Page 23 of The Beast's Hidden Rose
"You've never been ordinary, Iris." He steps closer, finally giving in to the need to touch me, his hand cupping my cheek. "Not to me."
I lean into his touch, still holding the sketchbook. "Why didn't you approach me? In all that time, why just watch from afar?"
"Fear." The admission costs him, I can see it in the tension around his eyes. "Not of rejection—though that too. Fear of ruining the perfect thing I'd created in my mind. Fear that the real you couldn't possibly live up to the version I'd constructed."
"And has she?" I ask, suddenly needing to know. "Has the real me lived up to your fantasy?"
His eyes darken, thumb stroking my cheekbone. "She's exceeded it in every way. The real Iris is messy, complicated, stubborn—human in ways I couldn't have imagined. Perfect because of her imperfections, not despite them."
The tenderness in his voice undoes me. Five years of watching, of waiting, of wanting—and now he has me, the real me, with all my flaws and contradictions.
"Come with me," he says suddenly, taking the sketchbook from my hands and setting it aside. "There's something I want to show you."
He leads me through the house to his studio, that once-forbidden space that has become almost as familiar to me as my own room. Inside, he guides me to a canvas covered with a cloth, positioned on an easel near the windows.
"I've been working on this for the past week," he explains, suddenly looking nervous—an expression I've rarely seen on his face. "It's... different from the others."
He pulls away the cloth, revealing a portrait of me unlike any I've seen before. In this painting, I'm not alone—Guy is there too, his arm around me, my head resting against his chest. We're standing in the garden behind the house, surrounded by late summer blooms. What strikes me most is the expression he's captured on my face—not the carefully constructed contentment I've worn for most of my life, but something raw, genuine. Happiness, but with an edge of something fiercer. And the way he's painted himself looking at me—like I'm the source of light in an otherwise dark world.
"This is how you see us," I whisper, stepping closer to the canvas. "Together."
"It's how I want us to be," he corrects. "Not just in paintings. Not just in this temporary arrangement we've fallen into." He turns to face me, taking both my hands in his. "Three years I watched you from a distance. One month I've had you here, under my roof, in my bed. It's not enough. I want more. I want forever."
My heart stutters in my chest as I realize what he's saying. "Guy?—"
"Marry me, Iris." The words come out rushed, almost desperate. "Be my wife. Let me keep you, protect you, worship you for the rest of our lives."
The proposal hangs in the air between us, as unexpected as it is intense. A month ago, I would have called this madness—agreeing to marry a man I've known so briefly, a man with an obsessive fixation on me that spans years.
But the woman I was a month ago doesn't exist anymore. She's been transformed by his gaze, his touch, his unyielding devotion. In his presence, I've discovered parts of myself I never knew existed—a capacity for passion that matches his, a desire to be possessed that equals his need to possess.
"This is crazy," I say, but there's no conviction in the words. "We barely know each other."
"I've known you for three years," he counters. "And you've seen more of me in one month than anyone has in my entire life. The darkest parts, the broken parts. Everything I've hidden from the world, I've shown to you."
He's right. There are no masks between us, no pretense. He's laid himself bare—his obsession, his trauma, his desperate need for connection—and I've accepted it all. More than accepted, I've embraced it, found myself reflected in his darkness.
"What if it's not enough?" I ask, voicing my deepest fear. "What if this intensity burns out, or turns into something destructive?"
"Then we'll face that together." His hands tighten on mine. "I'm not promising perfection, Iris. I'm promising devotion. Commitment. That no matter how dark it gets, I'll never stop seeing you, never stop wanting you, never stop fighting for us."
Tears spring to my eyes, unexpected and overwhelming. No one has ever promised me such things. No one has ever wanted me with such ferocity, such certainty.
"Say yes," he urges, bringing my hands to his lips. "Be mine in every way possible."
The last rational part of my mind screams caution, reminds me of how this began—with secrets and manipulation, with an obsession that would frighten most people away. But that voice grows fainter by the second, drowned out by something deeper, more instinctual.
This man sees me. Really sees me, in ways no one else ever has. And against all odds, I see him too—the beauty in his darkness, the tenderness beneath his possession.
"Yes," I whisper, and then louder: "Yes."
Relief and joy transform his face, making him look younger, unburdened. He pulls me against him, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that feels like sealing a pact. When we break apart, both breathless, he presses his forehead to mine.
"Mine," he murmurs, the familiar word carrying new weight now. "Forever."
"Yours," I agree, sliding my arms around his neck. "And you're mine, too. Don't forget that part."
He laughs, a rare sound that fills me with warmth. "As if you'd let me."
