Page 30 of Beast of Blood and Roses
Rosalie’s eyes weren’t cruel. Her voice wasn’t sharp. But magic didn’t need to be cruel to destroy you.
And yet…she was looking at me like I was something more than a curse. Like I was still worth something.
Damn it.
I wasn’t sure I had the strength to let her in or the strength to push her away.
Sadness flickered in her eyes. “Well, good night.” She headed down the stairs.
I watched her descend the stairs, her booted feet silent on the stone steps. The soft cotton of her pajamas caught the moonlight filtering through the tall windows, and something in my chest pulled tight.
She looked so small. So alone.
Let her go, the rational part of my mind warned. She’s a witch. You know what they’re capable of.
But then I remembered the way she’d flinched when I snapped at her. The uncertainty in her voice when she’d asked about her powers. The fear.
And despite everything—despite the curse burning through my veins, despite the memories of Tinker Bell’s cruel laughter—I found myself following.
The stone was cold beneath my talons as I descended, each step a reminder of what I’d become. By the time I reached the dining room, she was already seated at the far end of the long table, looking impossibly small in the cavernous space. Moonlight streamed through the tall windows, casting everything in silver and shadow.
She’d found Colette’s spread: golden chicken fingers still warm from the kitchen, crispy fries scattered across a wooden board, and small bowls of different sauces. Simple food that could be eaten with fingers. My chest tightened. She’d asked for this. She’d thought of me when she’d made the request.
Rosalie looked up as I appeared in the doorway, surprise flickering across her features before settling into something softer. Relief, maybe.
“I thought you weren’t hungry,” she said quietly, but there was no accusation in her voice. Just gentle observation.
I stood there, fighting the urge to retreat. To growl out some excuse and disappear back into the shadows where I belonged. Instead, I moved toward the table with deliberate slowness, my talons scratching the stone floor.
“I changed my mind,” I said, the words rough in my throat.
She gestured to the chair beside her, not across the table where the distance would be safe, but close enough that I couldcatch the faint scent of her soap. Lavender and something else. Something uniquely her.
I sat heavily, careful to keep my clawed hands visible, non-threatening. The chair creaked under my weight.
We sat in silence. She reached for a piece of bread, tore it into small pieces with nervous fingers. I watched her hands—delicate despite the fresh scrapes and cuts from our ordeal in the bayou. Human hands. Not the gnarled claws of the witch who’d cursed me.
“The wolves,” she said suddenly, not looking at me. “When they attacked, I felt something. Like electricity under my skin.” She paused, finally meeting my eyes, her own swimming with uneasiness. “And then they just...attacked—all of them—and there was the shield. Like I’d flipped a switch.”
I reached for a chicken finger, my claws making even this simple task require careful precision. The crispy coating crumbled slightly under my touch, but I managed not to tear it apart completely. “Magic doesn’t always announce itself,” I said carefully. “Sometimes it just...is.”
“But I’ve never—” She shook her head, frustrated. “I grew up normal. Completely ordinary. My father would have told me if I was...if I could...” She trailed off, unable to say the word.
“A witch.” I said it for her, watching her flinch slightly. “Your father might not have known. Magic can skip generations. Or lie dormant until something triggers it.”
“Something like what?”
I studied her face in the moonlight—the curve of her cheek, the way her lashes cast shadows. “Fear. Desperation. The need to protect something precious.”
She was quiet for several long minutes, processing. I poured myself a glass of wine, trying to behave normally, but my handshook as I downed the goblet. Then she asked, “Have you seen it before? Magic like that?”
The wine turned to ash in my mouth. Yes, I thought. I’ve seen exactly what magic that powerful can do.
“Once,” I said instead, my voice carefully neutral.
She waited, but I didn’t elaborate. Couldn’t. The memory of that night—the rage in the witch’s eyes, the words that had twisted my life into this nightmare—was still too raw.
Rosalie seemed to sense my reluctance and changed direction. “What am I supposed to do with it? I can’t control something I don’t understand.”
