Page 16 of The Beast's Hidden Rose
She turns in my arms to face me, her expression suddenly serious. "This changes things, doesn't it? Between us."
"Everything's already changed," I tell her honestly. "The moment you found this room, found the paintings. There's no going back now."
"Do you want to?" she asks, a hint of vulnerability creeping into her voice. "Go back to watching from a distance?"
I shake my head, tightening my arms around her. "Never. Now that I've had the real you—touched you, tasted you, heard you come apart beneath me—I could never go back to mere observation."
She studies my face, searching for something. "What does that mean for us? For... whatever this is?"
"It means you're mine," I say simply. "And I'm yours. In whatever way you'll have me, for as long as you'll have me."
She presses her palm against my cheek, fingers tracing the scar that most people flinch away from. "Even if it's not normal? Not healthy?"
"I've never claimed to be either of those things." I turn my head to kiss her palm. "But I promise you this—whatever darkness is in me, it belongs to you now. My obsession, my art, my body, my heart. All yours."
She kisses me then, soft and sweet, a stark contrast to our frenzied coupling moments ago. When she pulls back, there's a certainty in her eyes that wasn't there before.
"I don't want normal," she says, echoing words she's said before. "I want real. And this—" she gestures between us, at our paint-smeared bodies, at the half-finished portrait on the easel, at the room full of her image, "—this is the most real thing I've ever felt."
I press my forehead to hers, something like peace settling in my chest for the first time in years.
eight
. . .
Irish
Morning light filtersthrough the studio windows, turning dust motes into floating diamonds. I lie on my side watching Guy sleep, his face softer in unconsciousness, the perpetual furrow between his brows smoothed away. We never made it back to either of our bedrooms last night. After cleaning the worst of the paint from our skin in his studio bathroom, we collapsed onto the daybed in the corner, wrapped in each other, too exhausted for anything but sleep. Now, in the gentle light of dawn, I study him with the same intensity he's studied me for years—the strong line of his jaw, the dark sweep of his lashes, and the scars. Always the scars.
The most noticeable one runs from his right temple down his cheek to his jaw—a jagged, angry line that looks like it was made by something sharp and wielded with force. But it's not the only one. Now that I can look openly, I see others: a circular burn mark on his shoulder, thin white lines crisscrossing his back like a roadmap to some terrible history, a deep gouge along his ribs.
His body tells a story of violence that contradicts the gentle way his hands move across canvas, the careful way he touched me even in our most frenzied moments.
As if sensing my scrutiny, his eyes flutter open, instantly alert. His gaze finds mine, and for a moment, there's confusion, then recognition, then something softer I can't quite name.
"You're still here," he says, voice rough with sleep.
"Did you think I'd leave while you were sleeping?" I trace a finger along his collarbone, watching goosebumps rise in its wake.
"I've learned to expect disappointment." He captures my hand, brings it to his lips. "Waking up to find you watching me is... unexpected."
"I'm studying you," I admit. "The way you've studied me."
His mouth quirks, not quite a smile. "And what have you observed?"
I hesitate, uncertain if I should voice my thoughts. We've been intimate physically, but emotional intimacy feels like a different kind of vulnerability altogether.
"Your scars," I say finally. "I want to know how you got them."
His body tenses beneath my touch, his expression shuttering. "No, you don't."
"I do," I insist gently. "You know almost everything about me. You've watched me for years, painted me in my most private moments. But I know almost nothing about you."
He sits up, sheets pooling around his waist, creating distance between us. "There's a reason for that. Some stories shouldn't be told."
"How can I understand you if you won't let me see all of you?" I sit up too, letting the sheet fall away, using my nakedness as both vulnerability and challenge. "You demand complete access to me, but offer only fragments of yourself in return."
His eyes trace my exposed skin, but I can see he's withdrawing, pulling back behind whatever walls kept him isolated before I entered his life.
