Page 22 of Beast of Blood and Roses (Dark Ever After Fairytales #1)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Fierro

Rosalie was spent. Her shoulders drooped like wilted flowers, her face was pale as moonlight, and her eyes were wide with shock, unfocused and glassy. Dark circles shadowed the skin beneath them. She needed rest, badly.

But I had one more question to ask, one that couldn’t wait. I tried not to startle her. “What was your mom’s name?”

She frowned, her brow furrowing as she struggled to focus on me. “Why?”

I leaned back in my chair, forcing myself to appear casual despite the urgency I felt. My fingers drummed silently against the armrest. “Just curious. That’s all.”

The lie tasted bitter on my tongue, but she didn’t need to know my real intentions, not yet.

She sighed heavily, her breath shuddering, and wiped a tear off her cheek with the back of her hand. Her voice came out barely above a whisper. “Sophia Volaris. ”

I committed the name to memory, already planning my next moves. Marcel and Colette would need to start searching immediately.

The dread in her eyes reminded me of someone trying to forget their past. She sighed miserably. “What’s my next lesson?”

I stretched out my hand, keeping my movements slow and non-threatening. “You’re exhausted. You need to rest.”

She squared her shoulders defiantly, but the gesture only emphasized how fragile she looked. Her chin lifted with stubborn pride. “No, I can do it.”

I took her hand in mine, her skin was cold and clammy, and gently pulled her to her feet.

She didn’t pull away and I could get used to this gentle contact, even something as simple as holding her hand.

She swayed immediately, her knees buckling, but I steadied her with my free hand on her elbow.

Her weight leaned against me for a moment before she tried to pull away.

“You can’t perform magic when you’re this drained.” I watched her carefully as she blinked slowly, trying to focus. Her pupils were dilated, and I could feel the slight tremor running through her frame. “Your body needs time to recover from what just happened.”

I didn’t release her hand as I stayed ready to catch her again if she faltered. The last thing she needed was to push herself and collapse. I couldn’t bear to see her hurt, especially because of something I’d pushed her to do.

She glanced up at me, her eyes heavy-lidded and unfocused with exhaustion. “Does magic always drain you?”

I nodded, studying the dark circles under her eyes.

“You’re not used to wielding it, so it will for a while.

That’s why you need to be well rested and well-fed in order not to feel so drained.

” I paused, watching her sway slightly on her feet.

“You also had an emotional trauma that contributed to you feeling drained.”

She put the back of her hand on her forehead, pressing as if trying to ease a headache. “I am so tired.”

She swayed dangerously, and I immediately lifted her into my arms, one beneath her knees, the other supporting her back. She was so light, barely weighed anything; too light, I realized with concern.

“I can walk.” The protest was weak, her head already drooping.

I cradled her closer to me and she rested her head against my chest. She felt like she belonged there. “No, you can’t.”

“Please, I don’t want to be any trouble.” Her words were muffled against my shirt.

“You’re not.” The only trouble was what she was doing to me. I needed to be focused, not thinking about how soft she was, how tempting she was.

She lay her head against my chest with a soft sigh, and something in my chest tightened.

It was as if this was the most natural thing in the world, as if she belonged there.

Her scent drifted up to me: something soft and calming, almost like lavender mixed with something uniquely her.

My heart rate quickened despite my efforts to stay composed.

What was she doing to me?

I gently laid her down on her bed, my movements careful and deliberate. The mattress dipped slightly under her weight as I pulled the soft blanket over her, tucking it around her shoulders with more care than I’d ever shown anyone.

She yawned, her eyelids already fluttering closed. “I’ll just sleep for a few minutes.”

Her dark hair fanned out against the white pillowcase like spilled ink, and she snuggled into the blanket with a contented sigh. Something warm and unfamiliar twisted in my heart as I watched her face relax, the tension finally leaving her features.

I wanted to lie next to her and wrap my arm around her, to pull her close and keep her safe while she slept.

Without thinking, I stretched my hand toward her face, aching to stroke the soft curve of her cheek, but I froze mid-motion.

She still had those scratches from the wolf attack and I didn’t want to hurt her.

My claws caught the light, sharp and deadly. One wrong move, one moment of lost control, and I could scratch her delicate skin like the damn wolves had. I could hurt her.

My hand trembled as I slowly pulled it back, clenching my fist at my side. The beast in me wanted to touch, to claim, to protect, but the man in me knew better. She was too precious, too fragile for someone like me.

I quietly left her alone and slipped out the door, my hand lingering on the doorknob before I closed it softly behind me. The click echoed as loudly as a gun being cocked in the silent hallway.

Marcel and Colette were waiting outside, their faces tense with concern.

Marcel gave me a hard stare, his arms crossed over his chest. “What happened, monsieur ?”

I stiffened, my jaw clenching. I didn’t like to be judged, not by anyone, not even Marcel. The urge to remind him exactly who was in charge here burned in my throat.

“She was doing fine until she talked about her mother who abandoned her.” I turned my narrowed gaze on Colette, my jaw clenching. The betrayal cut deeper than I’d expected. She should have pulled me aside and told me when she found out .

Dread flashed into Colette’s eyes and she stepped back, her hands clasping together nervously. “She told me not to tell you.”

Marcel immediately stepped in front of Colette as if to shield her from my anger, his stance protective. “I’m not sure teaching her magic is the right thing to do. That’s not what Tinker Bell said.”

Frustration washed over me like a wave of heat. “I know what Tinker Bell said.”

Marcel’s shoulders tensed, and he glanced over at Colette nervously before meeting my eyes again. “I checked the painting, monsieu r.” He swallowed hard. “It’s gotten worse.”

My blood ran cold. The implication cracked my hope, and I had to steady myself against the doorframe.

Colette and Marcel took two steps back warily, exchanging worried glances. I headed back to my room to check the painting myself, my footsteps heavy on the stone floor. “She’s powerful. I think she has the power to break the spell.”

I glanced over my shoulder. They remained rooted where they were as if they were afraid I would explode in rage when I saw the painting. They might not be wrong.

I stood in front of the painting, my chest tight with dread, then stretched out my shaking hand to pull back the curtain.

My heart dropped like a stone. All my fingers had turned to claws, long, curved, and deadly.

More fur had grown across my face, covering what little human skin remained.

There weren’t many human features left. Soon this would be all I was.

Anger surged through me like molten fire, a snarl escaped my lips before I could stop it, but then I caught a whiff of something soft and familiar. Lavender. It was Rosalie’s scent, still clinging to my shirt from when I’d carried her .

The rage faltered, replaced by something else entirely.

She was doing something to me, changing me in ways I couldn’t understand or control. Something I hadn’t thought was possible. Something that terrified me more than any curse ever had. My hands trembled as I gripped the edge of the ornate frame.

I had always been Enzo’s feared enforcer, sent to terrorize people when they owed the family money.

My chest tightened as memories flashed through my mind: the satisfaction I’d once felt watching grown men cower, the way I’d fed on their blood without killing them, drawing out their terror until they paid what they owed.

That role I knew how to play, had worn it like armor for years. But this one…

I ran a shaking hand through my fur, pacing away from the painting. I didn’t know how to be gentle. Didn’t know how to care for someone without destroying them. I didn’t even know the rules of whatever game my heart was playing.

The scent of lavender still lingered, and I found myself breathing it in despite my fear. What if I hurt her? What if this thing growing inside my chest—this tenderness, this need to protect her—what if it made me more dangerous than I’d ever been as Enzo’s monster?

I needed to do something for her. Something she wouldn’t expect. She was drained because of her mother. That was her Achilles’ heel.

But something was gnawing at me, a persistent doubt I couldn’t scratch. Volaris’ story he fed her didn’t add up. I had to find what he was hiding. Everything told me her powers were bound, and I suspected he had something to do with it.

But I couldn’t prove it .

Not yet.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t do anything here. I clenched my jaw in frustration and headed back toward the living room where Colette and Marcel were quietly talking on the couch.

“I have a task for each of you to handle. Sophia Volaris is the name of Rosalie’s mother. Marcel, find out what you can about her.”

Marcel nodded gravely, already seeming to understand the importance. “I will.”

I turned to Colette, my expression softening slightly. “Colette, I have a different task for you.”

“Anything, monsieur .” Her eyes brightened, eager to help.

“I want you to give me the recipe for how to make macarons.”

She blinked in confusion, her brow furrowing. “Excuse me?”

I shifted uncomfortably, suddenly feeling foolish. “Just give me the recipe and I’ll do the rest.”

Making macarons couldn’t be that hard. My chest warmed as I remembered how Rosalie’s face had brightened at the mention of macarons earlier; that fleeting moment of pure joy breaking through her usual wariness. It couldn’t be that difficult to recreate that smile.

Colette could easily make the cookies, but I wanted to do it myself.

My hands clenched and unclenched at my sides as the thought took hold.

Even if my claws made it nearly impossible—hell, I couldn’t even use a fork properly—I had to try.

She needed to see me as more than just a beast, or maybe that’s what I needed to see.

The idea of her lighting up when she saw something I’d made for her with my own hands...it made something tight in my chest loosen just a fraction. How hard could baking really be?