Page 48 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

She frowns and when she speaks again, hearing her voice feels like something I should never take for granted—because she could have died. She went through so much. Alone. And I just piled more shit on top of everything she suffered. "But see... what I don't understand is that you still don't fully believe me and yet..."

Her words hit me harder than a fucking bullet to the chest.

"I..." The word sticks in my throat like a shard of glass, a pitiful attempt at an explanation. What can I say? How can I make herunderstand the war that's raging inside me? The battle between the man I want to be and the monster I've become?

"Don't lie to me," she snaps, and the fire in her eyes has my blood running hot. Goddamn, even her anger turns me on. "Not now. Not after everything you shared. There's still a part of you that thinks I did play a bigger role in your mother's...d-d-death." She clears her throat as if she refuses to lose control and I get that. Control can feel like the only thing we have—even if it's control over what seems trivial like the tone of our voice. But when everything else is wild and stormy, that's something.

I wait a few seconds before answering, because for once, I do something I haven't tried in a while: I try to be fucking truthful. Because I meant what I said, she knows everything now. My deepest and darkest secrets. They're hers. And part of me expected her to jump up from her seat and tell me that I deserved everything that happened to me. That I should have saved my brother. That I could have done more. Because this is the mantra that has been my lullaby ever since his last breath left him. It's been the melody of my life ever since I watched him die.

"Maybe," I say slowly, my voice rougher than I intend. "Maybe, I can't believe that anyone in our world could be blameless. Maybe... I..." I inhale deeply, the air burning in my lungs. "Maybe if I didn't blame you, I'd have imploded because what does this say about me?" Fuck it, here's my deepest, darkest secret.

This time, the words tear at my throat, each syllable a jagged edge that cuts me from the inside out. I can feel the fear, cold and sharp, twisting in my gut like Henrik's blade finding home. It's a fear that's all too familiar, a constant companion that lurks in the shadows of my mind.

"I failed again. I failed my mother, like I failed my brother and if we continue with the truth." I look into her eyes, wanting,hoping, needing her to believe me even if I have no right to ask her for a fucking thing. "I'm scared shitless that I'll fail you, too."

There's a second of silence that stretches back to before the fortress was even built. The tension between us crackles like electricity, like the air before lightning strikes. My entire body is wound tight, every muscle coiled and ready to spring. One wrong move from either of us could ignite something we can't control—something that would consume us both.

And then she says, "Franco says the Greeks have to believe we trust each other. You and I both know how to act. You did it with me. I did it on stage." She pauses, and our eyes lock in a battle of wills, of need, of everything left unspoken between us. "Let's just act, Antonio."

But the way her pulse jumps at her throat—the way her eyes dilate when I lean closer—tells me it's not just acting on her mind. And fuck me, it's not just acting on mine either.

Chapter twenty-seven

Isabella

Actingsoundedlikeagood idea when the dinner wasn't less than thirty minutes away. Now? I'm frantically flipping through the file Franco brought me this morning, my pulse doing that dangerous flutter that has nothing to do with my heart condition and everything to do with the impending disaster waiting downstairs.

The tense practice dinner of the century—my oh-so-clever name for yesterday's train wreck—left my stomach in knots tighter than any ballet bun I ever wore for performances. The air between us was so thick with unsaid accusations and barely restrained fury that I could've pirouetted on it. I kept holding my breath, waiting for the next bomb to drop, the next secret to explode like those confetti cannons they used during curtain calls.

But we agreed to rules—keep it as close to the truth as possible:

We had a pretty big crush on each other as teenagers. (Understatement. I used to literally stop breathing when he walked into a room.)

We only reconnected at the auction. Where he definitely didn't lure me to see him and Paola. No. Definitely not. Clearly, acting like we trust each other is going to be a piece of cannoli.

He was there for revenge. (No acting required on that front.)

We had "issues"…. understatement of the millennia.

But our "love" was too strong—Ha! That's where things get tricky. And yep, we totally trust each other. Totally.

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