Page 49 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

I run my fingers over tonight's outfit, the tulle soft and familiar beneath my fingertips. It sends me spinning back to those endless hours in the studio, when my body was still mine to command, before cancer tried to steal every dream I'd ever had. I close my eyes, drinking in the sensation against my skin—how something so delicate can feel like armor, holding me together when everything inside is shattering.

The dress he chose for me—another calculated move in this chess game we're playing. This wasn't just any dress; it was specifically designed to make me look the part of the adoring wife. Antonio had it delivered this morning with a note that simply read: "For tonight." No signature needed. I'd recognized that sharp, commanding handwriting anywhere.

Elena stayed with me as I got ready—playing with dinosaurs who were apparently attending a ball. When she saw me twirl in the dress, she clapped and told me I was going to the ball, too. I wish I could have stayed with her—playing pretend withdinosaurs attending a formal event seems more realistic than what I'm about to do.

I square my shoulders, inhale deep into lungs that remember what it's like to fight for every breath, and arrange my curls in the mirror. My makeup is minimal—focusing on the eyes. My hair got a refresher cut. I'm used to my curly short hair now and feel like it's more me. More the woman who survived cancer. More the woman who survived the Beast.

Another deep inhale and I check the file on the desk. The rugged, handsome faces of the Greek brothers stare back at me and I wonder if my mother knew their family.

What if they could tell me more about her? The memories I have are fading. They used to be in technicolor and now they're black and white... The sound of her laughter is something I wonder if I imagined. Maybe it was just me replaying fairytales in my mind at the hospital, a way to push through treatments that felt endless. One of my nurses warned me that my memory could be affected by my stem cell transplant, but I didn't expect the fog, the months it took to read a single book, those crucial memories now out of reach... while others dig their claws into my mind, refusing to let go.

Maybe if I had forgotten how my heart used to perform its own dangerous choreography every time Antonio was near, I would have been able to forget him. At the thought, something akin to panic tightens around my throat. As if forgetting Antonio would be the worst plot twist in this twisted world.

The door opens without warning, and Antonio's scent—sandalwood and danger—hits me before I even turn around. I feel him like a physical presence against my skin, that electric current that's always sparked between us suddenly live-wire dangerous.

"They're waiting," he says, his voice like gravel over velvet, rougher than usual.

I turn slowly, trying to control my treacherous pulse, and nearly stagger backward.

Christ. The way he fills that suit should be illegal. Every inch of him screams power and barely contained violence—the kind that makes my breath catch and my thighs press together despite everything he's done. His scars catch the light like battle maps, somehow making him more magnetic, not less. The tattoos peeking from his collar tell stories of pain transformed into power, and my fingers itch with the memory of tracing them.

His midnight eyes lock onto mine and time stops, stretches, contracts. There's fury there, and hunger, and something darker that makes heat pool low in my belly. When his gaze drops to my dress, trailing over the skin revealed by the sweetheart neckline, I could swear the temperature rises ten degrees. His jaw clenches tight enough to crack stone, the muscle there jumping like he's physically restraining himself.

Though he chose this dress himself, his reaction is something I didn't expect. It's like he's seeing me in it for the first time and regretting his decision—or perhaps regretting that others will see me in it too.

"Perfect," he says, but the word sounds like it's being strangled. His eyes continue their journey, taking in every inch of silk and tulle that clings to my body. "It's better than I imagined."

I lift my chin, defiance masking the way my pulse pounds beneath my skin. "You chose it. Having second thoughts?"

He rakes a hand through his hair, looking like he wants to tear something—or someone—apart. "Ti sei guardata allo specchio? Sei bellissima, dannazione." The Italian flows rougher, darker, like he's unaware he's slipped languages.Have you looked in a mirror? You're beautiful, damn it.

"What's wrong?" I ask, even as I catalog every micro-expression flickering across his face—the tightness around hiseyes, the way his nostrils flare slightly, the tension radiating from every muscle. This isn't the calculated response of a man who selected this specific dress as a prop. This is raw, unfiltered Antonio, and something about it makes me feel more naked than if I were wearing nothing at all.

He moves closer, his steps those of a predator who knows his prey can't escape. "Nothing's wrong with the dress, Bell'cenda." My old nickname falls from his lips like a caress and a curse combined. His hand reaches out, hovers near my bare shoulder without touching, and I swear I can feel the heat of his skin like a brand. "It's that I didn't consider how it would feel to see you in it. How every man downstairs will look at you."

The possessiveness in his voice shouldn't send that dangerous thrill down my spine, but it does. I'm not his. I'll never be his again. So why does my body betray me with each breath, each heartbeat, each moment in his presence?

"Isn't that the point?" I gesture to the deep green silk that hugs my curves before floating away in layers of tulle. "We're supposed to be madly in love, remember? Isn't this what your wife would wear?"

His eyes darken further, something feral flashing in their depths as they drop to my lips. "My wife," he repeats, the words carrying a weight that makes my knees weak. "Would wear exactly that. And every man downstairs would know she's mine."

The air between us crackles with something dangerous and electric, memories of his hands on my body, his mouth claiming mine, flashing through my mind with merciless clarity. Heat floods my cheeks, my neck, lower still.

"I should be the only one who sees you like this," he growls, his voice dropping to that place that turned my insides to liquid fire on our wedding night.

My breath catches as he steps even closer, close enough that I can count his eyelashes, feel the heat radiating from his body."Then who exactly are we putting on this show for?" I whisper, hating how breathless I sound.

"Everyone and no one." His gaze drops to my throat, to the pulse hammering there. "Maybe even ourselves."

I swallow hard, fighting against the magnetic pull between us. "I thought you hated me."

"I do." The words rumble from his chest, vibrating in the scant space between us. "But hate and want have never been mutually exclusive for us, have they, Bell'cenda?"

No. They haven't. And as his eyes track every micro-expression on my face, as his scent surrounds me like the most decadent prison, I know tonight isn't just about pretending for others.

It's about the lie we keep telling ourselves that whatever burns between us can be controlled, contained, conquered.

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