Page 18 of Beast of Blood and Roses (Dark Ever After Fairytales #1)

Chapter Eighteen

Fierro

Warmth fell across my face and I fluttered open my eyes, blinking against the pale morning sunlight streaming through the tall windows. My neck ached from the awkward angle. I rolled my shoulders, wincing as the muscles protested.

The sitting room was empty, but her scent lingered—something like fresh-picked lavender that made my chest tighten with an unfamiliar ache.

My gaze fell on the empty space in the bookcase where the magical tome had rested before I’d given it to Rosalie.

Only a true witch could decipher its contents; to anyone else, the words would remain scrambled gibberish.

I pushed myself up from the overstuffed chair, my joints stiff and reluctant.

When was the last time I’d fallen asleep anywhere but in the ruined remains of my bed?

Years. Maybe decades. I dragged a clawed hand through my mane, disturbed by how easily sleep had claimed me in this room, in this chair where her presence still seemed to hover .

What is she doing to me?

My fingers found The Witch’s Heart hanging against my chest, the smooth stone cool beneath my palm.

I closed my eyes and reached out with senses honed by centuries of hunting the supernatural.

Nothing. No electric tingle across my skin, no warning prickle at the base of my skull.

The air around me remained clean of magical interference.

But then why did every instinct I possessed scream that something had changed?

I began to pace, claws clicking against the wooden floor. Rosalie claimed ignorance about magic, and every fiber of my being wanted to believe her. The way her eyes had widened when I’d mentioned witches, the genuine confusion that had flickered across her face, it all felt real. Honest.

I stopped mid-stride and laughed, the sound bitter in the quiet room.

Honest. When had I started looking for honesty in anyone?

After decades of dealing with the dregs of supernatural society, the liars who’d sell their own mothers for another fix of power, the thieves who’d steal breath from sleeping children, the addicts so desperate for magic they’d drain the life from anything with a pulse, I’d forgotten that innocence could exist.

But Rosalie...I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to banish the image of her face.

There was something untouched about her, something that made the beast in me want to both protect and devour.

She looked at me without fear, without calculation, without the desperate hunger I was used to seeing.

My hands dropped to my sides, clenching into fists. That innocence terrified me more than any dark magic ever could.

Marcel stepped into the sitting room, his eyebrows raised as he took in my rumpled appearance. “ Monsieur , did you get up early? Before the sun rose? ”

I stretched my arms over my head, working out the kinks from sleeping in the chair. “No, I slept here all night.” I cracked my neck. “Where is Colette?”

“She’s preparing breakfast as always.” Marcel’s gaze lingered on the empty space in the bookcase, then back to me with a knowing look.

I stood up, pacing to the window with renewed energy. “I have a new plan, Marcel. A way to break the curse.” I expected to see hope light up in his eyes but instead I saw wariness.

Marcel’s face fell, and he let out a slow breath.

“What way?” He drawled out those two words, crossing his arms. “Tinker Bell was clear on what needed to happen. You need to fall in love with a girl and her with you. Then she must freely allow you to feed on her.” His voice grew heavier with each word. “It’s the only way.”

I tossed my hand in the air as if to dismiss his logic, my voice sharpening.

“Not if I can teach her to use her powers. You saw her.” I paced back and forth like a caged animal, my movements agitated.

“She was able to draw on her powers to create a protective shield. Not many witches can do that.” I whirled around to face him. “She may be able to break the curse.”

Marcel folded his arms across his chest. “Or you could fall in love, monsieur .”

“With a witch?” I stopped pacing abruptly, my hands clenching into fists. Heat flared in my chest as I flashed him a murderous stare, my voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “You know that’s not possible.” My claws extended slightly, betraying the rage I was trying to contain.

“But, monsieur –”

“I have made my decision.”

He flinched as if I had hit him .

I ran a clawed hand down my face, weariness seeping into my bones. “Where’s Rosalie?”

He bowed his head. “I don’t know, monsieur . When Colette and I turned back into flesh, we did not check on her. Would you like me to do this?”

I shook my head. “No, I will.” I brushed past him roughly, then paused, guilt stabbing at me for my harshness. But I couldn’t bring myself to apologize; I was too unwilling to continue this discussion.

The painting in my bedroom continued to change and I was running out of options.

My human posture was gone now, replaced by the hunched stance of a predator.

The formal clothes I’d worn in the original portrait were shredded, revealing more of the coarse fur that covered what had once been smooth skin.

Yet my face, while distorted, still retained my emerald eyes—perhaps the last truly human feature I had left.

Falling in love took time. Instalove was only for the movies.

But even as I thought it, her scent from the sitting room lingered in my memory, making my pulse quicken and my claws tremble slightly.

Magic was a different matter. I could control that.

I clenched my fists, trying to regain composure.

I knew that was real. I was living proof of it.

I headed up the stairs, each step heavy with purpose and dread. Rosalie’s door was still closed so she must be asleep. My claw hesitated over the wood before I knocked, holding my breath as I waited for an answer.

“Rosalie?” When silence greeted me, panic shot through me. Had she escaped again? I slowly opened the door and something tugged at my rapidly beating heart. Something I didn’t want to acknowledge .

The magical book lay open on the bed, its pages glowing faintly in the morning light.

Awe filled me completely. Her dark hair was like a halo around her, sprawled out across the white pillow.

She had one toned leg that had escaped from under the covers, and her top was hiked up, revealing the smooth curve of her back.

She looked even more tempting this morning than she did last night.

I stepped closer, drawn despite myself, but then my eyes focused and my chest constricted with something darker.

She still bore the bruises and scratches from the wolf encounter, purple and angry against her pale skin.

But there were other marks—older, permanent scars that crisscrossed her back in deliberate patterns.

Scars that looked like she’d been whipped.

I went deadly still, a cold fury building inside me. No, that wasn’t possible.

Who would have done this to her? My hands began to shake as rage built in my chest like a furnace. She was such a gentle creature. The growl that escaped my lips was low and dangerous, rumbling through the quiet room. Someone who now had a very short life span.

My claws extended involuntarily as a name blazed through my mind like fire.

Her father, Volaris?

The fool! My jaw clenched so hard I heard my teeth grind. He would pay for hurting her.

Rosalie stirred on the bed and stretched out her arms like a cat. Her eyes fluttered open and immediately widened when she saw me. She grabbed the comforter and yanked it up to her throat, her knuckles white against the fabric. “Beast, what are you doing in here?”

I wanted to tell her to call me by my real name, but she didn’t say beast as if it was foul. It was almost dare I think, or perhaps an endearment.

I took a deep breath, my chest rising and falling as I fought to control the rage threatening to burst through.

My hands trembled slightly at my sides. “I didn’t mean to startle you.

Colette is making breakfast.” I forced my voice to remain steady.

“I thought you’d want to come down and join me before our first lesson. ”

She dragged her slender fingers through her thick strands and yawned, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. “What time is it?”

“Almost seven o’clock.”

“Yes, I’ll be right down.” She nodded, pulling her hair over one shoulder.

“Bring the book with you.” I turned to leave, but the image of those marks on her back stopped me cold in the doorway. I couldn’t just pretend I hadn’t seen them. “Rosalie...what are those marks on your back?”

She slowly sat up, her hair falling around her like a dark curtain, creating a shield. “How did you see them?”

“Your shirt was up in the back.”

Her face reddened and she pulled the comforter down tighter around her, shrinking into herself. “From the wolves. You were there. You saw what they did.”

“I’m not talking about those.” I gently touched her shoulders through the comforter. “I meant these older ones, the scars.”

She bowed her head, her shoulders sagging with defeat. “Does it matter?”

I stepped back into the room, my protective instincts roaring to life. “To me it does.” I narrowed my eyes. “Who hurt you?”

She wiped a tear off her cheek with the back of her hand, her breath hitching. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll meet you downstairs.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

“Rosalie.” Her name came out as a growl. I wanted—no, I needed—to know if it was Volaris. Every protective instinct I possessed screamed for blood. The bastard would pay. For every mark on her back, he’d pay with his own flesh.

She slid off the bed carefully, keeping at arm’s length from me as if distance could protect her.

Her eyes darted toward the door like a trapped animal seeking escape.

The sight made something primal surge through me.

I moved at lightning speed and clutched her arm, my grip firm but not bruising. “Tell me.”

“Let go of me.” She tugged against my hold, panic flashing in her eyes.

But I wouldn’t let go. Her skin was so soft beneath my rough palms, so warm and alive. My breathing grew heavier as possessiveness flooded my veins. “No one hurts what’s mine.” The words escaped before I could stop them, raw and claiming.