Page 26 of Beast of Blood and Roses
I should have gone to sleep. My body ached, and the scratches on my chest stung. The shadows outside the windows had thickened into the inky stillness of night, but I couldn’t stop staring at the rack of clothes near the foot of the bed.
They looked too beautiful to be real.
Boxes stacked neatly on the bottom shelf, ribbons still perfectly tied. Dresses and coats hung in a row, their fabrics shifting ever so slightly as if responding to my attention—silk, velvet, and delicate lace, all in shades I never imagined I could pull off. Soft blues, deep crimsons, a pale gold that shimmered faintly in the low light. Every piece elegant. Expensive. Magical.
Marcel said the beast had picked these for me.
But he couldn’t leave the estate. I knew that. So how had he done it?
The idea of him scrolling through online catalogs with monstrous claws made my lips twitch, but the humor didn’tquite reach my chest. No, this felt too personal for something as simple as internet shopping. Too intentional. Too…intimate.
I looked down at the faded black dress I wore, the one I’d been stuck in since the night everything fell apart. Wolves had torn it. Mud and blood had stained it. Colette had done her best to clean it, but the fabric still carried the ghosts of that night. I hated the way it clung to my skin, a reminder of everything I’d survived. And everything I’d lost.
It was all I had.
Dad hadn’t told me I was going to be taking up permanent residency here—one moment he was there, the next the beast had kicked him out and I was alone.
No bargaining.
No warning.
Just exile.
So what did it mean, then, to be given something new?
Was this kindness? Manipulation? Some enchanted trap I was too naïve to see?
I swallowed hard, suddenly unsure. Should I even try wearing something the beast picked out? Was I agreeing to something just by putting them on? Part of me recoiled at the thought, but another part… the part that still remembered what it felt like to walk barefoot through town, avoiding stares, pulling sleeves over frayed cuffs...that part ached to feel beautiful. Just once.
I clutched the blanket tighter around my body, my fingers curling into the fabric. Was I being foolish? Hopeful? Or just tired enough to start wanting things I shouldn’t?
I didn’t have the answers.
But the longer I stared at that rack, the harder it became to look away.
I bit my lip, hesitating before gingerly crawling out from beneath the covers. Every movement sent sharp jolts of pain radiating through my ribs and legs, but curiosity tugged harder than common sense. I needed to see them up close.
Wincing, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and paused, catching my breath. The mansion was still, eerily so. I flicked a glance at the door. It remained shut. No footsteps. No voices. Just silence pressing in on all sides.
Gripping the bedpost for balance, I hobbled across the room, my bare feet cool against the floor. When I reached the rack, I went completely still.
There were sundresses in every color—soft pastels, warm jewel tones, even vibrant floral prints. Long flowing gowns in delicate fabrics, some casual and light, others elegant and formal. My gaze landed on one dress near the back. A black sequin evening gown. Sleek. Stunning. Utterly out of place in my life.
I had never owned anything remotely like this. Where would I even wear an evening gown? Not exactly dinner attire for a girl whose idea of fancy were clean jeans.
Swallowing hard, I looked down at the boxes beneath the dresses and opened one carefully.
I gasped.
Lying inside were delicate bras and matching underwear in lace and silk, folded neatly in soft tissue paper. White, blush, sapphire, and crimson. My cheeks flamed instantly.
He picked these out?
I was still wearing the same pair of underwear I’d had on when I arrived here—torn, worn, and barely holding together. My fingers trembled slightly as I reached out and lifted a pair of white lacy panties from the box, the fabric impossibly softbetween my fingers. A strange flutter moved through me—part embarrassment, part something else I couldn’t name.
In the next box, I found silky pajamas, short-sleeved sets, camisoles, nightshirts with matching shorts or pants. I ran my hand over the top layer, savoring the smooth texture. It felt like touching a cloud.
I pulled out a short-sleeved, blue-striped nightshirt with a matching pair of shorts, holding it against me. The idea of clean, soft clothes made me want to cry.
