Page 4 of The Beast's Hidden Rose
I should destroy it. It's too revealing, too explicit in its desire.
Instead, I hang it with the others, in the corner where I'm most likely to see it when I enter the room.
A reminder. A promise.
Sleep eludes me, as it often does. I pace my private quarters, watching dawn creep across the grounds. Soon she'll be awake, moving through my house again, touching my things, breathing my air. The thought both soothes and agitates me.
I've given strict instructions to Winters about the west wing, about keeping Iris away from my private spaces. But part of me—a dangerous, selfish part—wants her to disobey. Wants her to find the door unlocked, to step inside, to see herself through my eyes. To know the extent of what I feel.
Because this isn't just desire, though that burns hot enough. It's recognition. From the first moment I saw her, something in me knew her. Knew we were meant to collide, to consume each other, to create something beautiful and terrible together.
I press my hand against the window glass, cooled by the early morning air. Outside, the garden where she sat yesterday is still in shadow. Soon the sun will touch it, warm it, bring it to life. Just as she has done to me.
Three years I've watched her from afar. Three days I've had her under my roof. How much longer can I maintain this distance?
Not long. The truth sits heavy in my chest.
Not long at all.
three
. . .
Iris
The storm arrives without warning,a violent tantrum of nature that rattles the old house like it's trying to shake secrets loose from the walls. I'm doing final rounds before bed, checking windows, securing latches, when a flash of lightning illuminates the hallway leading to the west wing. In that fraction of a second, I see it—the studio door, always locked, standing slightly ajar. A sliver of darkness more absolute than the hallway's shadows.
I freeze, flashlight beam wavering. Mrs. Winters' warning echoes in my head:The west wing is strictly off-limits. Never enter without explicit permission.
Thunder crashes directly overhead, making me jump. The lights flicker once, twice, then plunge the hallway into darkness. My flashlight beam seems feeble now, barely cutting through the sudden black.
"Hello?" I call out, voice small against the storm's growl. "Mr. Trevelyan?"
No answer comes. I step closer to the forbidden door, telling myself I'm just being responsible. What if something's wrong? What if he's hurt in there? The wind howls outside, driving rain against the windows like handfuls of gravel.
I should get Mrs. Winters. That's the proper protocol. But she lives in the caretaker's cottage at the edge of the property—I'd be soaked just getting there, and what if there's an actual emergency?
Another step closer. The door remains ajar, neither welcoming nor forbidding. Just... waiting.
"Mr. Trevelyan?" I try again, louder this time. "I noticed your door open. Is everything alright?"
The silence stretches, broken only by rain and wind. My heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to escape. I've been in this house two weeks now, and despite feeling his presence everywhere, our paths have barely crossed. I've caught glimpses—a broad shoulder disappearing around a corner, the back of his head as he vanishes into the woods—but never a proper meeting.
Maybe he's not even in there. Maybe the storm blew the door open somehow. Maybe I should just close it and pretend I never saw.
But what if he's fallen? Had an accident with whatever artists use—chemicals, tools? What if he needs help but can't call out?
My hand hovers at the edge of the door. Mrs. Winters didn't just suggest I stay out; she forbade it with an intensity that seemed excessive. But surely emergencies override rules. Surely checking on someone's welfare isn't an intrusion.
I push the door open wider, wincing at the soft creak of its hinges.
"Hello? I'm coming in to make sure everything's okay," I announce to the darkness. "I'm sorry for the intrusion."
I step inside, flashlight beam sweeping the space. The studio is vast—much larger than I expected. My light catches on easels,shelves lined with supplies, worktables cluttered with brushes and tubes of paint. The smell hits me next—oil paint, turpentine, the earthy scent of clay. It's not unpleasant, just... potent. Alive somehow.
The beam lands on a sculpture in one corner—abstract, twisted metal that somehow conveys motion despite being static. I move the light, finding a half-finished canvas on the nearest easel. It's a landscape, dark and moody, a forest at twilight with something lurking just beyond the tree line. The technique is masterful, even to my untrained eye.
So this is where he spends his days and nights. This is the sanctuary I'm forbidden to enter.
