Page 78 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

For a moment, we just stand there, the air between us thick with unspoken words. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what I know is coming.

"I know you probably have a thousand reasons for me not to go to Greece," I say, my voice quiet but firm.

Antonio's jaw clenches. "I have a million."

I nod, acknowledging the weight of his concerns. "But I need to go. I need to see my mother. I need to know... whatever she's not telling me."

His eyes search mine. I can see the protest forming on his lips, but I press on.

"I know it's dangerous. I know there's more going on than we understand. But this might be my only chance to get answers. To understand where I come from, who I really am."

I watch as he battles with himself, his need to protect me warring with the understanding in his eyes. This is the crossroads, I realize.

Whatever he says next will shape everything that follows.

But Antonio doesn't speak. Not right away. Instead, he takes my now-cold mug of coffee, setting it on the window sill beside us. His hand finds mine, warm and calloused, sending a familiar jolt through me.

"Come sit with me for a moment," he says, his voice low. "Please."

That 'please' catches me off guard. It's not a word the Beast uses often. I nod, my heart doing a grand jeté into my throat.

There's a heaviness to him, a weight in his eyes that speaks of pain and worries I can't quite decipher. It makes me nervous, jittery.

We walk through the outside garden--a tangle compared to the interior one. Cerberus trots along, our faithful furry shadow. We pass wild roses that would make my old ballet master weep with envy, their perfume hanging thick in the air.

And then I see it - a stone bench I've never noticed before, since I couldn’t see it from my jail and I’ve never been to this area of the garden, overlooking the restless ocean below. It's like something out of a tragic romance novel.

"The legend goes that the son of the first owner of the fortress built this bench," Antonio says, his voice rough with something I can't quite place. "He built it waiting for his lover to return. Refused to believe the sea had taken her. Couldn't accept he'd never see her again."

The words hang between us, heavy with unspoken meaning. I can't help but wonder - is this Antonio's roundabout way of telling me something? With him, I've learned, there's always more beneath the surface.

"Did she...?" I pause, my voice barely audible over the crashing waves. "Come back?"

I stare out at the vast ocean, wondering how far Greece is from here. It seems impossible, unreachable.

A part of me wishes Antonio could come with me, throw caution to the wind like we're in some romantic movie. But that's not who he is. He's a man weighed down by responsibility, by the lives that depend on him.

And Elena. God, Elena.

He'd never leave his little girl behind. And I'd never ask him to.

His fingers trace patterns on my palm, sending little sparks up my arm. I lean against him, breathing in his scent - spice and danger and something uniquely him.

A tiny voice in the back of my mind wonders if this is all just a prelude to him locking me up again. Despite our progress. Despite his promises. It's a reminder that I haven't forgiven him. Not completely. Maybe not ever.

"I don't know," Antonio finally answers, his voice rough like sandpaper. "There are different endings to that story. Some say she came back to haunt him, Drove him insane."

"Why was she at sea?" I ask, curiosity piqued. "What were the other endings?"

"She was at sea because he drove her there. She was his prisoner. And she escaped in the middle of the night."

The parallel isn't lost on me. I swallow hard, thinking of my own escape attempts, my own captivity.

"Maybe she survived and thrived," I whisper, more to myself than to him. Maybe, like me, she found strength she never knew she had. "Maybe she'd have come back if he had given her a choice." I turn to look at Antonio, really look at him. My husband. The Beast. The man who's both my nightmare and my dream. "We're not some fairytale, Antonio. We're not a local legend to be whispered about."

My hand reaches out, almost of its own accord, to touch his scarred face. The roughness under my fingertips is familiar, a map of pain and survival. "You need to let me make my own choices." I pause, tasting the truth of my next words. "And I'll come back."

"What if you don't?" His voice is low, raw. "What if you can't? What if you choose something else? Someone else?" He takes a deep breath, and I can almost see the weight of his thoughts. "Ifucked up, Isabella. In so many ways. I was blind, consumed by a revenge that burned everything else away."

---