Page 62 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

As I lift Elena into my arms, cradling her against my chest like the precious thing she is, I wonder if this is weakness—this urge to protect, to shelter, to be more than the monster I've become. If the Beast is being tamed by a child's tears and a woman's steady hand.

But as we make our way through the darkened corridors of this ancient fortress, Isabella's steps matching mine, I find I don't give a fuck. Let the Beast rage. Let him howl against these chains.

For tonight, at least, I'll be who my daughter needs me to be.

Chapter thirty-seven

Isabella

Elena'sbreathingfinallyevensout, her small chest rising and falling in the peaceful rhythm of deep sleep. I watch her for a moment longer, making sure she's truly settled, before turning to face Antonio in the dim hallway light.

The air between us crackles with electricity, making it hard to breathe. Every molecule seems charged with unspoken words, with secrets revealed and wounds ripped open. The shadows dance across his face, carving his features into something almost mythical—highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the intensity in his eyes that makes my heart perform its own dangerous dance.

My pulse thunders in my ears like during those moments before the curtain rises, when everything narrows to a single point of anticipation. But this isn't stage fright. This is Antonio looking at me like I'm oxygen and he's been drowning for years.

Like he sees me.

Not the Moretti princess. Not the ballerina with cancer scars. Not the wife he locked away.

Just... me.

"We need to talk," he rasps, his voice scraping low and rough, sending a shower of goosebumps cascading down my spine. Each word seems to touch my skin directly, a caress that leaves heat in its wake.

He's right. We do need to talk. The discoveries of the past few hours have shattered the carefully constructed world around us, leaving nothing but rubble and questions. I need to call my mother—mymother—to hear her voice, to make sure this isn't some elaborate fever dream my desperate mind conjured.

I need to leave this fortress that's somehow transformed from prison to sanctuary. The thought of walking away from Antonio and Elena carves a hollow space beneath my ribs that aches with every breath.

How did this happen? When did these stone walls start to feel more like home than jail? I spent months plotting escape, counting the days in isolation, dreaming of freedom. Now the prospect of leaving feels like another kind of captivity.

Is this Stockholm syndrome? Some trauma bond formed in the crucible of shared pain? Or is it something deeper, something that began long before he locked me away, something that persisted through hatred and betrayal and might survive even this?

Antonio steps closer, his body radiating heat that seeps through my clothes, warming my skin. He nods toward his office, and I follow, drawn in his wake like debris caught in a whirlpool.

The click of the door closing behind us sounds final, like the last note of a symphony, marking the transition from one movement to the next. He leans against the wood, blocking theexit, though whether to keep me in or the world out, I can't be sure.

In the soft lamplight, he looks... devastating. The cotton of his shirt stretches across shoulders broad enough to carry the weight of the world, tapering to a narrow waist I could span with my hands. I've memorized every inch of him, but my eyes still drink him in like I'm seeing him for the first time—the powerful thighs, the corded forearms with veins standing in relief, the shadows playing across his scars that somehow make him more beautiful, not less.

Even now, with fear and uncertainty etched into the lines of his face, he radiates strength. Not just physical power, but something deeper—a force of nature barely contained in human form, a hurricane in the shape of a man.

Something coils low in my belly, a heat that builds despite every reason it shouldn't. My mind whispers warnings, but my body remembers his touch, his taste, the way he made me feel alive when cancer tried to steal that from me.

What if something happens?the voice in my head asks.What if this is the last chance you get?

Before walking into that hospital today, I told myself I was at peace. Was that a lie? Am I just using fear of the future to justify what I've wanted all along?

I don't know. I don't care. Ican'tcare.

My feet move of their own accord, drawing me toward him like a compass finding north. One step. Another. The air between us seems to thicken, charged particles dancing along my skin. When he reaches out, his fingertips barely grazing my cheek, the contact sends electricity shooting straight to my core.

I lean into his touch, silently asking for more. My eyelids flutter closed as his calloused thumb traces the outline of my bottom lip. A soft sigh escapes me—a sound I haven't made since our wedding night, before everything shattered.

"Isabella."

Just my name, but the way he says it—like a prayer, like salvation—makes my knees weaken. There's something raw and desperate in his voice, a vulnerability that the Beast rarely shows.

He draws me closer, one hand sliding to the small of my back, and I arch into him instinctively. The hard planes of his chest press against me, igniting nerve endings I thought treatment had deadened. His scent fills my lungs, making me dizzy.

"I could have murdered Alexandros for the way he looked at you..." His breath is hot against my ear, sending shivers racing down my spine. "For the way he touched you... For the way he thought he had any right to even breathe the same air as you..."

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