Page 16 of Beast of Blood and Roses
I shifted uncomfortably on the stool, the leather creaking softly beneath me, and kept looking over my shoulder toward the doorway. Every shadow made me jump. My heart rammed up my throat as I imagined heavy footsteps on the stairs above. If the beast caught me sitting here like some pampered princess while he’d explicitly told me I wouldn’t eat unless it was with him, he wouldn’t just be angry, he’d be furious. And I could only imagine what he could do to me, what those sharp teeth and claws could do.
Chapter Ten
Fierro
I put down the empty bottle of bourbon with a heavy thud and closed the silk curtain with more force than necessary, covering my painting. Self-pity was eating my insides and tasted foul in my mouth, bitter as poison. The smell of bacon wafted around the room, rich and tempting. Colette must be making breakfast, and I was hungry, tired of brooding in this suffocating darkness. Hunger pushed me to follow the delightful smell, my stomach growling despite my misery.
I headed out of my room and stopped at the girl’s room, my hand hovering over the doorknob. The door remained closed. I thought about opening it and inviting her to join me, but my stubborn pride reared its ugly head, hot and familiar. My jaw clenched. I’d given her a choice and she’d turned me down like I was some common criminal.
I wasn’t completely villainous, I told myself, though thewords felt hollow. I would have Colette send up with a tray of breakfast. At least then my conscience would be clear.
I headed down the stairs, my footsteps heavy on the wooden steps.
Marcel greeted me at the bottom, smoothing his already perfect tie. “Monsieur, I was going to bring you a tray of food. Wouldn’t you like to eat in your room?”
There was something in his voice that was off, a hint of fear that made my hackles rise. His eyes darted away from mine.
I brushed past him, my shoulder clipping the side of his head. “No.”
I opened the door to the kitchen and anger surged inside me. Rosalie sat at the counter with a plate of French toast, fresh strawberries, strips of bacon, and drinking a glass of mimosa of all things. She was receiving my treatment, my service, after rejecting me.
“What is she doing out of her room?” I punctuated each word with ice-cold precision, my claws clenching at my side.
“Monsieur, please.” Colette stood in front of her, stretching her arms wide as if to protect her, panic flooding her voice. “Please,si’l vous plaît. I was the one that let her out.”
“I can go back to my room,” Rosalie said shakily as she slid off her seat, her eyes filled with terror. Her hands trembled as she gripped the counter for support.
I stepped forward, growling like thunder. My eyes never left hers, watching as she shrank back behind Colette. “No. You’ll eat with me as I had requested.”
Colette turned to her. “It is okay,mademoiselle. You’ve barely eaten your breakfast.”
Rosalie glanced at me nervously as if waiting for my permission.
I glanced at her plate, irritation spiking through me. It looked as if she had only eaten a couple of small bites. I grabbed a stool and plopped down next to her with deliberate force, my elbow almost touching hers. The heat of her body radiated against my skin. “Eat.”
She bowed her head and didn’t move. I could hear her heart pounding louder than a jackhammer, the frantic rhythm betraying her terror.
Colette quickly filled up a plate, her movements hurried and anxious, and sat it down in front of me. Marcel brought me a glass of mimosa, his hands shaking slightly as he set it down.
“You don’t care for the food?”
Rosalie lifted her head slowly, meeting my eyes before looking away. “No, that’s not it. I just…”
“Don’t want to eat with me.” I let out a dangerous growl, my fangs gnashing as old wounds reopened.
“I didn’t…I didn’t say that,” she whispered.
“Then eat.” The command cracked like a whip.
Silence stretched out between us like a chasm. Rosalie cut a tiny piece of French toast with trembling hands and chewed it slowly, as if each bite was an effort. Colette sighed in frustration as she cleaned up the kitchen, her movements sharp and agitated, and kept giving me disapproving looks from across the counter.
It had been so long since I shared a meal with anyone besides Marcel and Colette that I struggled with coming up with a conversation, my mind grasping for something—anything—to say. My eyes were drawn to her faded black sundress that she was still wearing from yesterday, the fabric soft and worn from too many washings. “Is that the only piece of clothing you have?”
She put down a piece of bacon, her cheeks flushing. “I didn’t realize my dad was going to leave me here…so yes, this is the only thing I have.” There was a note of defensive pride in her voice despite her humiliation.
“I’ll purchase clothes for you today,” I said, trying to sound generous rather than controlling.
“You don’t have to do that. Colette and I could go to my house and retrieve my clothes,” Rosalie said, hope flickering in her eyes at the prospect of leaving.
