Page 9 of The Beast's Hidden Rose
"I would try," I answer honestly. "But making art—making you—it's like breathing to me now. I don't know if I can stop."
She nods slowly, as if my answer confirms something. "At least you're honest about it."
"I won't lie to you, Iris. Not now. Not ever again." The promise comes easily, urgently. "No more manipulation. No more secrets. If you stay, it's with eyes open."
"If," she repeats, and the word carries the weight of possibility.
I don't dare speak, don't dare move. The moment feels balanced on a knife's edge, her decision carrying the power to save or destroy me.
"I need time," she says finally. "To think. To process... all of this." She gestures around the studio.
It's more than I dared hope for—not an immediate rejection, not a panicked flight. Just... consideration. A pause rather than an ending.
"Whatever you need," I tell her, meaning it completely.
She nods once, then starts toward the door, navigating around me with careful distance. I let her pass, fighting every instinct that screams to stop her, to convince her, to make her understand.
At the threshold, she pauses, looking back at me over her shoulder. "Guy," she says, the first time my name has passed her lips, and the sound of it sends electricity through me. "Those paintings—the explicit ones. I'm curious..."
I wait, hardly daring to breathe.
"Are they just fantasy? Or prophecy?"
The question lands like a live wire against my skin, shocking and dangerous. My entire body tenses as I stare at her like a man starved. She turns and leaves the room before I can formulate a response.
five
. . .
Guy
Her question hangsin the air like smoke—Are they just fantasy? Or prophecy?—and something in me snaps. The control I've maintained for three years, the distance I've forced myself to keep, crumbles beneath the weight of those seven words. She's barely made it ten steps down the hall when I'm moving, my body following her without conscious command, drawn by an invisible force stronger than gravity. Stronger than reason.
"Iris." Her name tears from my throat, rough and demanding.
She stops but doesn't turn, her back a tense line in the dim hallway. Lightning flashes through the windows, illuminating her in stark relief—a study in stillness amid chaos. I close the distance between us in four long strides, the floorboards creaking beneath my weight.
"Don't ask questions you don't want answered," I say, close enough now that she must feel my breath on the nape of her neck.
She turns slowly, her chin lifting in defiance despite the rapid pulse I can see beating at her throat. "What makes you think I don't want the answer?"
The hallway suddenly feels airless, the space between us charged with electricity more potent than the storm outside. I study her face, searching for fear, for disgust, for any sign that I should back away now before I cross a line I can't uncross. But what I see in her eyes isn't fear—or at least, not only fear. There's curiosity there. Challenge. And something darker, something that mirrors what I feel clawing up from my depths.
"You should be running," I tell her again, my voice dropping to a growl. "Any sane person would be halfway to town by now."
A small smile touches her lips, surprising both of us. "I never claimed to be particularly sane."
My hand moves of its own accord, rising to hover just beside her cheek, not quite touching. "If I touch you," I warn, "I may not be able to stop."
She doesn't flinch away. Doesn't close her eyes. "Maybe I don't want you to stop."
The last thread of my restraint unravels. Three years of watching, wanting, waiting—culminating in this moment, this woman, this surrender. I cup her face in my palm, feeling her warmth against my skin for the first time. The contact is electric, sending shockwaves through my system. Her eyes widen, lips parting on an indrawn breath. My thumb traces her cheekbone, memorizing its curve with touch rather than sight.
"You don't know what you're asking for," I murmur, giving her one last chance to retreat.
Instead, she leans into my touch, her eyelids growing heavy. "Show me."
My control shatters.
