Page 28 of Beast of Blood and Roses
For one brief, breathless second, I felt like Cinderellaslipping into the glass slipper. Only instead of a ball, I was in a haunted mansion with a monster I didn’t quite understand.
Still, for a heartbeat, I felt seen.
I walked to the bedroom door and opened it?—
And froze.
The beast stood just beyond the threshold, his massive frame cloaked in shadow. His gaze swept over me, lingering, not in a leering way, but intense. Possessive. As if he was trying to memorize the way I looked in what he’d given me.
A shiver rippled down my spine, and I hugged the nightshirt around me instinctively.
His voice rumbled low, like thunder rolling over distant hills.
“I wasn’t sure you’d wear them,” he said. His eyes didn’t leave mine. There was something else there besides possession. Anticipation, tenderness. “But I hoped…maybe you’d see yourself the way I see you.”
The words struck something deep in me, hitting harder than I expected.
I swallowed, unsure how to respond. “Why would you care how I see myself?”
He paused, his expression unreadable before he spoke again, softer this time.
“Because even before the curse, I knew what it was like to feel... less. To be judged by everything but who you are inside. And now…” his jaw flexed, a flicker of frustration in his eyes, “now I wear a face that makes it impossible to be anything but a monster.”
Chapter Sixteen
Fierro
I’d seen women in luxurious evening gowns—elegant, seductive, perfectly styled. Back when I was still a man who walked in the world, those things had caught my eye more times than I could count.
But nothing, nothing, prepared me for the way Rosalie looked when she opened the door.
She wore a striped nightshirt and matching shorts, simple and soft, clinging just enough to her still-damp skin. Her hair hung around her shoulders in dark, loose waves, glistening at the ends like she’d just stepped out of a dream. And her eyes…gods, those amber eyes. Wide. Startled. Unaware of what she was doing to me.
She had no idea.
No idea how beautiful she looked when she was vulnerable, fresh-faced, glowing from the shower. And somehow, that made it worse. More dangerous.
There was a softness to her, an innocence in her expression, but it held something else too. A heat she didn’t know she was projecting. Seductive. Sensual. Sinful. And not because of what she was wearing, but because she was herself.
Unarmored. Unfiltered.
And all I could think was: She’s not afraid of me right now.
My claws curled reflexively at my sides, and I had to fight the urge to look away. To growl. To move. The ache in my chest wasn’t just desire, it was a warning.
She was becoming something I couldn’t protect myself from.
Not even in this cursed form.
She moistened her lips, then nervously smoothed her palms down the front of her pajamas. The gesture was small, instinctive, but my eyes caught the mottled bruises blooming along her legs. Red scratches crossed her skin like angry reminders.
My chest tightened.
Those damn wolves. Trystan Hunter was a dead man walking for allowing his pack to lay a hand on her. I could feel my claws threaten to unsheathe, the simmer of rage clawing up the back of my throat.
“You really were hurt, weren’t you?” My voice came out lower, rougher.
She stilled, her hands going motionless at her side. “I’m fine, really.” But the way she said it, soft, unconvincingly, only made it worse.
