Page 20 of The Beast's Hidden Rose
When she excuses herself to the restroom, I catch the man still watching her walk away. Before I consciously decide to move, I'm at the bar beside him, my larger frame crowding his space.
"Enjoy the view?" I ask, voice low and dangerous.
He startles, nearly spilling his drink. "What? I wasn't?—"
"Yes, you were." I lean closer, making sure he gets a good look at the scar on my face, at the coldness in my eyes. "She's with me. The only reason your eyes still work is because she'd be upset if I changed that."
The threat hangs in the air between us. His face pales, and he nods quickly. "Sorry, man. No disrespect intended."
I return to our table just as Iris emerges from the restroom. Her eyes narrow slightly as she looks between me and the man at the bar, who now seems deeply invested in his phone.
"Everything okay?" she asks as she sits.
"Perfect," I lie, reaching across the table to take her hand. "Just getting to know the locals."
She doesn't believe me—I can see it in the skeptical tilt of her head—but she doesn't press the issue. Instead, she turns her hand over beneath mine, interlacing our fingers in a gesture that's both surrender and claiming of her own.
The rest of lunch passes without incident, though I remain hyperaware of every person who enters, every glance cast our way. By the time we finish eating, my shoulders are tight with tension, my patience worn thin by the constant vigilance.
More errands would be sensible—Winters has given me a list of things the house needs—but I find I can't bear the thought of parading Iris through more public spaces, of more men seeing her, wanting her, fantasizing about her the way I did for years.
"Let's go home," I say abruptly as we leave the café.
She looks surprised. "I thought we were going to the farmer's market too."
"Another day," I tell her, my hand finding its now-familiar place at the small of her back, guiding her toward the car.
She studies my face for a moment, then nods. "Okay."
The drive back starts silently, tension thrumming between us. I can feel her watching me, assessing my mood. My hands grip the steering wheel too tightly, knuckles white with the effort of restraint.
"You didn't like them looking at me," she says finally, her voice neutral, observational.
"No." The single word contains multitudes of darkness.
"Why?"
I glance at her, uncertain if she's being deliberately provocative or genuinely curious. "You know why."
"Tell me anyway." Her hand lands on my thigh again, higher this time, fingers tracing dangerously close to where I'm already hardening at her touch, at the conversation.
"Because you're mine." The possessive declaration hangs in the air between us. "What's mine, I don't share. Not even visually."
Her breath catches, the sound small but unmistakable in the confined space of the car. Her fingers tighten on my leg.
"Pull over," she says.
I look at her sharply. "What?"
"Pull over," she repeats, her voice low and urgent. "Now."
I comply, guiding the car onto a service road that leads into the woods surrounding my property. We're still ten minutes from the house, secluded here among the trees. I put the car in park and turn to her, questioning.
She answers by climbing into my lap, straddling me in the driver's seat, her dress riding up her thighs. Her mouth findsmine in a hungry kiss, her hands tangling in my hair, pulling almost painfully.
"Show me," she breathes against my lips. "Show me I'm yours."
Something snaps inside me—the last thread of restraint I've been clinging to all day. My hands grip her hips, grinding her down against my hardness, making her gasp. I push her dress up higher, finding her already wet through thin cotton panties.
