory of sunlight on my skin, of Elena's giggles as we twirled together, makes my current isolation even harder to bear.

The dinner's been pushed back, and ever since, it's like I've been shut away from the world again, locked in a shadow. Has it been three days or three years?

Those moments with Elena, they felt like a crack of light in a long, dark tunnel, giving me a taste of something real, something human, only to snatch it away just as fast. It's like waking up from the best dream to the worst reality, knowing I got a fleeting glimpse of life only for it to be ripped out of my hands again.

Signora Martha conveyed something to me in Italian, a language I'm still grasping. The mention of Elena's name, coupled with the words "tears" and "dance," was clear enough, though. Her eyes, filled with a sad understanding, told me more than words could. It leaves me wondering if Elena is crying and whether Antonio hears her tears or chooses to ignore them. What kind of father is he, truly?

But above all, my thoughts circle back to how Elena is managing through this. My concern for her well-being eclipses everything else.

Maybe it's because I lost my mother, too, when I was young. Or maybe it's because I want to find ways to make her smile, or maybe it's because she reminds me, I'm human, too.

I hear it then. A heavy, labored breathing that's not my own. My shoulders hike up to my ears, every inch of me coiling tight as a spring. Fear skitters up my spine, freezing me in place.

If I understood correctly what she said (and drew and gestured), Signora Martha once mentioned that she returns the spare key to him after each visit, implying that this heavy door might be my only shield against whoever prowls outside. I struggle to believe Antonio would resort to physical harm, not when he's already mastered the art of inflicting emotional wounds that feel eternal.

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