Page 24 of The Beast's Hidden Rose
He lifts me suddenly, spinning me in a circle that makes me cling to his shoulders, laughing despite the tears still wet on mycheeks. When he sets me down, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small velvet box.
"You already had a ring?" I ask, surprised. "How long have you been planning this?"
"Three years," he says simply, opening the box to reveal a stunning sapphire surrounded by diamonds. "I bought it three years ago, when I knew for certain what I felt for you wasn't going to fade. Never dreamed I’d actually get to give it to you, though."
The admission should shock me, but nothing about his devotion surprises me anymore. He takes the ring from its nest and slides it onto my finger—a perfect fit, of course. He would know my size exactly, would accept nothing less than perfection for this moment he's imagined for years.
"It's beautiful," I say, watching the stones catch the light.
"It's nothing compared to you." He kisses my palm, then the inside of my wrist where my pulse races. "Nothing in this world is."
As the sunlight slants through the studio windows, painting us both in gold, I look at the portrait again—the two of us together, his darkness complementing my light, each making the other more complete. Then at the ring on my finger, tangible proof of his promise.
Three years he's been loving me from afar. Now we have a lifetime for me to love him back.
epilogue
. . .
Five years later
Guy
She wears white,not because of tradition or purity—those concepts mean nothing to us—but because I asked her to. Because I've imagined her in white since the first time I saw her five years ago. The dress is simple, flowing, nothing like the meringue monstrosities that populate wedding magazines. Just Iris, beautiful and ethereal, standing beside me in the garden as sunset paints the sky in colors no artist could fully capture. No guests, no officiants, no witnesses except the flowers and trees that have stood silent guard over my isolation for years. We need no one else for this moment. This covenant is between us alone.
The legal paperwork was handled yesterday—a visit to the courthouse, signatures on documents, the clerk's poorly disguised curiosity about the scarred recluse and his beautiful bride. But that was merely bureaucracy. This, now, is our true wedding. Sacred in its privacy, profound in its simplicity.
I take her hands in mine, marveling at how far we've come. From years of watching from a distance, capturing her in charcoal and oils while she remained oblivious to my existence. To manipulation, bringing her into my home under false pretenses. To discovery, her finding my shrine of paintings. To acceptance, against all reason, against every social norm and warning. To this moment, where she stands before me willingly, eagerly, choosing to bind her life to mine.
"Trhee years," I say, my voice rough with emotion. "Three years I've loved you from afar. Watched you. Painted you. Dreamed of you."
Her eyes shine with unshed tears, but her smile is steady, certain. "And now?"
"Now I get to love you up close. To learn every detail I couldn't capture from a distance. To wake beside you every morning and fall asleep with you every night." My thumb brushes over the sapphire ring that marks her as mine. "To call you my wife."
The word sends a thrill through me—wife. Such an ordinary term for something so extraordinary. The miracle of Iris choosing me, with all my darkness, all my obsession, all my broken edges.
"I've prepared vows," she says, surprising me. We hadn't discussed this part, had agreed to keep the ceremony minimal. "May I?"
I nod, throat tight with anticipation.
She takes a deep breath, her hands squeezing mine. "I, Iris, take you, Guy—my Beast—to be my husband. I promise to see you as you truly are, not as the world has labeled you. To embrace your darkness and your light equally. To stand beside you in isolation or in company, in creation or in stillness." Her voice grows stronger with each word. "I promise to be yours completely, and to claim you as mine in return. To love younot despite your obsession but because of the devotion behind it. To build a life with you that needs no outside approval or understanding."
Her words pierce me, more beautiful and fitting than any traditional vows could be. She sees me—truly sees me—and chooses me anyway. Embraces me, darkness and all.
"Your turn," she prompts gently when I remain silent, overwhelmed.
I haven't prepared anything, trusting that the right words would come. Now, faced with articulating feelings I've carried for three years, I find myself momentarily speechless.
"Iris," I begin finally, her name a prayer on my lips. "I've painted you a thousand times, but no canvas has ever captured the essence of what you are to me. Before you, my life was shadow and silence. You brought color, light, meaning." My voice breaks, but I push on. "I take you as my wife, my muse, my reason. I promise to cherish you, protect you, possess you in the ways you desire and need. To never take for granted the miracle of your presence in my life. To channel my obsession into devotion, my possessiveness into protection, my need into nurturing."
I bring her hands to my lips, pressing kisses to her knuckles, to the ring that marks our union. "You've seen the beast in me and called it beautiful. I promise to be worthy of that vision, every day, for the rest of our lives."
A tear slips down her cheek, and I catch it with my thumb before it can fall. The last rays of sunlight illuminate her face, turning her ordinary beauty into something transcendent.
I slip the wedding band onto her finger, and she likewise does mine.
There's no pronouncement, no permission to kiss the bride. We need no external validation or announcement. I simply drawher to me, my wife, and claim her mouth with mine. The kiss is both tender and possessive, a promise and a claiming.
