Page 19 of Beast of Blood and Roses
The four-poster bed dominated the room like a monument to violence. What had once been an elaborate masterpiece now lay in ruins—the mahogany frame split and gouged by claws, silk curtains hanging in tatters, the mattress eviscerated with stuffing scattered across Persian rugs. No phone on the nightstand, just splintered wood and torn fabric.
I moved carefully toward an intricately carved writing desk, stepping over debris. Maybe he kept a phone there or a laptop. But the drawers hung open and empty, their contents long since destroyed or removed. Deep grooves scarred every surface where something had repeatedly scratched and torn at the wood.
Around this chaos sat untouched Renaissance furniture—velvet-upholstered chairs with golden legs, a marble-topped vanity that belonged in a Florentine palace. Beautiful, pristine, and utterly useless to someone who could no longer trust himself not to destroy everything he touched. And useless to me—no technology anywhere.
The room told a story of a man at war with the beast inside him and losing badly. My throat tightened as I realized my search was futile and as I imagined him thrashing through endless nights, fighting a battle against his own transformed body.
But I couldn’t give up yet. I had to be thorough.
My eyes swept the walls, searching. No paintings or pictures—just like downstairs. But there, against the far wall, silk curtains hung where artwork should be. My pulse spiked. They looked deliberately placed, hiding something important.
I glanced back toward the hallway, listening for any sound of approach.
Silence.
Swallowing my guilt, I crept toward the curtains and pulled them back with trembling fingers.
At first, my mind couldn’t process what I was seeing. Then those dark emerald eyes drew me in and understanding pierced the confusion in my brain. I gasped, stumbling backward.
It was him, but not as he was now, and not as he’d been before. This painting captured something in between, something horrifying and heartbreaking all at once.
Half man, half creature. The left side of his face still bore human features—rugged jaw, olive skin, the ghost of what must have been devastating handsomeness. But on the right side...dark fur sprouted where a beard should be. His hair, thick and black on one side, dissolved into coarse animal fur on the other. His hands, crossed formally in front of him, told the same story. Deadly claws on nine fingers. All except one pinky finger, still perfectly human, still fighting the change.
As I stared, transfixed with horror, I watched that last human finger begin to shift. The nail elongated into a yellowed claw, the flesh darkening as coarse fur sprouted along the knuckle. The transformation rippled outward like a stone dropped in still water, claiming another piece of his humanity before my eyes.
The painting was alive. Cursed. And I was watching it change. Soon it would be more beast than human.
“You broke your promise.”
A menacing growl made every hair on my body stand up. My blood turned to ice.
I slowly turned, afraid to make any sudden movements. The beast filled the entire doorway, his massive frame blocking any hope of escape. His broad shoulders pressed against the door jamb, and those emerald eyes—the same ones from the painting—now blazed with a fury that made my knees weak.
“I was…I was just…”
He stalked past me in two powerful strides and yanked the curtains shut with such force I heard fabric tear. When he whirled back to face me, his chest heaved with barely controlled rage.
“Do you know what you could have done?” His voice boomed through the room, making me flinch. “Do you have any idea?—”
Before I could answer, he grabbed an ornate chair and hurled it across the room. It exploded against the wall in a shower of splinters and gold leaf, the crash so violent I felt it in my bones.
“GET OUT!!!”
Terror flooded my system. This wasn’t just anger; this was the fury of a predator who’d killed without hesitation. He could tear me apart with those claws. He could?—
I stumbled backward, my legs finally remembering how to move. Then I was running, flying down the hallway faster than I’d ever moved in my life, my heart threatening to burst from my chest.
“Mademoiselle, what’s wrong?” Colette appeared at the top of the stairs, her face creased with worry.
I pushed past her without stopping, taking the stairs three at a time. My hands shook as I gripped the banister, the beast’s roar still echoing in my ears.
Promise or no promise, I hadto get out of here. I’d find a way to escape this nightmare and disappear, maybe leave New Orleans forever. There was nothing left for me in this cursed city but misery and monsters who wore the faces of the men they used to be. Dad had made his choice when he drove away. Now I had to make mine.
Chapter Twelve
Rosalie
I burst through the front door like a woman possessed, my legs pumping faster and faster as gravel crunched beneath my feet.
