Page 11 of Beast of Blood and Roses (Dark Ever After Fairytales #1)

Chapter Eleven

Rosalie

I left the kitchen but couldn’t resist one last glance over my shoulder.

The sight stopped me cold. His massive frame hunched over the table, head buried in clawed hands that trembled with something deeper than hunger.

His shoulders, broad enough to fill doorways, now curved inward like a man trying to disappear into himself.

The fear still plucked at my spine, but something else twisted alongside it. Shame, perhaps. Or recognition.

How long had he been trapped in that monstrous form?

Days? Years? I thought of my own endless, hollow days back home, but at least I’d been human through it all.

He’d killed someone. He deserved punishment for that.

But this? Those massive claws meant he couldn’t hold a fork or spoon, was forced to eat like an animal while still having the mind of a man.

When had he last looked at his own reflection without flinching?

I could relate to that shame, even if mine came from exhaustion and defeat rather than transformation.

Every simple pleasure he’d once taken for granted—the ease of cutting food, walking through a room without ducking, even basic grooming—all stolen from him.

I knew what it felt like to lose pieces of yourself, to feel trapped in a life you never chose.

Even murderers in prison kept their dignity more than he was able to.

A bitter laugh escaped me, barely a whisper.

Here I was, terrified of a creature who probably hadn’t felt truly human in longer than I could imagine.

If our positions were reversed, if I wore his curse, his desperation would be mine.

I’d probably beg strangers too, clinging to any hope of breaking free from a prison made of my own skin.

The beast hadn’t moved. Still hunched. Still broken.

Since arriving at this cursed place, I wondered if I was looking at a monster or a man drowning in one.

I needed to clear my head, to think about something other than the broken figure in the chair. Moving quietly so I wouldn’t disturb him, I wandered through the mansion.

The mansion was breathtaking. Each room more stunning than the last. A lavish living room with velvet chairs that looked like they belonged in a palace, a sitting room lined with leatherbound books in languages I couldn’t read, an elegant dining room with a table that could seat twenty.

Everything had an old-world grandeur about it.

Hand-carved moldings, marble floors with intricate inlays, frescoed ceilings that made me crane my neck in wonder.

But something felt wrong. Deliberately wrong.

I found myself searching each room with growing desperation, my eyes sweeping over mantelpieces, side tables, walls, anywhere a photograph or painting might hang.

In a home this magnificent, this clearly cherished, there should have been portraits.

Family photos. Something, anything, that showed who had lived here before the curse struck.

There was nothing. Not a single image of a human face.

It was like someone had removed them all. Every trace of his former self had been systematically erased, as if the man he’d been had never existed. Had he done it himself, unable to bear the reminder of what he’d lost?

I paused in what must have been a study, running my fingers along an ornate desk where family photos should have sat. The dust patterns were telling—rectangular spaces slightly cleaner than the rest of the surface. Pictures had definitely been here once.

He was Italian according to Colette, but that also would have been clear from the villa’s architecture and the few words I’d heard him speak.

A vampire enforcer who’d built this empire on blood and terror—my father’s debt made that much obvious.

The irony wasn’t lost on me: a creature who’d fed on human blood, now trapped in a form that made even simple eating a humiliation.

But even knowing what he was—a monster long before the curse—the questions still gnawed at me. How long had he been undead? Had he chosen this life or been turned and forced into service? Did he have anyone who mourned the man he’d been before vampirism, or had his humanity died even before that?

The absence of his image felt like another layer of the curse—not just transforming his body, but erasing his very identity.

No wonder he seemed so desperate. He wasn’t just trapped in a beast’s form; he’d been stripped of the supernatural power that had defined him for who knows how long.

Part of me wanted to feel satisfied by his suffering; he’d terrorized people like my father, after all.

But staring at those empty spaces where his face should have been, something uncomfortably close to pity stirred inside me instead. Even monsters, it seemed, could suffer.

I found myself climbing the staircase again, my hand trailing along the polished banister. There were bedrooms scattered up and down the hallway, but one door stood ajar at the very end—like an invitation I shouldn’t accept.

That had to be his.

My pulse quickened. Maybe there were pictures or paintings of him in there, hidden away where guests wouldn’t see. The curiosity burned in my chest, an ache I couldn’t ignore. What had a vampire enforcer looked like before? Before claws and fur?

I hesitated at the top of the stairs, my conscience warring with desperation. I had promised him I wouldn’t go into his bedroom. The words echoed in my memory, along with the desperate hope in his voice when I’d agreed.

But I needed to find something—anything—that could help me escape. A phone, maybe, or another way to contact the outside world. Marcel and Colette were kind, but they were still his servants. I couldn’t count on them to help me leave.

The hallway stretched empty and silent before me. His room was the master suite. If there was a landline anywhere in this mansion, it would be there.

My feet moved before I could stop them, carrying me toward that partially open door. Maybe just a quick search...just enough to find what I needed. He’d never have to know.

I crept into his bedroom, my heartbeat thumping between my ears. I needed to find a phone, maybe a computer, anything that could connect me to the outside world.

I’d expected the same opulent luxury as the rest of the mansion: silk sheets, golden fixtures, furniture befitting a man who’d once commanded fear and respect.

Instead, I found devastation.

The four-poster bed dominated the room like a monument to violence.

What had once been an elaborate masterpiece now lay in ruins—the mahogany frame split and gouged by claws, silk curtains hanging in tatters, the mattress eviscerated with stuffing scattered across Persian rugs.

No phone on the nightstand, just splintered wood and torn fabric.

I moved carefully toward an intricately carved writing desk, stepping over debris.

Maybe he kept a phone there or a laptop.

But the drawers hung open and empty, their contents long since destroyed or removed.

Deep grooves scarred every surface where something had repeatedly scratched and torn at the wood.

Around this chaos sat untouched Renaissance furniture—velvet-upholstered chairs with golden legs, a marble-topped vanity that belonged in a Florentine palace.

Beautiful, pristine, and utterly useless to someone who could no longer trust himself not to destroy everything he touched.

And useless to me—no technology anywhere.

The room told a story of a man at war with the beast inside him and losing badly. My throat tightened as I realized my search was futile and as I imagined him thrashing through endless nights, fighting a battle against his own transformed body.

But I couldn’t give up yet. I had to be thorough.

My eyes swept the walls, searching. No paintings or pictures—just like downstairs. But there, against the far wall, silk curtains hung where artwork should be. My pulse spiked. They looked deliberately placed, hiding something important .

I glanced back toward the hallway, listening for any sound of approach.

Silence.

Swallowing my guilt, I crept toward the curtains and pulled them back with trembling fingers.

At first, my mind couldn’t process what I was seeing. Then those dark emerald eyes drew me in and understanding pierced the confusion in my brain. I gasped, stumbling backward.

It was him, but not as he was now, and not as he’d been before. This painting captured something in between, something horrifying and heartbreaking all at once.

Half man, half creature. The left side of his face still bore human features—rugged jaw, olive skin, the ghost of what must have been devastating handsomeness.

But on the right side...dark fur sprouted where a beard should be.

His hair, thick and black on one side, dissolved into coarse animal fur on the other.

His hands, crossed formally in front of him, told the same story.

Deadly claws on nine fingers. All except one pinky finger, still perfectly human, still fighting the change.

As I stared, transfixed with horror, I watched that last human finger begin to shift.

The nail elongated into a yellowed claw, the flesh darkening as coarse fur sprouted along the knuckle.

The transformation rippled outward like a stone dropped in still water, claiming another piece of his humanity before my eyes.

The painting was alive. Cursed. And I was watching it change. Soon it would be more beast than human.

“You broke your promise.”

A menacing growl made every hair on my body stand up. My blood turned to ice .

I slowly turned, afraid to make any sudden movements. The beast filled the entire doorway, his massive frame blocking any hope of escape. His broad shoulders pressed against the door jamb, and those emerald eyes—the same ones from the painting—now blazed with a fury that made my knees weak.

“I was…I was just…”

He stalked past me in two powerful strides and yanked the curtains shut with such force I heard fabric tear. When he whirled back to face me, his chest heaved with barely controlled rage.

“Do you know what you could have done?” His voice boomed through the room, making me flinch. “Do you have any idea?—”

Before I could answer, he grabbed an ornate chair and hurled it across the room. It exploded against the wall in a shower of splinters and gold leaf, the crash so violent I felt it in my bones.

“GET OUT!!!”

Terror flooded my system. This wasn’t just anger; this was the fury of a predator who’d killed without hesitation. He could tear me apart with those claws. He could?—

I stumbled backward, my legs finally remembering how to move. Then I was running, flying down the hallway faster than I’d ever moved in my life, my heart threatening to burst from my chest.

“ Mademoiselle , what’s wrong?” Colette appeared at the top of the stairs, her face creased with worry.

I pushed past her without stopping, taking the stairs three at a time. My hands shook as I gripped the banister, the beast’s roar still echoing in my ears.

Promise or no promise, I had to get out of here.

I’d find a way to escape this nightmare and disappear, maybe leave New Orleans forever.

There was nothing left for me in this cursed city but misery and monsters who wore the faces of the men they used to be.

Dad had made his choice when he drove away. Now I had to make mine.