Page 14 of Beast of Blood and Roses (Dark Ever After Fairytales #1)

Chapter Fourteen

Rosalie

I stared at the beast, watching his chest rise up and down, the rhythm of deep sleep.

What a maddening, impossible creature. The same claws that had hurled a chair in terrifying rage had tenderly avoided hurting me while I cleaned his wounds.

One minute he was the monster who’d imprisoned me here, the next he was throwing himself into mortal danger to save my life.

How was I supposed to feel about him? Fear? Gratitude? Something else entirely that I wasn’t ready to name?

My chest tightened with unwanted emotion. He’d called me “mine” with fierce possession, as if the very thought of me being hurt was unbearable to him. But I was still his prisoner, wasn’t I? Still trapped here by his demand for payment of my father’s debt.

So why did my heart race when I remembered the desperate way he’d fought those wolves? Why did some traitorous part of me feel…protected ?

I slowly rose from the bed, biting back a gasp as pain shot through my chest. I was glad he couldn’t see me wince. I didn’t need more of his intense, confusing concern.

Colette quickly moved to my side, her gentle hands helping me to my feet. “Thank you,” I murmured. “I think I just need time to lie down.”

“ Oui . You must rest, chèrie . You could have been killed.” She held my arm with motherly care as she escorted me to my room, and something about her tenderness nearly undid me.

“Thank you. I’m sorry for all the trouble I caused, Colette. It’s my fault that the beast…I mean Fierro got hurt.” The guilt sat heavy in my stomach. If I hadn’t run, if I’d just stayed put like he’d demanded...

She sat beside me on the bed, her expression gentle but firm. “You mustn’t blame yourself.” She sighed, and I heard years of worry in that small sound. “His temper has gotten him into trouble more times than I can count.”

“You care about him, don’t you?” The question slipped out before I could stop it, born from my own confusion about what I was beginning to feel.

Colette’s eyes grew misty. “Very much. Despite his temper, he’s more than a master, he’s family.

He’s always protected us.” Her voice caught slightly.

“The three of us have been together for a very long time, but servants, even ones as close as us, are a poor substitute for what the master’s heart truly needs. ”

I looked down at my rough and scratched-up hands, feeling very small.

My nails were chipped and broken, my palms callused from years of hard labor—not the soft, manicured hands of some pampered debutante or society lady.

The kind of women the beast had probably been familiar with when he was a powerful vampire moving in elite circles.

“I doubt I can do that, Colette. Like you, I’m a servant.

A waitress.” My throat tightened with shame.

“I’m not like the grand ladies he’s probably used to dating.

I’ve worked hard my whole life, scraping by while my father gambled away what little money we had. ”

“You’ve always worked this hard? Excuse me for asking, but what happened to your mother?”

The question cut into my heart, releasing pain that I tried desperately to ignore. I turned away from her and gazed out the window, my reflection wavering in the glass. The familiar ache bloomed in my chest; that hollow, gnawing anguish that never quite went away.

I cleared my throat, fighting to keep my voice steady.

“My mother left my dad when I was three. According to him, she found a new man and didn’t want to be bothered with a small child.

” The words tasted bitter, even after all these years.

A hot tear escaped despite my efforts, sliding down my cheek like liquid shame. “Sorry. I guess I’m just overly tired.”

Liar. I was never just tired when it came to this. I was broken.

Colette’s warm hand covered my shaking one. “I’m sorry, chérie , that must have been really difficult.”

A lump the size of a pinecone formed in my throat, choking off any response. If I tried to speak now, the dam would burst. All those years of swallowed tears, of pretending it didn’t matter, of telling myself I was better off without her, it would all come pouring out in an ugly, desperate flood.

Colette seemed to understand my silence. She gently pulled me into her arms, and the maternal embrace nearly shattered what was left of my composure. Her hand rubbed soothing circles on my back. “It’s all right, chérie . Sometimes a good cry is exactly what we need.”

That simple permission—to feel, to grieve, to not be strong for once—broke me completely. The tears came in silent, shuddering waves as I clung to her like a drowning woman. When was the last time someone had held me like this? When was the last time I’d felt safe enough to fall apart?

I never let myself think about my mother. Those memories were a minefield of abandonment and self-doubt. The questions I’d spent twenty years trying not to ask came rushing back with vengeance. Was I not worth staying for? Was I really such a burden that she chose a stranger over her own child?

I took a quivering breath and sat back, the sting of tears still clinging to my lashes. Heat rushed up my cheeks and slid down my throat like liquid fire. “I’m sorry. I’m usually not this emotional.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” she said softly, her eyes filled with quiet understanding. She reached out and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “But at least you have your father. He must have been great comfort to you.”

A sharp laugh escaped me—brittle, bitter.

I swiped at my face with the back of my hand, smearing away the tears.

“Not as much as you’d think,” I muttered, the words catching in my throat.

“He blames me for my mom leaving us, so I’ve spent my whole life trying to make it up to him.

Keeping the house spotless. Cooking. Paying off his debts…

” My voice broke, and I clutched my arms around myself, trying to hold the pieces together.

“But it’s never enough. It’s never been enough. ”

There was a timid knock at the door, and I flinched, pain flaring as I tried to sit up straighter.

“Colette? Mademoiselle ? Are you in there?” Marcel’s soft voice crept in through the crack.

Colette stood quickly, brushing her apron smooth. “ Oui . Is something wrong?”

“I have the clothes, boots, and shoes that Monsieur ordered for Rosalie. May I come in?”

Colette glanced at me, her hand hovering over the doorknob. “Is it all right, mademoiselle ?”

I hesitated, wincing as I shifted against the pillows. My body still ached, stiff and bruised. “Sure.”

The door opened with a gentle creak, and Marcel entered, pushing a luggage rack nearly as tall as he was. Garment bags swayed gently from the metal rail, and beneath them sat boxes wrapped in delicate ribbons—soft pinks, creams, and pale blues.

The sight left me breathless.

Colette moved to help guide the rack in, but I could only stare. The dresses shimmered with the kind of fabrics I’d never dared touch—velvet, silk, lace. Everything looked new. Untouched. Meant for someone who belonged in a ballroom, not a girl bruised and bandaged in a stranger’s bed.

“For…me?” The words scraped out, shaky and small.

Marcel nodded, offering a timid smile. “ Monsieur ordered them on line himself. They have just arrived.”

Emotion surged before I could stop it. My throat tightened, and tears welled in my eyes. I turned my face away, ashamed of how easily it cracked me open.

“I’ve never had anything like this,” I whispered hoarsely. “Everything I owned was secondhand…torn at the seams…never truly mine.”

I shifted, trying to swing my legs over the edge of the bed, but pain flared sharp in my side. I gasped, clutching at the blanket, frustration bubbling beneath the ache.

Colette was at my side in an instant, her hands gentle but firm as she guided me back against the pillows. “ Non , mademoiselle . Rest. You can admire them from here.”

I blinked against the tears. “I don’t understand why he’d do this. He could have just sent for my clothes from home.”

Colette tucked the covers around me then lifted my chin with her soft fingers, guiding my gaze to meet hers. “Because perhaps, for the first time, someone sees you. And he wanted you to see it too.”

Marcel came over behind Colette, his fingers settling gently on her shoulders.

His gaze met mine, heavy with sadness and something more—regret, maybe.

“I would have put your garments away, Rosalie,” he said softly, “but the sun will be setting in a few moments. Colette and I will be turning into statues again until dawn.” His voice faltered slightly. “Please, do not leave the house again.”

A chill crept down my spine, but I forced a smile. “Running into Trystan Hunter and his wolves again isn’t on my list of things to do.”

Colette stepped closer, her hands wringing at her waist. “Perhaps, you would like a glass of wine?” she offered gently.

“It might help you sleep. I’ve made dinner for you and the master.

It’s keeping warm in the oven.” She paused, hesitating, her eyes shining with unshed emotion. “Don’t panic when you see us.”

I reached for her hand, squeezing it lightly. “I won’t. I promise.”

Marcel took her other hand in his, fingers curling around hers with familiar tenderness. “Come, chérie , it’s almost time.”

Colette gave a slow nod, then turned to me with one last smile—gentle, maternal, and a little haunted. She lifted her fingers in a soft wave before Marcel led her toward the door.

I watched them go, a strange ache blooming in my chest. Statues by night. Servants by day. And yet somehow, they’d made this strange place feel…a little like home.