Page 8 of The Beast Between Us (Once Upon A Forever #2)

Ella

“Does it always feel so heavy here?” I ask Oswin.

I’d woken this morning more rested than I’ve felt in years. But beneath that calm, there’s a weight…like someone’s pressing a hand to my chest and won’t let go.

“I’m afraid so, my Lady,” he replies as he dusts a nearby shelf. “The house isn’t too happy today.”

“ The house ?” I blink. “Is it… alive?”

“Not alive like you or I,” he says gently. “But the magic that anchors Sire’s shift…it’s bled into the bones of this manor over time. When Sire… or the Beast… feels something, the house does too.”

“So the stories are true,” I say with quiet wonder. “He’s frozen… with his Beast in control.”

For years, I’d heard whispers…tales passed from village to village about Thorne Evermere.

They said he was once beloved beyond any royal line, his family’s castle overflowing with loyal workers and warm laughter.

His father, a wise and respected ruler, had built a kingdom of peace. I was but a child at the time.

But when Thorne came of age, something ancient stirred within him.

His Beast challenged his father Beast for dominance.

The men fought it, tried to resist…but the Beasts would not be denied. Forced into their massive, wolf-like forms, father and son battled for days, locked in a savage duel of instinct and fury.

In the end, only one remained standing.

Thorne.

The stories say he wept over his father’s broken body. The grief consumed him, and in his sorrow, he surrendered himself entirely to the Beast within.

For years, it ruled in his place. Not as man. But as Beast. Slaughtering anyone it wished. The once-beloved man soon became the most hated and the most feared.

Until one day, the man stirred again. Man and Beast clashed, not with claws but with will. Each demanded control. Neither would yield.

The magic that binds the shift grew tired of their war. It punished them both.

Now, man and Beast are fused…neither whole, neither gone.

They live as one.

“The stories are true,” Oswin confirms quietly.

“Since the house feels angry… does that mean Mr. Evermere is angry as well?”

“I’m afraid so, my Lady.”

I pause, the heaviness pressing against my chest again…only now, it feels more like sadness than fear.

“Well… is there anything we can do to make him happy?” I ask, for some reason, desperate to find a way.

Oswin sighs, soft and a little sad. “I’m afraid not, my Lady. Sire is never fully at peace. It doesn’t take much to rile the Beast.”

I look down at the chipped teacup sitting safely in the cupboard.

“But surely,” I say softly, “there must be something that soothes him. A memory. A scent. A song, maybe?”

Oswin hesitates, his cloth still in hand but no longer moving.

“There were things… once,” he says. “Before the divide. Before grief and guilt took root.”

He glances toward the far end of the hall, where the shadows seem thicker, the silence deeper.

“But it’s been a long time, my Lady. Too long.”

“Then maybe,” I murmur, more to myself than to him, “he just needs someone to remind him.”

Oswin says nothing. But when I finally meet his eyes, there’s a flicker of something there… hope, or fear. Maybe both.

Taking a deep breath, I make a decision.

If the house feels what he feels… maybe I can shift something. Even just a little.

I cross the room and tug back the heavy curtains. Sunlight spills in, golden and warm…but the air doesn’t lift.

Not even a little.

It still feels thick. Oppressive.

Like the house is holding its breath.

I open a window, letting in a breeze that smells of morning dew and distant earth. Still, nothing changes.

With a soft sigh, I decide to try working on the outside of the house. A beautiful garden always makes me happy. Maybe it will him as well. So, I slip out the side door, hoping no one minds.

The moment I step into the garden, I stop short.

Everything is dead.

Where there should be color, there is only brown and brittle. The flower beds are full of withered stems, their heads bowed like mourners. The hedges are gray and crumbling. The vines that once crawled proudly along the stone walls now hang limp and dry…like veins drained of blood.

Even the magical fountain in the center has gone still. Its waters, once said to shimmer with life, now lie stagnant… the surface dull and clouded.

A chill dances up my spine.

I glance up…drawn by a feeling I can’t explain.

And find him watching.

The Beast stands behind the upper window, half-shadowed, unmoving. Those eyes… wild and shielded, fixed on me like I’ve disturbed something sacred.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, the words catching on the still air.

But I don’t know if I’m apologizing to the garden…

Or to him.

“The soil is exhausted,” Oswin says gently from behind me. “It tried for a long time to sustain the life growing from it… But in the end, like everything else, it gave up.”

“Nothing grows on my father’s land,” I murmur, still staring at the withered vines. “It’s like this all the way to the village.”

“All of it,” he nods, “is still the property of Evermere.”

I glance up at him, brows furrowed.

“The angry magic bled into the soil,” he explains. “What began with grief turned bitter over time. And bitterness does not feed life.”

“That is terribly sad,” I say.

“I agree.” Oswin’s voice is gentle. “Come. I wish to show you something.”

“I couldn’t possibly handle any more sad news,” I mutter, but I follow him anyway. “I feel myself growing shorter from the pressure of it alone.”

He chuckles softly. “What the stories don’t mention is that while the Beast holds half the control, so does the man. The man who battles daily, simply to keep the Beast from taking full control and harming more people.”

“Didn’t the magic lock them in place?” I ask.

“Yes… and no,” he replies. “The magic froze them in a state of equal ownership. A balance. One they must maintain until they can learn to live as they were meant to…together. Unfortunately, the Beast refuses to share, and Sire… he’s not strong enough yet to force him back. So, they’re stuck.”

“Remember how I said I couldn’t handle more sad news?” I remind him.

“Apologies, my Lady,” he says with a warm chuckle. “But my point is… while the Beast fights the man, the man fights the Beast.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re trying to say.”

“The hatred and anger of the Beast…that’s what’s poisoning the land,” he says. “It’s what weighs down the air, what makes everything feel defeated. But… if the man were truly gone, the Beast would’ve destroyed everything by now.”

We round the corner…

And I stop.

I can’t breathe.

Roses.

Everywhere.

A garden tucked along the castle’s far side, overflowing with blooms. Bright, wild, radiant… alive.

Colors so vivid they don’t seem real…deep crimson, gold, violet, white. Petals catch the morning sun like fire.

“I don’t understand,” I whisper.

Oswin steps beside me, but he doesn’t speak right away. Instead, he lets me take it in…the impossible contrast between this vibrant, living haven and the lifeless decay on the other side of the castle.

“These roses shouldn’t exist,” I murmur, reaching out to brush my fingers along a soft red petal. “Not with everything else so… dead.”

“They exist,” Oswin says gently, “because some part of him wants them to.”

I glance at him.

“This garden is untouched by the Beast’s fury,” he explains. “It has been from the beginning. When everything else withered, these roses bloomed. No matter the season. No matter the storms.”

“But why?”

“I believe it’s because this was his mother’s garden,” he says quietly. “She tended it when she was alive. With care. With love.”

The breath catches in my throat.

“Even after her death,” Oswin continues, “Sire and his father continued to tend the garden so it would never die. Even when Beast and man became one, and everything on land started to wither, this garden remained untouched. Something inside the Beast… someone in him…refused to let this part die.”

I sink slowly to my knees beside the nearest bush, overcome by the scent of roses and something deeper… something aching and sacred.

“The air doesn’t feel heavy here,” I say, leaning in to smell the nearest rose.

“Untouched in all ways, my Lady,” Oswin says gently.

“So the man is still in there,” I whisper. “Somewhere.”

“Yes, my Lady.” Oswin’s voice is low. “Somewhere beneath the rage and sorrow… he is still fighting.”

Feeling eyes on me… again… I look up.

He’s there.

The Beast.

The man.

But this time, he’s not hidden behind glass or shadow. He stands in full view at the edge of the garden, still as stone, half-light catching the ragged edges of his form. Not fully man. Not fully Beast.

Not smiling.

But not angry either.

His eyes meet mine…and hold.

Something tightens in my chest. Not fear. Something quieter. Heavier.

“I have a feeling that times are changing, my Lady,” Oswin says beside me.

“Why is he standing there?” I ask quietly. “Why not come into the garden and be surrounded by the beauty?”

“He fears his presence will destroy it,” Oswin replies. “He believes even the ground recoils from his steps. He’d rather not take that risk.”

I look back at Mr. Evermere, still standing motionless at the edge of the garden, his gaze fixed.

“Choose a rose, my Lady,” Oswin says gently. “And gift it to him.”

“Won’t he be angry that I plucked a rose from his mother’s garden?” I ask, uneasy with the idea.

“Not at all,” Oswin smiles. “Not if it’s offered in kindness. Not if you’re not doing so to destroy. Remember, he’s half man as well.”

I hesitate, then turn back to the blooms. Standing, I slowly move among them until one catches my eye…rich in color, unlike any I’ve ever seen. Carefully, I pluck it free.

“Thank you,” I whisper to the bush. “You make beautiful roses.”

Oswin chuckles behind me before turning and walking off, leaving me alone with the weight of what I’m about to do.

I turn toward Mr. Evermere. He hasn’t moved.

Step by step, I approach.

The closer I get, the heavier the air becomes. It presses down on my shoulders, thick and suffocating. I can already tell I’ll have to fight to spend time anywhere outside this garden.

But I keep walking.

When I finally reach him, I hold out the rose.

“This is for you,” I say.

He stares at it. Then, after a pause, he reaches out and takes it carefully, his large, clawed hands cradling the fragile stem with surprising gentleness.

“This rose is deformed,” he rumbles.

“It most definitely is not,” I say, placing my hands firmly on my hips. “This rose happens to be special. ”

His eyes flick to mine, curious. “Special… how?” His voice is more Beast than man, but I don’t flinch.

“Well,” I explain, “it’s half red and half black. Something happened between the red rose bush and the black rose bush… and the result was this. Something new. Something rare. Something no one expected.”

He doesn’t respond. Just turns the rose slowly between his claws, the petals delicate against the harshness of his hands.

“Just because the red rose is now half black,” I continue softly, “doesn’t make it any less special. If anything… I’d say it’s more.”

His gaze flicks toward me, but he still says nothing.

“Because of the balance between the two,” I go on, voice steady, “they created something magnificent. Not ruined. Not wrong. Just… different. And maybe even stronger for it.”

“People don’t like different,” he grumbles, still staring at the rose. “These roses wouldn’t sell on the market. The reds would. Even the blacks. But not this one.”

His voice is bitter, resigned.

“Then the market’s blind,” I say simply.

He glances at me again…a slow, guarded look, like he’s waiting for mockery that doesn’t come.

“This rose is bold enough to be both,” I continue. “It doesn’t need to be one or the other. And it doesn’t need to be accepted by everyone to have value.”

I pause, letting the silence stretch just long enough.

“Some things were never meant for the market.”

He goes still, the rose cradled in his clawed fingers like something fragile and dangerous all at once.

He’s quiet for a long moment. The wind stirs between us, lifting the scent of roses and something deeper…unspoken.

Then, in a voice rougher now, he mutters,

“No one accepts something so beastly… no matter how gently it holds a flower.”

And with that, he turns.

His steps are heavy, slow. Each one presses into the earth like he’s carrying more than just his body. But even as he walks away, the rose remains cradled in his clawed hand…careful, deliberate, uncrushed.

As if part of him still dares to believe in something delicate.