Page 2 of The Beast's Hidden Rose
It's on the second day that I feel it for the first time—the weight of unseen eyes. I'm dusting the library shelves, stretching to reach the top shelf, when the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I turn quickly, but the doorway is empty. Still, something tells me someone was just there.
Later that afternoon, I glimpse him from a window—a tall figure crossing the grounds toward the woods. Even from a distance, his presence is commanding. He walks with purpose, shoulders broad under a dark shirt. I watch until he disappears among the trees, then realize I've been holding my breath.
That night, I hear footsteps in the hallway outside my room, heavy and measured. They pause outside my door, and I freeze in my bed, heart slamming against my ribs. After what feels like minutes, they continue on. I lie awake for hours afterward.
On the third day, I'm polishing silver in the dining room when a shadow passes the doorway. I look up quickly enough this time to catch a glimpse—tall, as I'd seen before, with dark hair and the side of a face that bears what looks like a scarrunning from temple to jaw. He moves past without glancing my way, but somehow I know he's aware of me.
"Have you seen him yet?" Mrs. Winters asks later, surprising me with the question.
"Just... glimpses," I admit.
She nods as if this confirms something. "He'll introduce himself when he's ready. Don't take it personally."
But it feels personal, especially when I'm in the garden collecting herbs for the kitchen, and I look up to see a curtain fall back into place in one of the west wing windows. Or when I'm scrubbing the marble floor in the entrance hall, and I hear the unmistakable sound of a door closing softly upstairs though I'm supposed to be alone in the house.
By the end of the first week, I've developed a sixth sense for his presence. I know when he's nearby even before I hear or see any sign of him. It's like a pressure in the air, a charge that makes my skin prickle. Sometimes I find myself lingering in certain rooms, taking extra time with my tasks, almost hoping he'll appear.
At night, I dream of being watched, but in my dreams, it doesn't frighten me. There's something almost comforting about the attention, about being seen. I’ve always felt invisible, like I could disappear and no one would notice. Here, in this enormous empty house, I've never felt more visible.
I find myself studying the locked door to the west wing whenever I pass it. What kind of art does he create in there? What keeps him so isolated? The questions pile up, unanswered.
On Sunday, my day off, I wander the grounds. The gardens give way to woods that seem to go on forever. I find a small stream with a wooden bench beside it and sit, letting the sun warm my face. The feeling comes over me again—that awareness of being observed. I open my eyes and scan the tree line, but see nothing.
"I know you're there," I say aloud, surprising myself with my boldness.
No answer comes, but as I walk back to the house, I could swear I hear footsteps behind me, matching my pace but stopping when I stop. I don't look back. Something tells me he doesn't want to be seen, not yet.
That night, I soak in the big tub, letting hot water and lavender bubbles ease the tension from my muscles. As I'm stepping out, wrapping a towel around myself, I hear it again—footsteps pausing outside my door.
I stand there, dripping on the tile, heart racing. Part of me wants to fling the door open, to confront him, to end this strange game. But another part, a part I'm not entirely comfortable acknowledging,likesit. Likes being the object of such focused attention.
I dress for bed slowly, aware of every movement, wondering if he's still there, still listening. I brush my hair in long strokes, the way my mother taught me, counting silently to one hundred. By the time I finish, the presence outside my door is gone, but it lingers in my mind as I slide between the sheets.
I close my eyes but don't sleep. His face—what little I've seen of it—forms behind my eyelids. The scar, the dark hair, the intensity I felt even from a distance. Guy Trevelyan.
I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. And why, despite all reason, I want him to keep looking.
two
. . .
Guy
I've carvedout hollows in my own home—spaces between walls, forgotten passages, rooms with one-way glass—all so I can watch her. Iris. Even her name feels sacred in my mind, a prayer I don't deserve to utter. She moves through my house like she's dancing to music only she can hear, her fingers trailing over surfaces I've touched a thousand times, somehow making them new again. Three days she's been here, and already the shadows seem less dark.
She's in the library now, stretching to reach the highest shelf. Her dress rides up, revealing the soft curve where thigh meets ass. My fingers twitch with the need to touch, to grip, to mark. I press my palm flat against the hidden door, feeling the wood grain bite into my skin.
Control. I need control.
When I hired her, Winters looked at me like she knew. Maybe she does. Sixteen years as my housekeeper has given her insights I'd rather she didn't have. But she'd never questionme directly. No one does anymore. Not since the accident, not since the scars, not since I became what people whisper about at parties I no longer attend.
The Beast of Trevelyan Estate.
If they only knew the truth—that the monster they imagine is nothing compared to what actually lives inside me.
Iris turns, suddenly alert, her dark eyes scanning the room. She senses me. Something primitive in her recognizes the predator in the shadows. I step back, though I know she can't see through the paneling. Still, her gaze lingers exactly where I stand, and for a moment, I imagine she's looking directly at me.
Does she feel it too? This pull between us?
