Page 17 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

Maybe I should try another maneuver. Squat. Or lay on the ground with my legs up or throw ice water on my face—anything to avoid what I know is coming.

I shift slightly and he steps in front of me, standing guard as the door opens and the doctor comes in followed by three other men. I try everything I know to reverse the SVT, to coax my heart back to normal rhythm. But the memories flood in: the first time this happened, how my father didn't believe me. And worse, thethird time at the hospital during my autologous transplant when they injected the drug.

My father wasn't there. Nobody was, except for one nurse who actually cared. When the medical team came in, all serious with those paddles ready "just in case," they told me it might feel like my heart was stopping. That's the kind of warning that sends your panic through the roof.

And I don't—I really don't—want to go through that again. Maybe it's adrenaline, or maybe it's just everything I've endured finally catching up to me. The cruel irony that the man who imprisoned me is now the one standing between me and my fears isn't lost on me.

Antonio snaps orders like he's conducting an orchestra of violence. "Chiudi quella porta, cazzo! No one else gets in." His voice carries the same authority he used when he condemned me to that forgotten wing, only now it's directed at protecting me. "You make damn sure she's alright or I'll have your balls for paperweights."

It would be funny if it weren't so twisted—him thinking he has any control over my heart's wild rhythms when he's the one who first sent them into chaos. Maybe I just didn't drink enough water, or maybe remembering last night's shadows outside my door, maybe I just didn't get enough rest. And there, despite it all, a laugh bubbles up from the mess inside me.

Antonio's glare softens momentarily at my reaction before hardening again as the doctor clips the oxygen meter to my finger.

"Oxygen is fine. 98%," he says. "Heart rate is at 198."

Crap. My heart's running a marathon without me.

"We don't have adenosine here," the doctor's tone is soothing but matter-of-fact. And there's that word again. Adenosine. I clench my shirt with my fists. "Adenosine can help..."

"Yeah, I know what it is," I murmur, memories of that sterile hospital room where they stopped my heart flashing through my mind.

"You need to get her to a hospital."

I brace myself for Antonio to argue, to insist we handle it here, to keep me locked in this fortress just like he has for the past three months.

But Antonio just nods, determination and something else—something that looks dangerously like concern—lining his face. "Preparate la squadra. Now," he commands, every syllable sharp as a blade. "We move with full escort—anyone gets within ten feet of her without my permission, they lose their fucking hands. And Elena stays with Franco, Gabriele and Dante as well as Signora Martha. Franco knows the protocol." His voice leaves no room for debate.

I whisper, thoughts of Elena overriding even my own crisis, "Elena needs to be safe. She's safer with you..." The little girl who brought light back into my darkness deserves better than to be caught in whatever storm is brewing.

His expression shifts to something I haven't seen since our wedding night, when he looked at my scars like they were beautiful instead of broken. "Elena stays here. Franco would die before letting anyone touch her." His eyes lock with mine, holding my gaze with an intensity that makes my already racing heart stutter. "You're coming with me. Nobody touches what's mine—not even death."

Why do I want to believe him? Why does knowing he'll be with me give me strength when he's the one who broke me in the first place? Yet, here I am, clinging to his presence like it's a lifeline.

"You're coming too?" The doctor looks puzzled, maybe a bit concerned. "Even with the situation you have... I thought the men said..."

Antonio interrupts, his face hardening into something calculated and cold. "I'm going," he snarls, eyes flashing with that dangerous intensity that makes the doctor step back. "She's mine to protect. My wife doesn't go anywhere without me."

The way he says "my wife" is practiced, performative—like he's rehearsing for that dinner he mentioned, for whatever game he's playing with the French. His eyes flicker with something that tells me this is all for show, that this possession is strategic rather than emotional. I'm just a chess piece being moved across his board.

And yet….The word still falls between us like broken glass. For three months I've been his prisoner, his enemy, his burden—anything but his wife. Now he claims the title like it means something, like he didn't tear it to shreds the morning after he gave it to me.

As they prepare to move me, his hand finds mine, warm and callused and familiar. I should pull away. I should remind him of every moment I spent staring at the same four walls while he went on with his life. I should hate him for what he's done.

Instead, I find myself gripping his hand like it's the only thing anchoring me to this world—and hating myself for needing him even now.

Chapter eleven

Antonio

Forthefirsttimein a long while, I'm not behind the wheel; I'm seated right beside Isabella, fury and something darker churning in my gut. These moments of weakness around her are becoming a fucking liability.

I had a plan. A clear one. And it was working perfectly until she collapsed in that ballroom.

My shoulders stiffen as I check the camera feed where Elena is safe. My daughter. The way she laughed with Isabella, clung to her like she belonged there... it's messing with my head. Making me see possibilities that don't exist.

What if this is all a calculated performance? What if—like my mother—I'm just falling for another pretty act wrapped in honeysuckle and lies?

I turn my attention to her. She can't escape, the locks are secure, but her breathing is still uneven. A few minutes earlier,she looked ready to shatter. Her face remains pale, eyes shut tight, fighting for control I won't give her.

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