Page 52 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

I bite back the urge to tell him to hurry the fuck up, let the tension stretch just enough to establish who really controls this room. My eyes betray me, drifting back to Isabella like she's magnetic north and I'm a compass that can't point anywhere else.

"I heard your wedding isn't the only one happening," Alexandros finally continues.

Connor, the Irish bastard who's somehow become my most reliable ally, lets out a low chuckle. "People get married all the time. Look at me. Who would have thought?" His eyes findNaomi, something complicated passing between them that I file away for later analysis.

"My father." Isabella's voice cuts through the room, soft but sharp as Henrik's blade. I hear the slight tremor she's fighting to control, the one that reveals how deeply this still hurts her despite everything her father's done.

Just like that, Alexandros's gaze shifts. The primal hunger replaced by something rarer—respect. Like he's suddenly seeing beyond the fantasy he's been constructing, glimpsing the steel beneath her silk.

He nods slowly. "Your father is getting re-married. Did your spies tell you? Or a friend?"

Isabella's laugh is a hollow sound that scrapes against my chest like broken glass. Christ, that's on me—I cut her off from everyone, locked her in that forgotten wing with nothing but stone walls and my mother's letters for company. Made her more alone than she was fighting cancer.

"I don't need a spy or a friend to tell you my father believes in those century-old traditions that a wedding can make him gain more influence." Her hand finds mine under the table, fingers sliding between my own like they were fucking designed to fit there. Her skin—softer than it has any right to be, warm against my calluses, grip firm enough to tell me she needs this connection.

That single touch sends fire through my veins, straight to my cock, which clearly doesn't give a shit about revenge or strategic alliances or anything beyond burying itself deep inside her again. I can smell her—honeysuckle and desire and something uniquely her that's burrowed under my skin and made a home there.

"I mean, my father can be right sometimes," she continues, voice steady now, "but how does the saying go? Even a broken clock is right twice a day?"

Alexandros tilts his head, murmuring something in Greek that makes his brothers exchange loaded glances.

"He's getting married to Mrs. Lefevre," he finally says, dropping the bomb as casually as ordering another drink.

The air rushes from my lungs like I've taken a bullet to the chest. My mind races, recalculating every chess move, every power play. Isabella's father—the man who carved my face with flame and steel—marrying the French matriarch who's been circling our territory for years? The same woman who lost two heirs in a matter of days?

I can feel Isabella's composure fracturing, even as her face remains perfectly neutral—a performance worthy of the ballerina she once was. But I know her body now, the way her fingers tighten around mine like she's drowning and I'm the only thing keeping her afloat, the almost imperceptible clench of her jaw, the way her pulse hammers at the base of her throat where I buried my face last night.

She's falling apart inside, and for the first time since I locked her away, I want to pull her against me, shield her from this world that keeps taking and taking and taking.

Well, fuck me sideways with a rusty blade.

I did not see that coming.

Chapter twenty-nine

Isabella

Ishouldn'tfeelthissurprisedor disappointed, but here I am. My heart sinks like during those moments when my body betrayed me during treatment, like when I missed a step in the final act of Swan Lake and crashed onto the stage. The numbness spreading through me isn't the same shock I felt when the initial Hodgkin's diagnosis came, but it's close. That same hollow feeling, that same disbelief.

"Well, that explains why she's not here," I say, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. My lips curve into what I hope passes for a smile, but it feels as fake as the wig I wore after chemo took my hair. "It also shows us that we could never really trust her."

For a moment, I almost did. Her understanding eyes, her dignified composure…I thought I'd found someone who understood what it meant to be trapped in this world. Instead, she's aligned herself with my father—the man whose games leftAntonio's face scarred, whose machinations have left bruises on my heart that haven't even begun to heal. A man who probably ordered the hit on Antonio's mother. A man who claimed to love my own mother, but has me questioning every memory I thought was real.

My mother. The thought of her sends a familiar ache through my chest, one I've carried for years like another scar.

I turn back to Alexandros, trying to look unfazed. After being imprisoned by The Beast for months, after surviving cancer's siege, it takes more than a towering Greek to intimidate me.

"My father must have decided an alliance with the French was what he needed," I continue, my analytical mind working even as my emotions threaten to spiral. "But that also means he's threatened." I clear my throat, trying to dislodge the knot forming there. "Let's not forget the so-called accidents during the auction and the tournament. Ms. Lefevre is either in danger or dangerous. Both options don't reflect well for a man who prides himself on being in control. And, she's...somewhat older."

The unease that grips me feels like those nights before PET scans when I couldn't sleep, couldn't breathe. I hate reducing this woman to nothing more than a womb—but in this world where I've been auctioned off like property, that's exactly what she is to my father. Another chess piece. Another pawn.

I won't be giving Antonio an heir. I can't. Early menopause from chemo has seen to that, despite what my father told Antonio. The thought of another child growing up in this life—it makes me think of Elena, her innocent giggles, her trust in me. The idea of her future being decided by men like my father, her choices stripped away before she even knows she has them, sends a familiar fire racing through my veins. The same heat that used to push me through rehearsals when my body screamed for rest.

"They're both weakened," Antonio growls beside me, his hand tracing up and down my spine like he can feel the tension coiled there. His touch is both electric and grounding, a reminder of everything between us: the hatred, the desire, the connection neither of us can seem to sever no matter how hard we try.

Connor steps forward, his voice cutting through the heavy silence. "Not that this conversation isn't fascinating, but...we need to eat, don't we? Why don't we sit down."

Part of me wants to race to Naomi's side, to collapse beside my best friend who held my hand through treatments, who smuggled romance novels into my hospital room. But my place is at the other end of the table, opposite Antonio, playing the dutiful wife. The Beast's prize.

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