Page 80 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

And he’s the one who reminded me of the doctor when I reached out to him for intel on the Greeks two days ago.

Two days.

Fuck.

We only have a bit more than twenty-four hours before Isabella is supposed to leave.

And the memories of the Fixer fades, replaced by Isabella's face. Are her eyes going to be wide with fear as she boards that private jet to Greece? My gut twists, a mix of rage and something dangerously close to panic.

"Run through our contacts again," I growl, my fists finding their rhythm on the bag once more. "I need more dirt on her mother, on all of them. We need something to make those fuckers shake in their designer jeans if they so much as look at Isabella wrong."

Franco nods, giving me a look I don't want to fucking analyze before he steps away. Each retreating footstep echoes in the cavernous space, leaving me alone with my demons.

I’m the Beast who her father and mother should fear more than Hell.

I keep punching, each hit a thunderclap in my ears. Images flash through my mind like a fucked-up slideshow - my mother's broken smile, Isabella's tear-stained face, every goddamn mistake I've ever made. They blur together, a tornado of regret tearing through my gut.

"Thanks for the pharmacy's worth of beta blockers you're packing for Greece, but I don't think I'll need a lifetime supply."

Her voice cuts through the chaos in my head, soft yet sharp enough to freeze me mid-swing. I turn, and there she is. My wife.

Isabella stands in the doorway, backlit by the sun, a vision that knocks the wind right out of me. Her curly short hair catches the light, creating a halo effect that's so at odds with the darkness of our world. My eyes trace the curves of her body, committing every inch to memory. The workout gear she's wearing clings to her in all the right places, and I'm suddenly aware of how dry my mouth is, how my heart's pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with the punching bag.

Her scars, the ones I can see and the ones I know are hidden beneath her clothes, call to me. Each one a story of survival, of strength. And that smile... Fuck, that smile I want to claim as mine and mine alone. It's small, tentative, but it hits me like a sucker punch to the gut.

"You said you wanted to show me a few moves," she says, her eyes never leaving mine. There's a challenge there, a spark of the old Isabella that makes my blood run hot.

I stalk towards her, every muscle in my body coiled tight. The distance between us feels like miles, every step charged with an electricity that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

"I do," I manage to growl out, my voice rougher than I intended. "But there's not enough time-"

"We have one more day," she cuts in, her chest rising and falling faster as I close the distance between us. I can see the pulse fluttering in her neck, smell the faint trace of her shampoo mixing with the sea air.

"And one more night," I rumble, finally close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin. My hands itch to touch her, to pull her against me and never let go.

Naomi and Connor are leaving after dinner. I convinced the Irish to give me this extra time, knowing it'd make Isabella happy. He needs me to succeed too - he's got his own shitstorm brewing back home.

But right now, all I can think about is Isabella, here, now. How I'm going to make every second burn into her memory, sear my touch into her skin until she can't remember a time before us. I'll teach her every move I know, not just to protect her, but to bind her to me in every way possible.

Because when she leaves for Greece, she's taking my shriveled and dark heart with her. And I'll be damned if I let anyone take her from me again.

Even I know I’m the one who fucked up in the first place.

Chapter forty-seven

Isabella

Ineverthoughtlearningself-defensecould be this... hot. Those romance novels and binge-worthy TV shows I've devoured? They got one thing right: the raw sensuality of it all. Antonio's rough hands on my waist, showing me how to tilt my hips just so, to knock an attacker off-balance? It's like electricity zipping through my veins.

I'm definitely leaning into my husband more than I need to, his rock-hard body pressed against my back. And that's not the only thing that's hard. I can feel his desire, matching the heat curling in my own belly.

Being around him makes me feel... safe. It's a weird thought, considering our messy history. Maybe it's because I'm leaving tomorrow, and the idea of going makes me want to cling to him. The thought of flying to Greece, of facing my mother and all the unknowns, it's left me feeling like I'm about to step onto a stage without knowing my choreography.

"There you go," he murmurs, his breath warm on my ear, sending shivers down my spine. "Now, if someone grabs you from behind-"

He demonstrates, his strong arms wrapping around me. I should be focusing on the technique, on how to break free, but all I can think about is how right it feels to be in his arms.

"You need to drop your weight," he continues, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me. "Use their momentum against them."

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