Page 18 of The Beast's Hidden Rose
"Let me see you," I whisper. "The way you've seen me."
I don't wait for permission. I lower my mouth to his chest, finding a thin white scar near his collarbone, and press my lips against it. He freezes, his entire body going rigid beneath my touch. I move to another scar, then another, kissing each one with deliberate tenderness.
"Iris," he says, my name sounding like it's being torn from him. "You don't have to?—"
"I know." I continue my path down his body, kneeling to reach the scars on his abdomen, his hip. "I want to."
As I work my way across his torso, his breathing becomes irregular, his hands hovering uncertainly before settling in my hair, not guiding, just connecting. When I reach the burn mark on his shoulder, I linger there, looking up to find his eyes watching me with such naked emotion it steals my breath.
"Turn around," I say softly.
He hesitates, then complies, presenting his back to me—the area he's been most reluctant to show. The damage here is worse, a lattice of old wounds layered atop each other. I press my lips to the centermost one, feeling him tremble beneath my touch.
"Beautiful," I murmur against his skin. "You're beautiful, Guy."
A sound escapes him—not quite a sob, but close. His shoulders hunch, head dropping forward as I continue pressing kisses to each mark, each memory of pain. When I've covered every scar I can reach, I wrap my arms around him from behind, pressing my cheek between his shoulder blades, holding him.
The trembling intensifies, and I realize with a shock that he's crying—silent, contained, but unmistakably crying. His hands cover mine where they rest on his stomach, holding on like I'm the only solid thing in a world gone liquid with emotion.
"Beast," I whisper, the name tender on my tongue. "My Beast."
He turns in my arms, face wet with tears he's probably never allowed himself to shed. There's no artifice now, no careful control, no walls. Just a man—damaged, complicated, but achingly human—looking at me like I've performed some miracle simply by seeing him and not turning away.
"Iris," he says, my name a benediction. Then, so quietly I almost miss it: "Yours."
He sinks to his knees before me, pressing his face against my stomach, arms wrapping around my hips. Not sexual, but supplicating. Surrendering. I cradle his head against me, fingers gentle in his hair, letting him release whatever has been locked inside him for so long.
We stay like that as morning light strengthens around us, bathing us gold—the artist on his knees, the muse standing guard over him. Both of us scarred in different ways, both seeking something in the other that we haven't found elsewhere.
Understanding, perhaps. Acceptance. The freedom that comes from being truly seen and embraced anyway.
When he finally looks up at me, his eyes are clearer than I've ever seen them, the perpetual storm in them temporarily calmed.
"No one has ever..." he starts, then shakes his head, unable to complete the thought.
"I know," I say, because I do. No one has ever touched his scars with tenderness. No one has ever looked at his darkness and called it beautiful. No one has ever embraced the beast and the man as one complete being.
Until me. Until now.
He rises, gathering me in his arms, and carries me back to the daybed. We don't speak as he lays me down, as he covers my body with his, as he enters me with a gentleness that makes tearsspring to my own eyes. This joining is different from the others—not claiming or consuming, but connecting.
For the first time, I feel like we're truly seeing each other, past the obsession and the fear, into something deeper and more true. Something that might, against all odds, heal us both.
nine
. . .
Guy
I haven't beeninto town in eight months. The last time, some teenager took a picture of my face, probably for some social media mockery about "the Beast of Trevelyan Estate." I broke his phone and threatened worse if he tried again. Since then, I've sent Winters for anything I need, content in my self-imposed exile. But Iris has been here three weeks now, and cabin fever is setting in—I see it in the way she stares out windows, the restless energy in her movements. So today, I'm taking her out. Into the world. Where other people will see her. See us together. The thought makes my jaw clench, my hands tighten on the steering wheel as we approach the town limits. She's mine. By the end of today, everyone will know it.
Iris sits beside me in the passenger seat of my rarely-used Range Rover, looking out the window with undisguised excitement. She's wearing a simple sundress that's modest enough but still shows off her curves in ways that make my blood heat. Her hair is loose, flowing over her shoulders like black silk.She's beautiful, radiant, and completely oblivious to how she affects me—how she'll affect others.
"You're tense," she observes, glancing over at me. "We don't have to do this if you don't want to."
"I'm fine," I lie, easing off the accelerator as we enter the outskirts of Lakewood, the small town nearest to my estate. "Just not used to... people."
She smiles, reaching across to place her hand on my thigh. "We'll start small. Bookstore, maybe lunch. Nothing overwhelming."
