Page 19 of The Beast's Hidden Rose
Her touch both soothes and inflames me. I cover her hand with mine, squeezing perhaps a little too tightly. "Stay close to me," I tell her, not quite a request.
"I'm not going anywhere," she assures me, misunderstanding my concern.
It's not her leaving I'm worried about. It's the eyes that will follow her, the thoughts other men will have. Thoughts I've had for years, now made reality. The possessiveness that's always simmered beneath my obsession bubbles closer to the surface.
I park on Main Street, a quaint stretch of storefronts that looks like it hasn't changed since the 1950s. Before I can come around to her door, Iris is already out of the car, stretching in the sunshine like a cat. Several passersby glance her way—her vitality draws the eye naturally.
I'm at her side in an instant, my hand finding the small of her back, claiming her with that simple touch. She looks up at me, something knowing in her expression.
"Ready?" she asks.
I nod, not trusting my voice. We start down the sidewalk, my hand never leaving her back, occasionally sliding to her hip when someone passes too closely. She leans into my touch, either unaware of or unconcerned by my territorial display.
The bookstore is our first stop—a small independent shop with creaking floors and the comforting smell of paper and binding glue. The elderly woman behind the counter looks up as we enter, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of me. I'm known here, not personally, but by reputation. The reclusive artist with the scarred face who lives in the old estate outside town.
"Good morning," Iris says brightly, either not noticing or choosing to ignore the woman's reaction.
"Morning, dear," the woman responds, her smile genuine for Iris if not for me. "Let me know if I can help you find anything."
Iris wanders the stacks, trailing her fingers along spines, occasionally pulling a book out to read the back cover. I follow a step behind, hyperaware of the few other customers in the store, of how their eyes flick to us then quickly away when they catch me watching.
"Look at this," Iris says, holding up a collection of poetry. "Neruda. I love his work."
"Take it," I tell her. "Anything you want."
She smiles, tucking the book under her arm, and continues browsing. By the time we reach the counter, she's selected three books. I reach for my wallet, but she stops me.
"I can pay for my own books," she says quietly.
"I want to," I insist, not comfortable with her assertion of independence in this small way. Everything she has should come from me. Everything she needs, I should provide.
Something flickers in her eyes—recognition of the nature of my insistence, perhaps—but she nods, stepping back to let me handle the transaction. The woman behind the counter watches our interaction with poorly concealed curiosity.
"You live out at the Trevelyan place?" she asks Iris while I count out bills.
"Yes," Iris answers simply, offering no elaboration.
"You're the first person he's brought to town in... well, ever, I think," the woman continues, handing me my change with a speculative glance between us.
"I'm special that way," Iris replies with a smile that's both sweet and somehow pointed.
My hand finds her waist again as we leave, pulling her closer to my side than strictly necessary. She comes willingly, leaning into me.
"Possessive," she murmurs, low enough that only I can hear.
"Problem?" I ask, bracing for objection.
She looks up at me through her lashes. "Not for me."
The simple acceptance of my nature—the aspects of me most people would find disturbing or controlling—sends a rush of heat through me. I want to drag her into the nearest alley, press her against a wall, and claim her mouth, her body, make it clear to anyone who might see that she is thoroughly, completely mine.
Instead, I guide her toward a small café for lunch. The place is busy, nearly full, but a table opens up just as we arrive. I position our seats so Iris's back is to most of the room. I don't want other men looking at her while I can't see their faces.
The waitress who takes our order is efficient but curious, her eyes lingering on Iris a beat too long, then darting to me with obvious questions she's too professional to ask. News travels fast in small towns. By dinner, everyone will know the Beast has taken a beauty into town.
As we wait for our food, I notice a man at the bar watching Iris, his gaze appreciative in a way that makes my blood boil. She's facing me, unaware of his attention, laughing at something I've said. The sound of her laughter, bright and unrestrained, draws more eyes.
Mine, I think, the word burning through my mind like a brand. All of this—her smile, her laughter, her body, her pleasure—belongs to me alone.
