Page 1 of The Beast’s Hidden Rose (Obsessed #8)

one

. . .

Iris

The iron gates of Trevelyan Estate swallow me whole as I step through them, my small suitcase bumping against my leg like a nervous dog.

The drive curves ahead, swallowed by ancient oaks whose branches reach for each other above like desperate lovers.

I've never worked in a place so grand, so isolated. I still can’t believe I got this job.

When I saw the ad for a reclusive artist looking for a new housemaid, I applied on a desperate whim, never believing I’d actually get a callback.

I was called the next day, and now here I am.

The house reveals itself gradually, a looming stone giant with too many windows to count. The path to the front entrance is lined with roses, their thorns more prominent than their blooms. They're beautiful but threatening, much like the house itself.

A woman waits for me at the door. She's thin and severe, with hair pulled back so tight it seems to be doing the work of a facelift.

"Ms. Moreno?" she asks, voice clipped and formal.

"Yes. Iris," I offer, shifting my suitcase to extend my hand. She takes it with cool fingers that barely press against mine.

"Mrs. Winters. I manage Mr. Trevelyan's household affairs." She doesn't smile, just steps aside to let me in. "You're punctual. That's good."

The entrance hall soars around me, cathedral-like and chilly. My footsteps echo on marble, announcing my intrusion into this pristine space. Paintings line the walls—dark landscapes, abstract forms that seem to writhe if I look at them too long. I wonder if they're his work.

"Mr. Trevelyan values his privacy above all else," Mrs. Winters explains as she leads me deeper into the house. "That's why the position includes room and board. He prefers a minimal staff presence, and those who are here should be... unobtrusive."

"I understand," I say, though I'm not sure I do. What kind of man needs this much space and this much solitude?

We pass through a series of rooms, each more beautifully appointed than the last. I notice no personal touches, no photographs or mementos. It's like a museum, not a home.

"Your duties will include cleaning the main living areas, laundry, and basic meal preparation when required. Mr. Trevelyan often takes meals in his studio, so you'll leave trays outside the door. The kitchen staff comes three times weekly to prepare meals that can be reheated."

I nod, taking mental notes. "And my schedule?"

"Six days a week, hours flexible as needed. Sundays are yours unless specifically requested otherwise." She stops at a junction of hallways and turns to face me fully for the first time. "Now, the most important rule, Ms. Moreno. The west wing is strictly off-limits."

Something in her tone makes me pay closer attention. "The west wing?"

"Mr. Trevelyan's private quarters and studio. You are never to enter without explicit permission, which will be rare. If cleaning is needed there, I will inform you. The doors will be locked, but should you ever find one open, do not enter. Do you understand?"

Her eyes bore into mine with an intensity that seems disproportionate. It's just a room, I think. But I nod again. "Of course."

"Good." She seems satisfied, continuing our tour. "Mr. Trevelyan is... particular. He doesn't like to be disturbed. You may go weeks without seeing him."

"Is he here now?" I ask, unable to contain my curiosity about my mysterious employer.

"He's always here," she says, and something in those three words sends a shiver down my spine.

My quarters are at the back of the house—a bedroom with attached bath that's larger than my entire previous apartment. The windows overlook a wild garden that bleeds into dense woods beyond.

"This is lovely," I say, genuinely surprised by the comfortable accommodations.

"Mr. Trevelyan believes in treating his staff well," Mrs. Winters says, a hint of something—pride?—in her voice. "Dinner is at six in the kitchen tonight. I'll show you your duties tomorrow morning. There's a house manual on the desk."

She leaves me alone, the door clicking shut behind her. I sit on the bed—my bed—and let out a long breath I didn't know I was holding. The silence of the house presses against my ears. I've been living in noisy apartments with paper-thin walls for so long that this quiet feels unnatural.

I unpack my meager belongings, hanging my simple dresses in the spacious closet where they look lost and insignificant. The bathroom has a claw-foot tub that makes me smile—I've always wanted to soak in one of those. Maybe tonight.

Dinner is a solitary affair. The kitchen is industrial-grade but warm somehow, with copper pots hanging from a rack and herbs growing in the window.

Mrs. Winters has left a plate for me in the refrigerator with a note about reheating.

As I eat, I feel the emptiness of the house around me, the dozens of rooms stretching out in all directions, most of them unused.

What kind of man needs all this space just to be alone?

My first day passes in a blur of learning—which products to use on which surfaces, the laundry schedules, where everything is kept.

The house is immaculate already. My job seems to be maintaining perfection rather than creating it.

Mrs. Winters watches me with hawkish attention at first, then gradually leaves me to my own devices as she sees I'm competent.

It's on the second day that I feel it for the first time—the weight of unseen eyes. I'm dusting the library shelves, stretching to reach the top shelf, when the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I turn quickly, but the doorway is empty. Still, something tells me someone was just there.

Later that afternoon, I glimpse him from a window—a tall figure crossing the grounds toward the woods. Even from a distance, his presence is commanding. He walks with purpose, shoulders broad under a dark shirt. I watch until he disappears among the trees, then realize I've been holding my breath.

That night, I hear footsteps in the hallway outside my room, heavy and measured. They pause outside my door, and I freeze in my bed, heart slamming against my ribs. After what feels like minutes, they continue on. I lie awake for hours afterward.

On the third day, I'm polishing silver in the dining room when a shadow passes the doorway.

I look up quickly enough this time to catch a glimpse—tall, as I'd seen before, with dark hair and the side of a face that bears what looks like a scar running from temple to jaw.

He moves past without glancing my way, but somehow I know he's aware of me.

"Have you seen him yet?" Mrs. Winters asks later, surprising me with the question.

"Just... glimpses," I admit.

She nods as if this confirms something. "He'll introduce himself when he's ready. Don't take it personally."

But it feels personal, especially when I'm in the garden collecting herbs for the kitchen, and I look up to see a curtain fall back into place in one of the west wing windows.

Or when I'm scrubbing the marble floor in the entrance hall, and I hear the unmistakable sound of a door closing softly upstairs though I'm supposed to be alone in the house.

By the end of the first week, I've developed a sixth sense for his presence.

I know when he's nearby even before I hear or see any sign of him.

It's like a pressure in the air, a charge that makes my skin prickle.

Sometimes I find myself lingering in certain rooms, taking extra time with my tasks, almost hoping he'll appear.

At night, I dream of being watched, but in my dreams, it doesn't frighten me. There's something almost comforting about the attention, about being seen. I’ve always felt invisible, like I could disappear and no one would notice. Here, in this enormous empty house, I've never felt more visible.

I find myself studying the locked door to the west wing whenever I pass it. What kind of art does he create in there? What keeps him so isolated? The questions pile up, unanswered.

On Sunday, my day off, I wander the grounds.

The gardens give way to woods that seem to go on forever.

I find a small stream with a wooden bench beside it and sit, letting the sun warm my face.

The feeling comes over me again—that awareness of being observed.

I open my eyes and scan the tree line, but see nothing.

"I know you're there," I say aloud, surprising myself with my boldness.

No answer comes, but as I walk back to the house, I could swear I hear footsteps behind me, matching my pace but stopping when I stop. I don't look back. Something tells me he doesn't want to be seen, not yet.

That night, I soak in the big tub, letting hot water and lavender bubbles ease the tension from my muscles. As I'm stepping out, wrapping a towel around myself, I hear it again—footsteps pausing outside my door.

I stand there, dripping on the tile, heart racing. Part of me wants to fling the door open, to confront him, to end this strange game. But another part, a part I'm not entirely comfortable acknowledging, likes it. Likes being the object of such focused attention.

I dress for bed slowly, aware of every movement, wondering if he's still there, still listening.

I brush my hair in long strokes, the way my mother taught me, counting silently to one hundred.

By the time I finish, the presence outside my door is gone, but it lingers in my mind as I slide between the sheets.

I close my eyes but don't sleep. His face—what little I've seen of it—forms behind my eyelids. The scar, the dark hair, the intensity I felt even from a distance. Guy Trevelyan.

I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. And why, despite all reason, I want him to keep looking.