Page 15 of Beast of Blood and Roses (Dark Ever After Fairytales #1)

Chapter Fifteen

Rosalie

I should have gone to sleep. My body ached, and the scratches on my chest stung. The shadows outside the windows had thickened into the inky stillness of night, but I couldn’t stop staring at the rack of clothes near the foot of the bed.

They looked too beautiful to be real.

Boxes stacked neatly on the bottom shelf, ribbons still perfectly tied.

Dresses and coats hung in a row, their fabrics shifting ever so slightly as if responding to my attention—silk, velvet, and delicate lace, all in shades I never imagined I could pull off.

Soft blues, deep crimsons, a pale gold that shimmered faintly in the low light.

Every piece elegant. Expensive. Magical.

Marcel said the beast had picked these for me.

But he couldn’t leave the estate. I knew that. So how had he done it?

The idea of him scrolling through online catalogs with monstrous claws made my lips twitch, but the humor didn’t quite reach my chest. No, this felt too personal for something as simple as internet shopping. Too intentional. Too…intimate.

I looked down at the faded black dress I wore, the one I’d been stuck in since the night everything fell apart.

Wolves had torn it. Mud and blood had stained it.

Colette had done her best to clean it, but the fabric still carried the ghosts of that night.

I hated the way it clung to my skin, a reminder of everything I’d survived. And everything I’d lost.

It was all I had.

Dad hadn’t told me I was going to be taking up permanent residency here—one moment he was there, the next the beast had kicked him out and I was alone.

No bargaining.

No warning.

Just exile.

So what did it mean, then, to be given something new?

Was this kindness? Manipulation? Some enchanted trap I was too na?ve to see?

I swallowed hard, suddenly unsure. Should I even try wearing something the beast picked out?

Was I agreeing to something just by putting them on?

Part of me recoiled at the thought, but another part…

the part that still remembered what it felt like to walk barefoot through town, avoiding stares, pulling sleeves over frayed cuffs.

..that part ached to feel beautiful. Just once.

I clutched the blanket tighter around my body, my fingers curling into the fabric. Was I being foolish? Hopeful? Or just tired enough to start wanting things I shouldn’t?

I didn’t have the answers.

But the longer I stared at that rack, the harder it became to look away .

I bit my lip, hesitating before gingerly crawling out from beneath the covers. Every movement sent sharp jolts of pain radiating through my ribs and legs, but curiosity tugged harder than common sense. I needed to see them up close.

Wincing, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and paused, catching my breath. The mansion was still, eerily so. I flicked a glance at the door. It remained shut. No footsteps. No voices. Just silence pressing in on all sides.

Gripping the bedpost for balance, I hobbled across the room, my bare feet cool against the floor. When I reached the rack, I went completely still.

There were sundresses in every color—soft pastels, warm jewel tones, even vibrant floral prints.

Long flowing gowns in delicate fabrics, some casual and light, others elegant and formal.

My gaze landed on one dress near the back.

A black sequin evening gown. Sleek. Stunning. Utterly out of place in my life.

I had never owned anything remotely like this. Where would I even wear an evening gown? Not exactly dinner attire for a girl whose idea of fancy were clean jeans.

Swallowing hard, I looked down at the boxes beneath the dresses and opened one carefully.

I gasped.

Lying inside were delicate bras and matching underwear in lace and silk, folded neatly in soft tissue paper. White, blush, sapphire, and crimson. My cheeks flamed instantly.

He picked these out?

I was still wearing the same pair of underwear I’d had on when I arrived here—torn, worn, and barely holding together.

My fingers trembled slightly as I reached out and lifted a pair of white lacy panties from the box, the fabric impossibly soft between my fingers.

A strange flutter moved through me—part embarrassment, part something else I couldn’t name.

In the next box, I found silky pajamas, short-sleeved sets, camisoles, nightshirts with matching shorts or pants. I ran my hand over the top layer, savoring the smooth texture. It felt like touching a cloud.

I pulled out a short-sleeved, blue-striped nightshirt with a matching pair of shorts, holding it against me. The idea of clean, soft clothes made me want to cry.

Shower, I thought, gripping the bundle tightly to my chest. That’s what I need. And maybe a glass of wine.

Maybe then, finally, I could sleep.

I clutched the underwear and pajamas tightly to my chest as I limped toward the bathroom. Each step sent dull aches pulsing through my muscles, but I was too exhausted to care. I just needed to feel clean—to feel human—again.

I returned to the elaborate bathroom, still amazed by the luxury of this strange, enchanted mansion.

A white marble countertop stretched along one wall with two elegant sinks, their silver faucets shaped like roses frozen in bloom.

The lighting overhead was soft and warm, casting a golden glow over the polished surfaces.

A sunken tub rested beneath a bay window, large enough to swim in, with jets nestled around the rim like tiny, waiting whispers.

To the right was a glass shower—twice the size of the one back home—with a rainfall head and built-in shelves already stocked with soap, shampoo, and soft, lavender-scented towels.

I laid the clothes gently on the counter, smoothing the pajamas out with trembling fingers before peeling off my torn dress.

The fabric slipped from my shoulders and pooled at my feet like a memory I didn’t want to hold onto.

I hesitated at the underwear, but the elastic had stretched and frayed beyond repair.

Right now, I needed something clean. Something untouched.

I stepped in front of the mirror and staggered back a step.

Ugly purple and black bruises bloomed across my skin like inkblots—across my arms, my ribs, even the tops of my thighs.

I looked like I had turned into some wild creature, mottled and marred.

Thin red scratches laced across my legs and even my palms, angry reminders of the stick that had been torn from my hands during the struggle.

A fresh wave of pain flared in my chest as I adjusted the bandage there, checking to make sure it hadn’t shifted.

The deep claw marks were hidden beneath medical tape and waterproof bandages, but I could still feel them, aching and hot beneath the protection. I swallowed hard and looked away from the mirror.

There would be time to process all of it later. The bruises. The wolves. The beast.

Right now…I just needed to wash the blood and fear off my skin.

Steam quickly filled the bathroom, curling along the edges of the mirror and turning the air warm and hazy.

The tension in my shoulders began to loosen as I stepped into the oversized shower.

I’d heard of rain showers before, but I’d never actually experienced one, not outside of books or overheard conversations in town.

This…this was like stepping into heaven.

Droplets fell from the ceiling in a gentle cascade, warm and soft like summer rain. The water kissed my skin instead of pelting it, each drop soothing the ache buried deep in my bones. I didn’t feel like I was being punished by the world just for existing.

On a built-in shelf, I spotted bottles of lavender-scented shower gel, shampoo, and conditioner, all neatly arranged, all full. My chest tightened at the thought. Colette must have placed them here, I realized, blinking back a sudden sting behind my eyes. Another quiet kindness.

Ignoring the dull throb radiating through my ribs and shoulders, I lathered my hair until it squeaked beneath my fingers, then smoothed the conditioner through the strands until they slipped like silk between my hands.

I scrubbed my skin next, letting the warm water carry away the bayou’s filth—the swampy residue of fear, blood, and sweat.

By the time I stepped out of the shower, the mirror had completely fogged over. I reached for a fluffy white towel hanging nearby and sank into its softness with a sigh. It was thick, luxurious, so different from the threadbare ones we had at home that barely dried anything.

I padded across the tile floor and stood at the counter, my skin still tingling from the heat.

I threaded my fingers through my wet hair, tugging gently at the knots.

Blow drying it always turned it into a frizzy mess, and curling it was pointless.

My hair had a mind of its own and no amount of heat ever changed that.

Beside the sink, a set of more lavender-scented products caught my eye: cleanser, moisturizer, and a bottle of lotion with gold filigree on the label.

I touched each one like they might vanish; they were all too elegant, too extravagant for someone like me, but I couldn’t resist. For once, I wanted to feel pampered.

Carefully, I rubbed lotion into my arms and legs, wincing as I passed over the worst bruises and the deep scratches along my sides. My skin drank in the moisture like it had been starved, every inch dry and rough from days of neglect. I was dry as parchment.

Finally, I washed my face. The water was cool, the cleanser soft and floral. The scratches on my cheek stung sharply as I rinsed, but I didn’t care.

For what felt like the first time in forever, I felt like a whole person again. Not a girl lost in someone else’s story. Not a prisoner. Not prey.

Just…me.

I slipped the nightshirt over my head, the fabric sliding across my skin like water. It was so soft it almost felt unreal, luxurious in a way nothing I’d ever owned had been. The matching shorts hugged my hips with a gentle, perfect fit.

I stared at my reflection, feeling strange in something so...nice. Like I’d stepped into someone else’s life.

Opening the bathroom door, a cloud of steam billowed out around me, curling into the cooler air of the bedroom. I winced. Great, I thought. Hopefully that doesn’t set off some ancient magical fire alarm.

I padded over to the clothing rack, my damp hair dripping down my back, and scanned the lower shelf. There, tucked neatly near one of the boxes, was a pair of white, fuzzy UGG slippers.

I reached out, heart stuttering

Real UGGs. The kind I used to stare at in storefronts, the kind I’d never been able to afford.

I slid my feet into them slowly, reverently, like they might vanish if I moved too fast.

For one brief, breathless second, I felt like Cinderella slipping into the glass slipper. Only instead of a ball, I was in a haunted mansion with a monster I didn’t quite understand.

Still, for a heartbeat, I felt seen.

I walked to the bedroom door and opened it?—

And froze.

The beast stood just beyond the threshold, his massive frame cloaked in shadow. His gaze swept over me, lingering, not in a leering way, but intense. Possessive. As if he was trying to memorize the way I looked in what he’d given me.

A shiver rippled down my spine, and I hugged the nightshirt around me instinctively.

His voice rumbled low, like thunder rolling over distant hills.

“I wasn’t sure you’d wear them,” he said. His eyes didn’t leave mine. There was something else there besides possession. Anticipation, tenderness. “But I hoped…maybe you’d see yourself the way I see you.”

The words struck something deep in me, hitting harder than I expected.

I swallowed, unsure how to respond. “Why would you care how I see myself?”

He paused, his expression unreadable before he spoke again, softer this time.

“Because even before the curse, I knew what it was like to feel... less. To be judged by everything but who you are inside. And now…” his jaw flexed, a flicker of frustration in his eyes, “now I wear a face that makes it impossible to be anything but a monster.”