Page 11 of The Beast's Hidden Rose
I should pack my things. I should leave before this goes any further. Before I lose myself in whatever this magnetic pull is between us.
Maybe that’s why he didn’t go any further last night. Maybe he was giving me one last chance to come to my senses. Maybe…hell, I don’t know. I’m over-analyzing everything and confusing myself.
I shower, scrubbing my skin as if I could wash away the memory of his touch, his taste, his scent. It doesn't work. If anything, the sensation of water running down my body only reminds me of his hands, how they might feel tracing these same paths.
"This is insane," I tell my reflection as I towel off. "You're being an idiot, Iris."
But am I? My entire life, I've felt like a shadow—present but barely noticed. Guys have dated me, even claimed to love me, but none of them ever really saw me. They saw what they wanted to see: a nice girl, pretty enough, agreeable enough. Disposable enough.
Guy sees me. Really sees me. Not just my physical form but something deeper. Those paintings captured parts of myself I barely recognized—vulnerability, longing, strength. He's been watching me for years, yes, but more importantly, he's been seeing me.
Still, there's a difference between being seen and being safe.
I dress methodically, choosing comfortable clothes I can travel in. Jeans, a soft sweater, sneakers. As I fold the few itemsI've unpacked, I rehearse what I'll say.I'm sorry, but I can't stay. This situation is too intense, too unconventional. Thank you for the opportunity, but?—
A knock at my door interrupts my thoughts.
I know it's him before I open it. The air seems to thicken, charged with the same electricity from last night. When I pull the door open, he fills the frame, larger than life and somehow exactly as I remember. Dark eyes immediately catalog everything about me—the packed bag on my bed, the travel clothes, the keys clutched in my hand.
"You're leaving." Not a question. His voice is flat, but I see the muscle jumping in his jaw.
"I have to," I say, proud of how steady I sound. "You know this isn't... normal. Isn't healthy."
He steps into my room without invitation, closing the door behind him. I back up instinctively, creating distance between us.
"Normal is overrated," he says. "And 'healthy' is subjective."
"Guy." His name still feels new on my tongue. "You've been essentially stalking me for years. You manipulated my life to get me here. In any other context, I'd be filing for a restraining order, not..." I gesture vaguely between us, unwilling to name what happened last night.
"But you're not." He moves closer, and I retreat until my back hits the wall. "You're not running. You're not screaming. You kissed me back, Iris. You wanted me."
"That doesn't make it right."
"Right and wrong aren't the point." Another step closer. "The point is what's real. And this—" he gestures between us, mimicking my earlier movement, "—is the most real thing I've ever felt. Tell me you don't feel it too."
I should lie. Should tell him I was caught up in the moment, that in the light of day I've come to my senses. But the wordsstick in my throat because it would be a lie, and something about him makes me want to be honest, even when honesty is dangerous.
"Feeling something doesn't mean I should act on it," I say instead.
"Doesn't it?" He's close enough now that I can smell him—paint and cedar and something darker underneath. "Your whole life, you've played it safe. Done what was expected. Been who everyone else wanted you to be."
The accuracy of his assessment startles me. "You don't know that."
"I know you better than you think." His hand comes up, not touching me but hovering near my face, so close I can feel the heat of his skin. "I've watched you shrink yourself for others. Smile when you want to scream. Accept less than you deserve because you don't believe you're worth more."
Tears spring to my eyes, unexpected and unwelcome. "Stop."
"No." His hand finally makes contact, fingers gentle against my cheek despite the intensity of his gaze. "For once in your life, Iris, take what you want. Not what you should want. Not what's sensible or safe or socially acceptable. What you actually want."
His thumb brushes away a tear I didn't realize had fallen. The tenderness of the gesture contrasts sharply with the possessive way his body cages mine against the wall.
"And what if what I want is dangerous?" I whisper, voice catching. "What if what I want might destroy me?"
"Then I'll put you back together." His eyes never leave mine, dark and intense and filled with a promise that should terrify me. "Piece by piece. Better than before."
My heart thunders in my chest, a war drum signaling both danger and desire. His hand slides from my cheek to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, reminding me of his grip from last night—possessive but not painful.
"You want to leave because you think you should," he says, his face inches from mine now. "Not because you want to."
