Page 7 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

But Cerberus doesn't growl, but he sits at her feet, staring at me like she's the one who's feeding him every single day. Like she's the one who saved him. Like she's the one who's his reason to live. Fuck. My gaze drops down to her lips. To her long-sleeve shirt and sweater with the word "Cape Cod" on them. She used to love Cape Cod. We went once together as the fake family we were. And I remember her in the water, dancing in the sand. It's a memory I never forgot. And I'm not sure if the sweater is to taunt her or to remind her of a different time, too. Her sweatpants are gray and her feet are ensconced in heavy socks. But I notice blood on the ground and I growl, "What the fuck happened here?"

When she doesn't answer, I'm one second away from snapping. "I asked you a question."

She lifts her eyes to me like she wants me to know she's not afraid of me and there's a beat of hesitation, like she's weighing the pros and cons of talking to me, but she must see the patience thinning in my eyes.

"You ask a lot of questions. It's like you have all the questions, don't you?" She doesn't raise her voice but she could chill an entire country with that tone.

I fight the impulse to caress her soft skin, to remind her how I once played her body like a piano—drawing out themost exquisite notes before I shattered her heart, composing a dissonant melody from the very essence of her being.

She shakes her head, as if reading my thoughts. "You'll never break me again. Not in that way."

"Are you sure about that?"

"You'll never get close enough to my heart to leave a bruise, let alone break it." It's like a vow to her. "I may be your wife. But I'll never be yours again. Not like that."

I wish I could prove her wrong, but seeing her after so many months is unsettling and I don't do "unsettling".

These living conditions – the mold creeping along stone walls, the thin blanket, the damn blood on the floor – they're worse than I ordered. Someone's head will roll for this. I need her alive and well for the contract to hold. The signatures mean nothing if she wastes away in this forgotten wing – something I should have considered before locking the door and throwing myself into war with her father.

"How did my daughter get here?" I insist. "How did you know about her?"

A dry chuckle escapes her. Like she can't believe what I'm saying. "I didn't know you had a daughter," she replies. "So, it wasn't a grand plan. And the only reason I'm talking to you right now is not because I can see the fury and lack of patience in those eyes of yours." So, great she can read my mind now. She continues, "It's because of her." She inhales deeply, waving into the distance. "Because she could have gotten down the staircase. The one if I remember correctly leads to the crashing waves. And ..." She bites her lower lip. "She's just a kid. I didn't want anything to happen to her..."

"And now that you know she's mine?"

She rolls her eyes and the sight has me clenching my fists even harder.

"It doesn't change a single thing. She's innocent. How can you...?" Another deep inhale and slow exhale like she's trying to remind herself not to lose her shit. "I heard her coming toward the door and when I heard her voice, I found ways to keep her busy." She pauses and I'm sure she has questions. Millions of them.

But I have some, too. "Why is there blood on the floor? Did someone do something to you? Did you do something to yourself?" And I don't know why my voice almost cracks. If someone did something to her, they will not see another day.

She looks at me without another word.

I should leave.

Slam the door behind me.

Lock the door and lose the key. Throw that damn key into the ocean. Far, far from here. From her. From me.

"I'll answer one question you have and you answer one of mine," I tell her, bargaining in a way I didn't expect when I stepped into the room.

"I don't have any questions."

"A favor then?"

"Let me out."

"Not that one."

"Well, then, have a nice day, husband."

It's a battle of wills. And I won't give in. Just like she won't. I call Cerberus to follow me, but he doesn't. And I can't carry him out without looking like a damn fool. So, I do something different.

"He's staying with you for a bit, wife." The word rolls off my tongue way too easily. "I'll get Signora Martha to let him out when she comes with your lunch shortly."

I'm half hoping for that ghost of a smile to come back.

But she's already diverting her gaze, her nose in one of the few books I let in that place that looks much more like a jailthan what I remember. Maybe it's the guilt feasting on me that prevents me from just walking away, or maybe I'm fooling myself, thinking I'm still using her for some twisted advantage. Or, just maybe, she's burrowed too damn deep under my skin, her venom dancing in my veins battling with the symphony of revenge I've orchestrated for so long for so long.

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