Page 6 of The Beast's Hidden Rose
His gaze drops to the canvas in my hands—one of the explicit ones—and something crosses his face. Not embarrassment. Not shame. Something darker, more primal. Something that makes my stomach tighten in a way that's not entirely fear.
"I asked you a question," he says, taking a step into the room. The door swings shut behind him with a decisive click.
Trapped. I'm trapped in this room with a man who's been secretly watching me, painting me, fantasizing about me for years. A man whose obsession runs deep enough to fill a room with images of me.
I clutch the canvas to my chest like a shield, though it's the very evidence of my intrusion.
"The door was open," I manage, my voice small but steady. "I thought—with the storm—I thought something might be wrong."
He takes another step closer, and my body tenses, ready to flee though there's nowhere to go. His eyes never leave mine, dark and unreadable.
"And now you know," he says simply.
Three words that acknowledge everything—the paintings, the watching, the wanting. No denials, no explanations, no apologies.
Lightning flashes again, illuminating him from behind, casting his face in shadow and making him seem even more imposing. In that moment, he doesn't look human, but like something from a darker realm, something ancient and hungry.
"Now I know," I whisper, and wait for whatever comes next.
four
. . .
Guy
I knew it would happen.Part of me wanted it to happen. That's why I left the door unlocked during the storm—a test, a trap, an invitation. Still, seeing her here in my sanctuary, surrounded by the evidence of my obsession, hits me like a physical blow. She's holding one of the explicit paintings, the one where she's on her knees, looking up with an expression of perfect surrender. Her real face shows shock, fear, confusion—but not disgust. Not yet.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" The words scrape out of me, rougher than intended. I haven't spoken directly to another person in weeks. Haven't spoken to her ever, despite rehearsing conversations in my head a thousand times.
She looks up at me, eyes wide, lips parted. Fight or flight visibly warring inside her. The storm rages outside, mirroring the chaos in my chest. For three years I've kept her at a distance, watching, wanting, waiting. Now she's here, in the heart of my obsession, all my secrets laid bare between us.
I should be furious. Should berate her for trespassing, fire her, send her away. That would be the sane response. But sanity abandoned me the moment I first saw her at that farmers market three years ago.
"I asked you a question," I say, stepping further into the room, letting the door close behind me. Trapping her. Trapping us both.
"The door was open," she says, and her voice—God, her actual voice addressed to me—sends electricity down my spine. "I thought—with the storm—I thought something might be wrong."
A reasonable explanation. A lie wrapped in concern. I don't care. All that matters is that the moment I've both dreaded and craved has arrived. No more pretense. No more distance.
"And now you know," I tell her, acknowledging everything without apology.
"Now I know," she echoes, clutching the canvas like a shield.
She's afraid—I can see it in the rapid pulse at her throat, the tension in her shoulders. But there's something else too. Curiosity. Maybe even fascination. She hasn't run screaming. Hasn't called the police. She's still here, waiting for... what? Explanation? Confession? Absolution?
I move closer, watching her body tense in response. The power dynamic between us has never been more obvious—her small frame on the floor surrounded by my obsession, my much larger body blocking the only exit. I'm aware of how this looks, how I look. The scarred beast cornering the beauty in his lair.
"You should be terrified," I say, the honesty surprising even me. "You should be running."
She swallows hard but meets my gaze. "Maybe I should be. But I want to understand." She gestures at the canvases surrounding her. "All of this... these are me. From before. Before I came here."
"Yes." No point denying what's obvious.
"How long?" she asks. "How long have you been... watching me?"
I move to a workbench, putting some distance between us, giving her space to breathe. My hands fidget with a brush, needing occupation.
"Three years, two months, fourteen days." The precision of my answer makes her eyes widen. "Since the farmers market downtown. You were buying sunflowers."
