Page 173 of Beau and the Beast

Smiling, Wolfram died.

Chapter Thirty

When Violet would look backon the day that Wolfram died years later, the violent scene would be a jumble in her mind.

Who had been the first of them to call for rescue?

Who had been by her side, helping to pull Wolfram’s bleeding bulk over onto his back, freeing the intruder underneath him?

Had Violet been the one to press a jacket over the stranger’s wounds, trying to staunch the flow of blood, or had it been Alfie?

The penthouse was chaos. The door hung open on its frame. Someone took the strange man’s pulse. Violet was covered in blood—unsure of whose it was but knowing only that everything had gone terribly wrong.

They’d made it almost ten years and they’d been safe, only to reach this last month, the last cycle of days before they would be free, before Beau would be able to break the curse. And now this.

Geoffrey identified the man on the ground as Lincoln, Beau’s ex-boyfriend. Lincoln slipped in and out of consciousness, a product not of the gashes in his torso but the concussion he sustained when Wolfram knocked him down.

“They’re on their way,” someone said behind her, and for a moment Violet wondered who “they” were and why they were coming.

She knelt over Wolfram, shedding her jacket and pressing it against the wounds in his chest. It wasn’t even big enough to cover everywhere he’d been shot—the intruder had fired five times before he’d been knocked out.

“He’s not breathing,” she said to no one in particular. The words didn’t feel like they were even her own. She felt like she wasn’t present in her own body as she leaned on Wolfram, as if she was watching the scene from several steps back.

“He’s not breathing,” she repeated. James fell to his knees beside them, pushing his hand under Wolfram’s jaw to take his pulse. He turned to her and shook his head.

“He’s bleeding out,” she said. “We have to do something!”

“There’s nothing we can do, Vi,” James said gently.

She didn’t want his gentleness. She wanted her friend back.

* * *

Beau heldhis breath as he got off the elevator. The door to the penthouse was standing open. He sprinted inside, only to be pulled hard by the front of his jacket by Geoffrey.

“Come on, kid,” Geoffrey said. “You don’t need to see this.”

But he alreadyhadseen. There in the foyer were Lincoln and Wolfram, both bleeding and on their backs.

“He’s gone, Beau,” Geoffrey said. “Come on.” He pulled Beau, trying to get him away from the scene, and Beau struggled in his grip. Hot tears stung his eyes and he couldn’t breathe.

Impossible. It was impossible.

“There’s nothing you can do,” Geoff said, shaking him now.

“Get off of me.” Beau’s voice was steady and tight. Alfie was there in an instant, blocking his view, pushing him back along with Geoff.

“You don’t need to see this, Beau,” Alfie said, his words echoing Geoffrey’s, his voice softer than Beau had ever heard it.

Beau pushed at them both, fighting, ready to swing at them.

“Get thefuckoff of me!” No matter how hard he pushed at them, they were able to recover their grip, walking him back into the living room.

“Let him go.”

It was Violet, her voice unnaturally calm. He watched as she approached them from the foyer. She’d lost her suit jacket somewhere along the line and her blouse showed big swaths of dark blood.

“Let Beau go to him,” she repeated. “It doesn’t matter now.”

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