Page 28 of Beast of Blood and Roses (Dark Ever After Fairytales #1)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Fierro

I clutched The Witch’s Heart tightly against my chest as I headed toward my bedroom, the dual-colored stone still warm from Rosalie’s touch.

Self-loathing crashed over me in waves as I cursed myself for allowing her to try to use it again.

The amulet was too powerful, too unpredictable for someone untrained in its dark magic.

If anything had happened to her—if I’d lost her because of my weakness in giving in to her demands—I would never forgive myself.

The flour and dried batter were crusted to my fur like cement, making me look like some pathetic, wet, pissed-off alley cat. Every step sent flakes of the mess drifting to the floor. I snagged another pair of pants and a black shirt from my dresser, my movements stiff and ungraceful.

I turned on the shower, cranking the heat until scalding water filled the bathroom with thick, choking steam. The mirror fogged over immediately, obscuring my reflection; a small mercy I was grateful for.

I cringed as I peeled off my shirt, the fabric catching on matted fur and pulling it out in clumps.

Sharp pain lanced through my scalp with each tug, and I clenched my teeth to keep from growling at the discomfort.

My protesting muscles screamed with every movement.

Sleeping upright in that damned chair had put crimps throughout my entire body.

Pain pulsed from my neck down to my lower back with the slightest shift, my spine feeling like it had been twisted into knots.

But it had been worth every agonizing second.

I’d refused to leave Rosalie’s side, not even for a moment.

Magic could have adverse effects on people.

During the last Supernatural War, I’d seen witches fall into comas that lasted for days, their minds trapped in magical feedback loops.

I hadn’t slept for most of the night, instead keeping vigilant watch to make sure she didn’t slip into restless nightmares.

The hot water beckoned, promising relief for my aching body, but even now, part of me wanted to rush back to her room to make sure she was still safe.

As I slipped into the shower, the scalding water hitting my aching muscles like a blessing, my mind drifted back to what The Witch’s Heart had revealed.

When I had gone outside to investigate, I’d been looking for signs of one of Trystan’s wolves, scanning the perimeter for paw prints, claw marks, anything that would indicate a shifter had been prowling around the property.

But there had been no signs, no lingering scents of a wolf shifter.

They had a distinct smell that was impossible to miss, wild and feral, like wet earth and predatory musk that clung to the air long after they’d gone.

A human scent was completely different, softer and more complex, lacking that primal edge that made my hackles rise.

Another mistake I had made in my assumptions. If Volaris had actually come back here, lurking around the property like some desperate stalker, I needed to know why. What did he want? Money? To take Rosalie back? Had Trystan put out a bounty on Rosalie to pay off Volaris’ debts?

I would have to send Marcel and Colette out to track him down, though the thought of relying on others for something this critical made my jaw clench. It was so damn frustrating being confined to this cursed property, trapped like a caged animal while threats circled around the one person I?—

I cut off that dangerous line of thinking and focused on scrubbing the matted flour from my fur.

The water ran gray and white as I worked, my claws catching on stubborn tangles that pulled painfully at my scalp.

I scrubbed harder, welcoming the sharp discomfort as a distraction from my churning thoughts.

The knots finally came free and I stepped out. I glanced reluctantly at the mirror. My fur welted against me. I was looking less and less like a human and more and more like a beast. Time was ticking by and I was no closer to becoming myself again.

I wanted to look at the painting, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I tried to dry myself with a towel, though a regular towel did little. I raked a comb through my fur and gritted my teeth at the tangles. Once I looked somewhat presentable, I stepped out of the bathroom.

Steam billowed out of the bathroom like a thick fog as I stepped out, water still dripping from my fur. I nearly jumped back in surprise when I spotted Marcel standing rigidly in my bedroom, his face pale and drawn with tension.

“What are you doing here?” I growled. Water pooled at my feet as I stood there, every instinct on high alert.

Marcel’s hands were clasped tightly behind his back, his usual composed demeanor cracked with urgency.

“ Monsieur , I was doing some research on the internet, hunting through missing persons databases.” He paused, swallowing hard.

“Several names came up—including a Sophia Nightshade. Her married name was Ravencrest. I recall she, her husband, and her baby all went missing years ago.”

The towel slipped out of my fingers. The Nightshade witches were some of the most powerful magical families in New Orleans—old blood, dangerous magic, the kind of people you didn’t cross without serious consequences. My blood ran cold. I scowled, my mind racing. “Are you sure?”

“ Oui , monsieur .” I could see the worry etched deep in the lines around his eyes. “But here’s the strange thing.” He met my gaze directly, and what I saw there made my stomach drop. “I couldn’t find any records of a Rosalie Volaris. None at all. It’s as if she doesn’t exist.”

The room seemed to tilt around me as pieces of a much darker puzzle began falling into place.

“Did you find anything else?”

“When Sophia Nightshade and her husband—Ian Ravencrest—went missing about twenty years ago with their baby daughter, the rumor was that they were all murdered, but their bodies were never found.”

The blood drained from my face as the timeline clicked into place. Twenty years ago. A missing baby. Rosalie’s age matched perfectly .

My hands began to shake as the horrifying truth crystallized. “The baby,” I said hoarsely, already knowing the answer. “What was her name?”

Marcel stepped closer, his hands still clasped behind his back. “Aurora. Her name was Aurora Ravencrest.”

“We need to meet with one of the Nightshades and find out exactly what happened.” I began pacing the small space between my dresser and bed, my mind racing through possibilities.

“Do you think Rosalie could be Aurora Ravencrest?” Marcel glanced toward at the door as if worried Rosalie might overhear.

“Possibly, but it could be a false lead.” I stopped pacing and fixed him with a hard stare. “But Volaris is definitely up to something, and we need to find out what before it’s too late.”

Marcel’s face paled considerably, his hands fidgeting with the edge of his jacket. “The Nightshade coven is notoriously secretive, monsieur . They probably wouldn’t meet with us—not with vampires. Their history with our kind is...complicated.”

I dragged a hand through my damp hair, frustration building in my chest. “True.” I snapped my fingers as a memory surfaced.

“Wait—I remember hearing about Rose Dragan from my enforcer days. She’s a vampire who discovered she was part Nightshade.

” I could see hope flickering in Marcel’s eyes as I continued.

“Learning about her witch heritage caused quite the scandal. She may be more willing to meet with us than the rest of the coven since she understands being caught between both worlds. She lives in the Garden District.”

Marcel straightened, already preparing for action. “That could work. Her mixed heritage might make her sympathetic to our situation.”

What if Rosalie didn’t believe that Volaris wasn’t her father?

The thought made my stomach churn with dread.

Rosalie was definitely angry at Volaris for giving her to me—I’d seen the hurt and betrayal flash in her eyes when she spoke of him.

But despite everything he’d put her through, despite the abuse and neglect, she still believed he was her father.

That twisted bond of blood and familiarity might be stronger than any evidence we could present.

I sank onto the edge of my bed, running my hands through my damp hair as darker questions plagued my mind. If Volaris had taken Rosalie from her parents when she was just a baby, the question that haunted me was why? What could drive a man to kidnap an infant and raise her as his own?

My jaw clenched as the most obvious answer surfaced. Did he have something to do with the Nightshades’ disappearance? Was he the one who’d murdered Sophia and her husband? The timeline fit too perfectly to be coincidence.

And if that was true, then Rosalie had been living with her parents’ killer for twenty years, calling him father, trying desperately to earn the love of the man who’d destroyed her real family. The cruelty of it made bile rise in my throat.

But why keep her alive? Why not kill her with her parents? What had made a baby valuable enough to steal instead of eliminate?