Page 82 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

But the rest of my words are lost in a cry of ecstasy as I shatter in his arms, trembling and gasping his name like a lifeline.

"I'm yours," he growls as he kisses me again, and I can taste myself on his lips, on his tongue. "Fuck, Bella. I've always been yours."

His forehead rests against mine, our breaths mingling in the small space between us. I'm struck by the vulnerability in his eyes, a stark contrast to the Beast I've come to know.

"I'm not agreeing to this Greece shit because I'm scared it'd be the end of us if I didn't," he says, his voice rough. "Even though at first, maybe it was the reason, but I'm listening to what you want. But fuck, Bella, I'm terrified you won't come back."

He inhales deeply. "You survived so much, including the hell I put you through. You're strong, Isabella. Stronger than anyone I've ever known."

His words dance over me, a mix of pride and pain swirling in my chest. I want to reassure him, to promise I'll return, but we both know there are no guarantees in our world.

Instead, I cup his face in my hands, my thumbs tracing the scars I've memorized. "I'll always find my way back to you. To you and Elena."

He nods, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "I'll see you at dinner with Connor and Naomi," he says, helping me straighten my clothes. "At least those Greek fuckers won't be there tonight."

As I watch Antonio leave, a familiar tightness creeps into my chest. The warmth of our encounter still lingers on my skin,but so does the memory of his betrayal. I've been here before – feeling safe, letting my guard down, only to have my world shattered.

I shake my head, trying to clear the doubt. This time is different, isn't it? He's changed. We've changed.

But a small voice in the back of my mind whispers, "Have we really?"

I think about tomorrow, about boarding that plane to Greece. About facing my mother – a woman I thought was dead, who let me believe she was dead for years. My stomach churns with a mix of anticipation and dread.

Leaving Antonio and Elena? It's harder than I ever thought possible.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. Because my heart... my heart wants to believe in us, in the possibility of healing.

As I head to shower before dinner, I realize I'm walking a tightrope between hope and caution. One misstep could send me plummeting into the abyss.

But my instincts tell me it’s not Antonio I need to fear. Not anymore. My mother, on the other hand, well... that’s another story.

Chapter forty-eight

Antonio

Istepoutoftheshower, skin still flushed from the scalding water and the unsatisfying release I've just given myself. Even as I spilled over my fist, all I could think about was Isabella – her lips parted in ecstasy, her nails digging into my back, the way she gasped my name earlier in the gym.

Instead of striding out after, I imagined pounding into her, feeling her clench around me. The fantasy was hot as hell, but it only left me aching for the real thing even more.

The tension – from the day, the month, the fucking decade – still coils inside me like a wound spring. My body might've gotten off, but my mind's still racing, caught between desire and the constant dread of what tomorrow might bring.

I dress quickly, trying to shake off the lingering frustration, and head to find Franco. We go over the final preparations for tomorrow, including the tracker I need to install in Isabella's wedding ring come morning. It's another layer of protection, butasking for her ring, telling her about the tracker – it all sits like lead in my stomach. She needs to know, but will she see it as care or control?

As I make my way through the hallway, the sound of giggles and music drifts from Elena's room. I pause at the doorway, my hand on the cool metal of the handle, and take in the scene before me.

I push the door open, and the sight before me stops me dead in my tracks. Isabella's there, looking like sin in a casual black dress that hugs her curves in all the right places. It's nothing fancy, but fuck if she doesn't make it look like it costs more than most people's cars. Her hair's styled in those messy curls that make me want to run my fingers through them, and she's wearing just enough makeup to make her eyes pop.

And her shoes are forgotten by the door.

She's twirling Elena around, both of them laughing as they attempt some kind of half-assed ballet routine. My daughter's face is lit up like a Christmas tree, her eyes glued to Isabella like she hung the moon and stars.

I get it.

"Papa!" Elena spots me, waving her little arms. "Come dance with us!"

I hesitate, caught between the urge to join them and the nagging voice in my head telling me I don't deserve this moment.

But then Isabella turns, flashing me that smile that could bring me to my knees. "Yeah, come on, Antonio," she says, a little breathless. "Show us your moves."

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