Page 10 of Beast of Blood and Roses (Dark Ever After Fairytales #1)

Chapter Ten

Fierro

I put down the empty bottle of bourbon with a heavy thud and closed the silk curtain with more force than necessary, covering my painting.

Self-pity was eating my insides and tasted foul in my mouth, bitter as poison.

The smell of bacon wafted around the room, rich and tempting.

Colette must be making breakfast, and I was hungry, tired of brooding in this suffocating darkness.

Hunger pushed me to follow the delightful smell, my stomach growling despite my misery.

I headed out of my room and stopped at the girl’s room, my hand hovering over the doorknob.

The door remained closed. I thought about opening it and inviting her to join me, but my stubborn pride reared its ugly head, hot and familiar.

My jaw clenched. I’d given her a choice and she’d turned me down like I was some common criminal.

I wasn’t completely villainous, I told myself, though the words felt hollow. I would have Colette send up with a tray of breakfast. At least then my conscience would be clear.

I headed down the stairs, my footsteps heavy on the wooden steps.

Marcel greeted me at the bottom, smoothing his already perfect tie. “ Monsieur , I was going to bring you a tray of food. Wouldn’t you like to eat in your room?”

There was something in his voice that was off, a hint of fear that made my hackles rise. His eyes darted away from mine.

I brushed past him, my shoulder clipping the side of his head. “No.”

I opened the door to the kitchen and anger surged inside me. Rosalie sat at the counter with a plate of French toast, fresh strawberries, strips of bacon, and drinking a glass of mimosa of all things. She was receiving my treatment, my service, after rejecting me.

“What is she doing out of her room?” I punctuated each word with ice-cold precision, my claws clenching at my side.

“ Monsieur , please.” Colette stood in front of her, stretching her arms wide as if to protect her, panic flooding her voice. “Please, si’l vous pla?t . I was the one that let her out.”

“I can go back to my room,” Rosalie said shakily as she slid off her seat, her eyes filled with terror. Her hands trembled as she gripped the counter for support.

I stepped forward, growling like thunder. My eyes never left hers, watching as she shrank back behind Colette. “No. You’ll eat with me as I had requested.”

Colette turned to her. “It is okay, mademoiselle . You’ve barely eaten your breakfast.”

Rosalie glanced at me nervously as if waiting for my permission .

I glanced at her plate, irritation spiking through me. It looked as if she had only eaten a couple of small bites. I grabbed a stool and plopped down next to her with deliberate force, my elbow almost touching hers. The heat of her body radiated against my skin. “Eat.”

She bowed her head and didn’t move. I could hear her heart pounding louder than a jackhammer, the frantic rhythm betraying her terror.

Colette quickly filled up a plate, her movements hurried and anxious, and sat it down in front of me. Marcel brought me a glass of mimosa, his hands shaking slightly as he set it down.

“You don’t care for the food?”

Rosalie lifted her head slowly, meeting my eyes before looking away. “No, that’s not it. I just…”

“Don’t want to eat with me.” I let out a dangerous growl, my fangs gnashing as old wounds reopened.

“I didn’t…I didn’t say that,” she whispered.

“Then eat.” The command cracked like a whip.

Silence stretched out between us like a chasm.

Rosalie cut a tiny piece of French toast with trembling hands and chewed it slowly, as if each bite was an effort.

Colette sighed in frustration as she cleaned up the kitchen, her movements sharp and agitated, and kept giving me disapproving looks from across the counter.

It had been so long since I shared a meal with anyone besides Marcel and Colette that I struggled with coming up with a conversation, my mind grasping for something—anything—to say.

My eyes were drawn to her faded black sundress that she was still wearing from yesterday, the fabric soft and worn from too many washings.

“Is that the only piece of clothing you have? ”

She put down a piece of bacon, her cheeks flushing. “I didn’t realize my dad was going to leave me here…so yes, this is the only thing I have.” There was a note of defensive pride in her voice despite her humiliation.

“I’ll purchase clothes for you today,” I said, trying to sound generous rather than controlling.

“You don’t have to do that. Colette and I could go to my house and retrieve my clothes,” Rosalie said, hope flickering in her eyes at the prospect of leaving.

“No. Only Colette can leave.” I swallowed my mimosa. “Are they all faded and worn like this?” The words came out harsher than I intended and the girl flinched.

She stiffened as if I’d slapped her, her spine going rigid, and her cheeks ballooned red with humiliation and anger. “I’m sorry if my clothes offend you, monsieur ,” she said through gritted teeth. “But they are the only things I could afford.”

Pain flashed across her features before she looked away. Something uncomfortable churned in my stomach, but I kept my expression neutral. I leaned back slightly, realizing I’d struck a nerve. “Because your father gambled away all your money?”

She wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. “You know the answer to that. I can pay for my clothes if you allow me to return to Crimson Stakes. I can also pay off my dad’s debt to you, but I must work.”

Possessiveness immediately flared hot in my chest. She was the only girl that had come to the mansion and my only chance of breaking this damn curse.

If she returned to Crimson Stakes, she might tell Enzo’s crew about me, making me a target.

Or they’d sense she knew too much about vampires and kill her to protect their secrets.

Either way, I’d lose my only chance at breaking the curse. “No. You’re not leaving here. ”

Hope died in her eyes. She was obviously trying to find a way to escape from me. I’d have to watch her extremely closely. I should be angry with her, but it’s what I would have done.

She sighed miserably and returned to pushing her French toast around on her plate.

I grabbed my French toast with my claws, the sharp points easily piercing through the soft bread, and ripped it apart without thinking.

Syrup dripped between my fingers as I stuffed the torn pieces into my mouth, my jaw working hungrily.

I could always feel food getting caught in my fur like a warthog.

Bits of syrup and powdered sugar stuck to my fur-covered paws, and I could feel the stickiness matting the fur around my mouth.

I couldn’t use utensils anymore—hadn’t been able to since the transformation—and could only rely on my claws to tear and grab.

The silence made me look up.

She had stopped swirling her toast mid-motion, her fork frozen halfway to her mouth, and stared at me with undisguised horror.

Her face had gone pale, eyes wide with a mixture of revulsion and fear that cut deeper than any blade.

I could see her throat work as she swallowed hard, fighting not to gag.

I was a monster. In my hunger and distraction, I’d forgotten to hide what I’d become, forgotten she was watching. Shame burned hot in my chest as I became acutely aware of every drop of syrup on my fur, every crumb clinging to my muzzle.

She placed her fork down gently. “You can’t use silverware, can you?”

Shame burned hot in my chest. “No. I can’t. I’ve tried but nothing works.”

“That must be really frustrating,” she said softly, her voice losing its earlier fear. There was genuine understanding in her eyes, not pity, just acknowledgment of something difficult.

The seconds ticked by and neither of us spoke. I wiped syrup from my muzzle with the back of my paw.

“What if we tried different kinds of food?” she offered quietly, her mind clearly working through the problem. “Things that are easier to eat with your hands? Like finger foods?”

I stared at her, stunned. No one had thought to offer creative solutions since the curse began.

Marcel and Colette helped where they could, but they’d learned to look away, to give me privacy in my struggle.

But here was this girl—this girl I was holding prisoner—thinking outside the box to solve my problem.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” I said roughly, my voice catching.

“I know,” she replied simply. “But eating shouldn’t be so difficult. “Maybe fried chicken fingers, or sandwiches cut into strips?”

I glanced over at Colette who bowed slightly. “I will make chicken fingers with celery and carrot sticks. Would this work?”

Rosalie thought a moment, and I watched something shift in her expression—not pity, but genuine problem-solving focus, as if my comfort actually mattered to her. “Big enough that he can eat them?”

Colette smiled. “ Oui , mademoiselle .”

The amulet around my neck grew warm against my chest; it always did when magic was near.

But she seemed completely unaware of the power humming beneath her skin.

I never thought a witch would want to help me, especially one who didn’t even know what she was.

We were supposed to be enemies. Yet something warm unfurled in my chest at her genuine concern, which only made me more suspicious.

Was this real kindness, or was her magic unconsciously weaving a spell to make me lower my guard?

I clutched the amulet, wishing it would tell me more than just the presence of magic, like whether her intentions were genuine or if this kindness was some sort of spell.

Weariness rolled over me. I wasn’t sure what to do or say next.

Colette caught my eye. “Maybe Rosalie would like to walk around the mansion while I clean you up?”

I looked down at my shirt and fur that syrup stuck to, matting it into clumps.

Rosalie glanced at me hesitantly, her body tense as if waiting for another explosion from me, ready to flee at the first sign of anger. The sight made something ugly twist inside me. I hated that she looked at me like a cornered animal, hated even more that I’d given her every reason to.

“Yes, of course. Just don’t go into the north wing, especially not into my room.

” Heat crept up my neck at the admission.

I didn’t want her to watch Colette clean me like a small child, scrubbing syrup from my fur with patient, gentle hands.

Food sometimes got caught in the coarse fur and it was humiliating to have her either wash my fur or carefully cut away the matted clumps.

The thought of Rosalie witnessing that degradation made my stomach twist with shame.

Rosalie slid off the leather bar stool, relief flickering across her face at my reasonable tone.

“I promise I won’t.” Her voice was soft but sincere, and something in her eyes—a warmth, an understanding—suggested she grasped why I needed that privacy.

I really looked at her. Past the fear, past the faded dress, past seeing her as just a means to break the curse.

There was something about the way the morning light caught her features, the gentle curve of her mouth when she wasn’t afraid. ..

I shook the thought away, disturbed by the direction of my mind.