Page 17 of Beast of Blood and Roses (Dark Ever After Fairytales #1)
Chapter Seventeen
Rosalie
Since arriving here, I felt myself truly smile for the first time, not the polite, careful expressions I’d been wearing like armor, but something real.
“Yes, I really want you to teach me.” I picked up my glass of wine and looked over the rim at him, afraid to blink in case this moment disappeared.
His eyes lost some of their anger and his shoulders relaxed, as if my genuine enthusiasm surprised him.
The transformation was so subtle, yet it left me speechless.
He looked less like a monster and more like…
someone who understood what it felt like to be lost.
The beast finished off the last of the chicken fingers then wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin that looked more like a hand towel.
His movements were surprisingly careful, almost delicate despite his size.
“If you would like, I have a book on magic in my sitting room and you can start reading that first.”
My heart leaped at the possibility, though doubt crept in immediately after.
I remembered some of those books when I had explored the house, but they had been in languages I couldn’t read—strange symbols and scripts that meant nothing to me.
I didn’t want to say that and risk losing this chance, but I really needed one I could understand. “Yes, absolutely.”
He gestured toward my plate with one clawed hand. “Are you finished?”
I set down my fork, unable to finish the last few bites despite how good everything tasted. Anticipation had knotted my stomach, making it impossible to focus on food. I just wanted to get my hands on that book. There had to be answers somewhere. “I can’t eat another bite.”
He led me out of the kitchen, his careful movements across the stone floor creating a rhythm that somehow didn’t seem menacing anymore.
The sitting room felt different in the moonlight—warmer, more intimate than during the day.
Towering bookcases lined the walls, their leather spines gleaming in the silver light.
“You need to understand the basics of witchcraft before you can tap into your magic.” He moved to one of the shelves with purpose, scanning the titles before pulling out a leatherbound book. The binding was worn smooth from handling, and strange writing crawled across its cover like living things.
When he handed it to me, our fingers brushed. His claws were thick and sharp, but warm, so much warmer than I’d expected. The contact sent a small shock up my arm. “Thank you.” I held the book carefully against my chest, afraid it might disappear if I wasn’t gentle enough.
The silence stretched until he cleared his throat with a rough sound, then put his hands behind his back, as if he didn’t trust them near me.
When he glanced back at me, the intense stare he gave me was unnerving, searching, almost desperate.
There was something raw in his expression that made my pulse quicken.
“We will start your first lesson tomorrow. You should go to bed. Witchcraft draws on your energy and you need to be well rested before you can cast a spell.”
My heart rate spiked at the memory of my encounter with the wolves. Had I been well rested then, or just moving on pure nervous energy and terror? Those creatures had been seconds away from ripping us apart.
“Goodnight, Rosalie.”
The beast walked away from me as if dismissing me, his shoulders rigid with tension.
He headed back toward the kitchen with deliberate steps, possibly still hungry despite having devoured what seemed like two dozen chicken fingers and, I swear, a pound of french fries.
The way he moved suggested he was fleeing rather than simply leaving.
Was he that anxious to get away from me?
I clutched the book tighter to my chest and called after his retreating form. “I’ll see you in the morning.” My voice echoed in the empty hallway.
No response came back. Not even a pause in his stride.
He had already disappeared into the shadows of the kitchen, and I wasn’t sure he’d even heard me.
Or worse, he did and didn’t care. Disappointment settled in my stomach like a stone.
There was nothing left to do tonight but retreat to my room, though part of me wanted to follow him and demand to know why he’d pulled away so abruptly.
Was it because I had brushed my fingers over his claws?
Could he not bear to touch a lowly waitress?
Sighing with frustration, I retreated to the stairs, my booted feet silent on the cold stone, the leatherbound book warm against my chest; the only evidence that this strange, charged interaction between us had actually happened.
I barely glanced at Marcel and Colette as I passed, though my stomach still clenched at the sight of them frozen mid-embrace.
Seeing them like this—trapped between life and stone—still unnerved me deeply.
The fact that I wasn’t running away panicking anymore probably meant I was beginning to accept this twisted version of reality, this world where magic and supernatural creatures were as real as my own heartbeat.
The thought should have been comforting, but it terrified me instead. Only a few days ago, I’d been a normal girl who never believed in magic or things that went bump in the night. Now I was living with one and, apparently, I was one too.
My chest tightened with a mixture of fear and something that felt dangerously close to longing. Reality seemed like a distant memory now, something I’d left behind in another life. My world had gone from living on the edge of ordinary to free-falling off the edge of everything I’d ever known.
And the most terrifying part? I wasn’t sure I wanted to climb back up.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about my father. The thought of him free while I was trapped here made my chest burn with anger. He’d thrown me to the wolves to save his own skin, and now he was probably already planning his next big score.
I shut my door and climbed on my bed. I turned on the lamp next to my bed, hoping the beast wouldn’t see the light seeping underneath my door.
He’d been clear about getting rest, and he didn’t like his orders being disobeyed.
I’d learned that lesson when I’d ventured into his forbidden bedroom and discovered the painting. But sleep was impossible.
I held my breath as I opened the book, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Please let me be able to read this. The strange symbols danced across the page like living things, completely foreign and incomprehensible.
My eyes strained as I stared at the twisted letters, willing them to make sense.
Nothing. Just meaningless marks that could have been ancient hieroglyphs for all I knew.
I slumped back in defeat, the hope draining out of me like air from a punctured balloon.
Panic started to rise in my throat. What if I wasn’t really a witch? What if?—
Then, like a puzzle piece sliding into place, the symbols began to shift.
Slowly, as if emerging from underwater, the strange markings rearranged themselves into words I could understand.
My pulse spiked. The transformation was so gradual I almost missed it, but suddenly I was reading actual sentences about the fundamentals of magic.
How was this happening? My hands trembled as I gripped the book tighter.
Was it me, or was there something about this cursed place that was awakening whatever lay dormant inside me?
The thought of my father crashed into my mind like a wave.
My chest tightened with a mix of anger and hurt.
Did he know about this? Had he always known what I was and never bothered to tell me?
I pressed my palms against my temples, feeling a headache building. I had more questions swirling in my head than when I’d started, and I hadn’t even begun reading properly yet.
As I delved deeper into the pages, I learned that witchcraft ran in bloodlines; that there were powerful magical families scattered throughout New Orleans, some practicing healing and protection, others delving into darkness and curses.
My throat constricted as I thought of my mother.
Did this power come from her? If so, which path had she chosen?
The bitter part of me whispered that it had probably been the dark one, since she’d abandoned her husband and child without a backward glance.
Sadness washed over me like cold water, followed quickly by a surge of anger.
I wasn’t sure what hurt more—not knowing or suspecting the worst.
I rubbed my burning eyes and shifted restlessly against my pillows. The wee hours of the morning crept into my bedroom, painting everything in shades of gray before exhaustion finally pulled me under. Even in sleep, my mind churned with more questions than answers.