Page 16 of Beast of Blood and Roses (Dark Ever After Fairytales #1)

Chapter Sixteen

Fierro

I’d seen women in luxurious evening gowns—elegant, seductive, perfectly styled. Back when I was still a man who walked in the world, those things had caught my eye more times than I could count.

But nothing, nothing, prepared me for the way Rosalie looked when she opened the door.

She wore a striped nightshirt and matching shorts, simple and soft, clinging just enough to her still-damp skin.

Her hair hung around her shoulders in dark, loose waves, glistening at the ends like she’d just stepped out of a dream.

And her eyes…gods, those amber eyes. Wide.

Startled. Unaware of what she was doing to me.

She had no idea.

No idea how beautiful she looked when she was vulnerable, fresh-faced, glowing from the shower. And somehow, that made it worse. More dangerous .

There was a softness to her, an innocence in her expression, but it held something else too. A heat she didn’t know she was projecting. Seductive. Sensual. Sinful. And not because of what she was wearing, but because she was herself.

Unarmored. Unfiltered.

And all I could think was: She’s not afraid of me right now.

My claws curled reflexively at my sides, and I had to fight the urge to look away. To growl. To move. The ache in my chest wasn’t just desire, it was a warning.

She was becoming something I couldn’t protect myself from.

Not even in this cursed form.

She moistened her lips, then nervously smoothed her palms down the front of her pajamas. The gesture was small, instinctive, but my eyes caught the mottled bruises blooming along her legs. Red scratches crossed her skin like angry reminders.

My chest tightened.

Those damn wolves. Trystan Hunter was a dead man walking for allowing his pack to lay a hand on her. I could feel my claws threaten to unsheathe, the simmer of rage clawing up the back of my throat.

“You really were hurt, weren’t you?” My voice came out lower, rougher.

She stilled, her hands going motionless at her side. “I’m fine, really.” But the way she said it, soft, unconvincingly, only made it worse.

Her gaze flicked over her shoulder, back into the room, and her body shifted slightly, just enough to suggest she was considering retreating. Her fingers flexed at her sides, and for a heartbeat, she stood there frozen, caught between the urge to flee and the decision to stay .

Then, slowly, she turned back to me.

“I was having trouble sleeping and Colette…” Her voice tapered off as her gaze found the stone figures just behind me.

Colette and Marcel stood frozen in their final embrace, arms wrapped around each other like they’d been caught mid-farewell. The sight tugged at something in my chest. They rarely allowed themselves such displays of affection, even in private.

“They will be like that until morning,” I said quietly.

“I know,” she whispered, eyes lingering on them. “It’s still hard to get used to. They’ve been so kind to me.” Her eyes were filled with compassion, and it made something twist deep inside me.

I nodded, though the lump in my throat made it hard to speak.

“You said you were having trouble sleeping?” I asked, trying to anchor us both to the present.

She nodded once, tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear. “Colette said she made dinner…and there was wine. I was going downstairs to eat.” She hesitated, then looked up at me through thick lashes. “Do you want to join me?”

I froze. The last time I’d let myself get close, I’d said something stupid, too human, too vulnerable. I didn’t want to make a fool of myself again. Not in front of her.

“I’m not hungry,” I muttered, keeping my voice cool, distant.

But my stomach betrayed me with a low, unmistakable growl.

Her eyes lit up and her lips curved into a teasing smile. “I think your stomach has other ideas.”

A hot flush of irritation flared up my spine. “I said I wasn’t hungry,” I snapped, my voice rougher than I’d planned. The harshness of my tone made me immediately regret it.

She flinched, just slightly, and looked down. Guilt twisted in my gut.

“I didn’t mean—” I started, but she cut me off gently, her voice quieter now.

“You don’t have to eat,” she said, “but…will you at least keep me company?” She began to tuck loose strands of hair behind her ear repeatedly. “I have some questions you might be able to answer.”

I narrowed my eyes, curiosity overtaking my pride. “Questions?”

She nodded, a crease forming between her brows. “About what I did with the wolves. I don’t understand it. It just…happened. And it scares me.”

The mask she’d been holding up slipped. She wasn’t teasing or deflecting; she was just a girl in a strange place, trying to make sense of something bigger than herself.

And for reasons I didn’t want to examine too closely…I couldn’t walk away from that.

But I should have.

She was a witch.

Maybe she didn’t know it yet, but I did. I’d seen that kind of raw power before, felt it like a blade sinking into my skin. And I’d paid the price. I was still paying the price.

Every inch of me wanted to turn away. To remind myself who she really was. Witches were dangerous. They wielded power like weapons, striking without warning or mercy. And one of them, Tinker Bell, had twisted my life into this nightmare.

What happened with her sister...that had been different.

At least, that’s what I told myself. I never hid where I lived.

It was the girl’s fault for trespassing on my property.

Wasn’t it? People were invited to my home.

Trespassers faced a hard truth. My truth.

But even as I thought it, the justification felt hollow.

If Tinker Bell was head of the Moon Coven, then she should have known about my reputation. She’d seen an opportunity for revenge and taken it, wrapping her cruelty in righteous fury.

That was what witches did. They played judge and jury, deciding who deserved to suffer and for how long. As if they were somehow above the rest of us. As if their power made them gods.

Did I really want to open that door for her?

Even now, months later, I could still hear the curse echoing in my head, the rage, the humiliation, the helplessness. I’d been a man. A warrior. And in a heartbeat, she’d stripped that away and left me a monster.

Rosalie’s eyes weren’t cruel. Her voice wasn’t sharp. But magic didn’t need to be cruel to destroy you.

And yet…she was looking at me like I was something more than a curse. Like I was still worth something.

Damn it.

I wasn’t sure I had the strength to let her in or the strength to push her away.

Sadness flickered in her eyes. “Well, good night.” She headed down the stairs.

I watched her descend the stairs, her booted feet silent on the stone steps. The soft cotton of her pajamas caught the moonlight filtering through the tall windows, and something in my chest pulled tight.

She looked so small. So alone .

Let her go, the rational part of my mind warned. She’s a witch. You know what they’re capable of.

But then I remembered the way she’d flinched when I snapped at her. The uncertainty in her voice when she’d asked about her powers. The fear.

And despite everything—despite the curse burning through my veins, despite the memories of Tinker Bell’s cruel laughter—I found myself following.

The stone was cold beneath my talons as I descended, each step a reminder of what I’d become.

By the time I reached the dining room, she was already seated at the far end of the long table, looking impossibly small in the cavernous space.

Moonlight streamed through the tall windows, casting everything in silver and shadow.

She’d found Colette’s spread: golden chicken fingers still warm from the kitchen, crispy fries scattered across a wooden board, and small bowls of different sauces.

Simple food that could be eaten with fingers.

My chest tightened. She’d asked for this.

She’d thought of me when she’d made the request.

Rosalie looked up as I appeared in the doorway, surprise flickering across her features before settling into something softer. Relief, maybe.

“I thought you weren’t hungry,” she said quietly, but there was no accusation in her voice. Just gentle observation.

I stood there, fighting the urge to retreat. To growl out some excuse and disappear back into the shadows where I belonged. Instead, I moved toward the table with deliberate slowness, my talons scratching the stone floor.

“I changed my mind,” I said, the words rough in my throat.

She gestured to the chair beside her, not across the table where the distance would be safe, but close enough that I could catch the faint scent of her soap. Lavender and something else. Something uniquely her.

I sat heavily, careful to keep my clawed hands visible, non-threatening. The chair creaked under my weight.

We sat in silence. She reached for a piece of bread, tore it into small pieces with nervous fingers. I watched her hands—delicate despite the fresh scrapes and cuts from our ordeal in the bayou. Human hands. Not the gnarled claws of the witch who’d cursed me.

“The wolves,” she said suddenly, not looking at me. “When they attacked, I felt something. Like electricity under my skin.” She paused, finally meeting my eyes, her own swimming with uneasiness. “And then they just...attacked—all of them—and there was the shield. Like I’d flipped a switch.”

I reached for a chicken finger, my claws making even this simple task require careful precision. The crispy coating crumbled slightly under my touch, but I managed not to tear it apart completely. “Magic doesn’t always announce itself,” I said carefully. “Sometimes it just...is.”

“But I’ve never—” She shook her head, frustrated. “I grew up normal. Completely ordinary. My father would have told me if I was...if I could...” She trailed off, unable to say the word.

“A witch.” I said it for her, watching her flinch slightly. “Your father might not have known. Magic can skip generations. Or lie dormant until something triggers it.”

“Something like what?”

I studied her face in the moonlight—the curve of her cheek, the way her lashes cast shadows. “Fear. Desperation. The need to protect something precious.”

She was quiet for several long minutes, processing. I poured myself a glass of wine, trying to behave normally, but my hand shook as I downed the goblet. Then she asked, “Have you seen it before? Magic like that?”

The wine turned to ash in my mouth. Yes, I thought. I’ve seen exactly what magic that powerful can do.

“Once,” I said instead, my voice carefully neutral.

She waited, but I didn’t elaborate. Couldn’t. The memory of that night—the rage in the witch’s eyes, the words that had twisted my life into this nightmare—was still too raw.

Rosalie seemed to sense my reluctance and changed direction. “What am I supposed to do with it? I can’t control something I don’t understand.”

I looked at her then, really looked. At the earnestness in her amber eyes, the way she leaned forward slightly, trusting me to have answers. She wasn’t cruel or calculating. She wasn’t the witch who’d destroyed me.

She was just...Rosalie. Scared and alone and asking for help.

“You learn,” I said finally. “Carefully. With someone who can guide you.”

“Someone like you?”

I should have said no. Should have told her she’d need another teacher, someone who hadn’t been broken by magic.

But then a thought struck me—dangerous, desperate, but possible. What if teaching her magic was the key? Not love, not some fairy tale ending but knowledge. Power. If she learned to control magic, truly master it…maybe she could undo what Tinker Bell had done.

It was a long shot. But it was something I could control, unlike the mess of emotions between us.

I shrugged, careful not to let the dangerous spark of possibility show in my expression. “If you want. ”

The smile that spread across her face was small but genuine, and it did something dangerous to the ice around my heart.

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I was walking straight into another trap.

But as she reached for another piece of bread and asked me about the history of magic in hushed, curious tones, I found I didn’t care.

Finally, I felt I had a fucking chance to be human again.