Page 42 of Beast of Blood and Roses
White flour coated every surface—the counters, the floor, even the ceiling somehow—like fresh snowafter an explosion. A metal tray sat on the counter holding what I assumed were supposed to be cookies, but they looked more like hard, black smoking discs that could double as hockey pucks. Dirty bowls were scattered everywhere, one still containing some kind of lumpy, beige goo that might have once been batter. Even the walls had mysterious splatters of what looked like frosting.
And in the center of it all stood Beast, looking absolutely defeated. Flour dusted his dark fur like premature gray, and streaks of what might have been pink frosting decorated his shirt and arms. His shoulders sagged as he hung his head in shame.
“I was trying to make macarons for you,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the sound of something still sizzling in the oven. “Colette left me the recipe.”
My heart melted completely, warmth spreading through my chest like honey. No one had ever made me anything like this ever. I was always the one who had to cook, bake, and clean for my dad. Here was this beast, a fierce vampire mafia enforcer who could probably tear apart grown men without breaking a sweat, covered in flour and frosting because he’d tried to make me macarons.
I put my hand over my thumping heart, my eyes suddenly burning with tears. “You did this for me?” I was filled with a thick emotion I couldn’t name.
“You were spent, and I wanted to do something special for you, but...” He gestured helplessly around the destroyed kitchen, his shoulders slumping even further. He looked so lost, so completely overwhelmed by the chaos he’d created, that I wanted to wrap him in my arms.
Without hesitation, I walked over and gently clutched his claw, not caring about the flour that transferred to my skin.His hand was warm and solid, grounding me. “You don’t know how much this means to me.” I looked up into his eyes, trying to convey everything I couldn’t put into words. “Thank you.”
The fact that he’d tried—that he’d thought of me, wanted to comfort me—meant more than any perfect batch of cookies ever could.
His green eyes brightened like sunlight breaking through clouds, and he let out a long, relieved sigh that seemed to release all the tension from his shoulders. “Thank you.”
I glanced around the flour-dusted disaster zone that had once been a kitchen and couldn’t help but frown. “Where’s Colette?”
“She and Marcel are out on an errand,” he murmured.
I bit my lip, already feeling guilty about the cleanup ahead. “Maybe we should clean this up before she gets back.”
“You could try doing some magic.” His eyes flickered with a hint of excitement, and I could see him straightening up with renewed interest.
“Magic? What?” I scowled as my hand gestured helplessly at the chaos around us. “I don’t see how I could possibly do that.”
“You made the book dance.” He stepped closer then gently lifted my chin. “Pick something and try to make it do what you want.”
I laughed, the sound bubbling up despite myself. The idea was so absurd it was almost charming. “You mean like in a Disney movie?” I wiggled my fingers dramatically in the air, mimicking a cartoon fairy godmother.
“Yes. I believe in you. You can do this.” He looked at me with such unwavering conviction that it made my chest tighten.
My laughter faded away completely, the sound dying in my throat as the weight of his words hit me. Once again, he didsomething that no one had ever done for me: believing in me without question, without conditions. My eyes burned with unexpected tears.
“What if I fail?” The words tumbled out before I could stop them as I wiped my clammy hands on my jeans. I didn’t want to disappoint him, especially after he’d made this incredibly sweet gesture that had left flour in his fur and frosting on his shirt.
“You won’t.” His words were so certain, so commanding, spoken with the absolute authority of someone who’d never doubted anything in his life. His confidence made something warm unfurl in my chest. I had to try.
I squared my shoulders and took a shaky breath, looking around the destroyed kitchen with new determination. The best thing to do would be to start with something small, something I could possibly achieve. Maybe tackle the flour coating the walls?
My gaze settled on the dish rag hanging limply over the faucet. I took a deep breath, my heart hammering against my ribs, and focused all my attention on that simple piece of cloth.
Wipe down the walls, I commanded silently, staring so hard my eyes began to water.
Nothing happened. The rag hung there, motionless and mocking. Disappointment crashed over me, but I clenched my jaw and refused to give up.
Please, I begged internally, my hands trembling at my sides. I don’t want to let him down. Not after everything he’s done for me.
Something fluttered deep in my chest—light and electric, like butterfly wings made of lightning. The sensation spread outward, racing down my arm in warm, tingling waves until it pooled in my palm like liquid starlight.
The faucet handle began to turn with a soft squeak, water cascading down in a steady stream. My heart fluttered with amazement as the washrag slipped free from its perch and glided under the flowing water, becoming thoroughly soaked.
I turned slowly, afraid to break whatever spell I’d managed to weave, and watched in amazement as the dripping rag floated through the air like a graceful dancer. It pressed against the flour-coated wall and began to wipe in smooth, methodical circles, leaving clean streaks in its wake.
“I’m doing it,” I whispered, my body shaking with fear and awe. “I’m actually doing it.”
“Mon Dieu, what has happened to my kitchen?” Colette’s horrified voice cut through the air like a knife.
