Page 47 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

As Cerberus settles at my feet, a warm anchor in this storm, I can't help but think about what Antonio said about feeling like a puppet with bloody strings. He has no idea. I've been dancing on burning wires since the day I met him—unable to run, to hide, to scream without consequences.

"Don't forget to talk about body language," Franco says. "You both need to sell your relationship. And right now, it looks like you don't trust him," he tells me, as if stating that water is wet.

His words barely register because Antonio stands up—all coiled grace and lethal symmetry—and grabs another file. He slides a photograph across the table, his fingers lingering a moment too long, as if reluctant to let go of the memory it captures.

My hands tremble as I reach for it, a reaction I can't control, like so many other responses Antonio triggers in my treacherous body. The photo's edges are soft with handling, creased like the worry lines forming between my eyebrows.

I stare at the faces looking back at me, and something catches in my throat. Antonio looks so young, his smile untouched by flames or fury. The boy who would play piano while I danced, not the Beast who would lock me away. His mother's eyes are warm—the same warmth she showed me when I was just a girlwith ballet dreams. The man beside her, Antonio's father, stands proud and strong. And then there's the younger boy, dimpled grin frozen in time, unaware of how short his story would be.

A family. Whole. Happy.

Would we have met under different stars? If tragedy hadn't carved his path, would Antonio and I have crossed another way? Or are we destined to hurt each other in every possible timeline?

"That was taken two days before the murder," he says, his voice scraping across my frayed nerves. "I know you probably still don't believe me... but I'm not hiding anything from you. Not anymore."

My lips part, but words fail me. Instead, I twist my napkin like I'm wringing necks, like I could somehow strangle the confusion swirling inside me. The fabric yields under my fingers, a small surrender I can control when everything else feels beyond my reach.

Is this another game? Another move on the chessboard where I've always been just a pawn? Or is he finally showing me something real—something that explains the man behind the Beast's scars?

His eyes haven't left mine, and the heat in them has nothing to do with candlelight. It's the same smoldering intensity that once had me arching beneath him, forgetting every reason to hate him. The same dark fire that still calls to something wild and wanting inside me…something cancer and captivity couldn't kill.

And help me, I still want to believe him.

Chapter twenty-six

Antonio

Hergazeisfuckingglued to the picture, and I can see a thousand emotions warring on her face. But when she looks back up, wariness wins. Wariness and the question of whether she should trust me. It's in the tilt of her head and the way she worries her lower lip between her teeth. I didn't expect her to fully believe me. After all, I fucked up.

Majorly.

More than once.

But telling her what happened to my little brother feels like ripping open a wound that never healed. The pain is still raw, throbbing beneath my skin like a second pulse. I drag in a breath that doesn't fill my lungs, the weight of those memories pressing down on my chest, crushing me from the inside out.

"The Greeks won't be swayed easily," Franco reminds us before closing the door behind him. We skipped the full Italian course—could have added a soup for the primo, but we'resticking with fruits and cheese. Cheeses from all over Italy. The rich aroma fills the air, mingling with the scent of flickering candles and her—that honeysuckle that's been driving me insane since the first moment I locked her away.

I watch as Isabella takes a small bite, her lips parting slightly. Christ, the way her tongue darts out to catch a crumb has my cock hardening against my zipper. Just like that, my mind drags me back to the past—to the memory of her skin under my hands, her scars beneath my lips, the way she fucking trembled when I buried myself inside her.

And those memories? They're enough to bring me to my goddamn knees. I can't tear my eyes away, can't stop my mind from going places it has no right to go. Not anymore.

I remember her taste—like sin and salvation mixed together. I remember the sounds she made—those little whimpers when I hit just the right spot. I remember the way she trusted me, her body arching into mine like it was begging for more. And I fucking hate myself for it, for the way I took something so goddamn pure and beautiful and tainted it with my lies, my betrayal.

But even now, even after everything I've done, I can't stop wanting her. The need for her mingles with my guilt, eating away at me like acid. I crave her touch like a junkie needs his next fix—desperate, consuming, fucking inescapable.

Just months ago, she looked at me like maybe there was still some shred of goodness buried beneath all the shit I pulled. Even just a couple of days ago, when I first brought her to the hospital, before I again pulled her under like a deadweight, she seemed to believe I could be a decent man.

I'm a monster, a fucking abomination that only drags her down into the darkness with me.

But the way she makes me feel... it's like nothing else in this godforsaken world. I want to pin her against these ancient wallsand make her scream my name until she forgets every fucking moment of pain I ever caused her, until all she knows is pleasure and ecstasy.

I want to lose myself in her, to let her consume me until there's nothing left but the two of us, skin on skin, heart to fucking heart, my cock buried so deep inside her that neither of us knows where one ends and the other begins.

But I can't. I know I can't. Because the thing between us? It's not trust. Fuck no, I'm not delusional enough to think she trusts me. Or that she could ever love me again. What we have is a delicate balance based on the need to protect those we care about. It's a fragile truce that could shatter like glass at any moment. No matter how much I believe a dissonant chord doesn't have to destroy a composition, there are too many discordant notes in our past to create a harmonious symphony. And I'm the one who played every fucking one of them.

So I clench my fists until my nails bite into my palms, until the pain drowns out the need. I force myself to look away from the temptation of her skin, the invitation of her scars, and focus on what really matters.

"I didn't... couldn't tell you before. I buried it so deep it festered. Fuck, I know it festered and I know I'm the one who let it eat me away." Her eyes are my anchor. Even with their clouds, they pull me back to the moment right here and now.

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