Page 54 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

The realization hits me like another blow: "The contract. It's not only about alliances or territories, is it? It's about keeping me alive. Is that why I'm still breathing? Is that why Antonio hasn't—" I cut myself off, the implications too staggering to voice.

Was my life spared solely because of some agreement my grandmother made? And if my mother is alive, what does she know about it? What part did she play in all of this?

"How?" I finally manage, my voice cracking on the single syllable. "How is she alive? Where has she been all these years?Why didn't she—" The words choke off as tears burn my eyes, hot and stinging.

Why didn't she come for me? Why didn't she save me from my father, from cancer, from this life I never chose?

The Beast offering comfort? The irony isn't lost on me. But then, nothing about us has ever been simple.

And as the full reality of Nikos's words sink in, one thought crystallizes above all others with razor-sharp clarity:

If my mother is alive—if she has been all this time—then every moment of my life has been built on lies. Every choice I've made, every path I've taken, has been shaped by a deception so profound it makes Antonio's betrayal look like child's play.

And someone is going to pay for that.

Chapter thirty

Antonio

Thesilencethatfollowslasts less than a fucking heartbeat before all hell breaks loose.

I should be in my element. Chaos has been my playground since the day flames carved my face into a warning. But instead of reveling in this shitstorm, tension coils inside me like a viper—building, building, building until my shoulders feel carved from stone and my jaw locks tight enough to crack teeth.

If I had a fucking superpower, I'd teleport myself to Isabella's side. Instead, I'm on my feet so fast my chair crashes against marble, the sound lost in the roar erupting around us.

Stefanos looks ready to gut Nikos on the spot, while Alexandros bellows like a wounded bull, probably ordering them both to shut their fucking mouths. But Greek brothers operate by their own rules, and they clearly weren't synced on when to drop that bomb about Isabella's mother.

The Greeks may have had some perverted understanding between them, but even they've fucked up their communication. Typical. In our world, the timing of truth can be as deadly as a bullet.

Naomi rises from her chair like she's about to rush to Isabella, but Connor says something that plants her ass right back in her seat. She shoots him a glare that would make lesser men piss themselves, but Connor doesn't even flinch. That Irish bastard has more control than he lets on.

My eyes scan for threats, cataloging hands that might reach for weapons, movements that seem off-rhythm. But my focus keeps snapping back to Isabella like a fucking compass finding north. The wedding massacre flashes behind my eyes—blood on marble, screams drowning out music—and my heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to break free.

Isabella's face is drained of color, her eyes so wide I can see white all around the irises as she stares at Nikos. "What do you mean, she's alive?" Her voice trembles like I've never heard it—not even when my hands mapped her scars, when my mouth worshipped the marks of everything she survived. "How? Where has she been all this time?"

She sways on her feet, and I'm beside her before I can think, my hand finding the small of her back. Her skin burns through silk, her body trembling with tiny earthquakes I can feel through my palm. "Isabella," I growl, mouth close to her ear, voice rough with something I refuse to name. "Breathe, Bella. Just breathe. We'll figure this out together."

She doesn't hear me—or chooses not to. Her gaze locks on the Greek brothers like they hold every answer she's ever needed. "Stop," she says, desperation sharpening her tone to a blade. "Stop it, all of you! I need to know what's going on!"

Silence drops like a guillotine. Every eye in the room turns to her, and I'm calculating exit routes, marking potential weapons,measuring the distance to the door. Isabella's hands shake, and I can feel the tension radiating from her body like heat from an open flame. I want to wrap myself around her, to become the barrier between her and everything that wants to break her. But I know that look—she needs truth more than comfort right now.

What if she spirals into another SVT episode? What if this time her heart races beyond what medicine can control? The memory of her collapsed in that ballroom, pale as fucking death, claws at my chest. I remember the way she trembled when the doctors administered the adenosine, how fear made her look young and broken. I remember doubting her, thinking she might be playing me. Another weapon in this war between families. That memory tightens around my throat like a garrote, choking me with regret I can't afford to feel.

I can't lose her. Not like this. Not when...

Not when she still has so much left to live for.

Her face is bleached of color, lips pressed into a thin line, but it's the way she inches back—like the weight of this truth is physically pushing her away—that has my hand reaching for her again.

I need to know she's safe. Need to take away the agony etched into her features like something carved with a blade. Need to make this better, when I've only ever made things worse.

"Is she okay?" Isabella whispers, voice cracking around the question. "Are you keeping her from me?"

And there it is—the real fear she can't quite voice, the one these motherfuckers are too blind to hear. But I hear it, clear as the ocean crashing against our fortress walls:Did she leave me on purpose?The child inside her, the one who lost her mother too young, is suddenly exposed—more vulnerable than I've ever seen her.

Then Isabella leans against me, just for a few seconds, her body molding perfectly against mine like she's finding shelterin the very storm she should be running from. The contact hits me harder than Henrik's blade ever did—a jolt of pure electricity that travels from where our bodies touch straight to whatever's left of my soul. Her warmth bleeds through my clothes, the scent of her—honeysuckle and something uniquely her—filling my lungs until I can't breathe anything else.

It's like a drug, that feeling. I want to drown in it, to forget everything but the silk of her skin against mine, the weight of her body pressed to my side. In our world, vulnerability is just another word for weakness—the kind that gets you killed. But with her? With her, it feels like the only thing that's ever mattered.

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