Page 10 of The Beast’s Hidden Rose (Obsessed #8)

nine

. . .

Guy

I haven't been into town in eight months.

The last time, some teenager took a picture of my face, probably for some social media mockery about "the Beast of Trevelyan Estate.

" I broke his phone and threatened worse if he tried again.

Since then, I've sent Winters for anything I need, content in my self-imposed exile.

But Iris has been here three weeks now, and cabin fever is setting in—I see it in the way she stares out windows, the restless energy in her movements.

So today, I'm taking her out. Into the world.

Where other people will see her. See us together.

The thought makes my jaw clench, my hands tighten on the steering wheel as we approach the town limits.

She's mine. By the end of today, everyone will know it.

Iris sits beside me in the passenger seat of my rarely-used Range Rover, looking out the window with undisguised excitement.

She's wearing a simple sundress that's modest enough but still shows off her curves in ways that make my blood heat.

Her hair is loose, flowing over her shoulders like black silk.

She's beautiful, radiant, and completely oblivious to how she affects me—how she'll affect others.

"You're tense," she observes, glancing over at me. "We don't have to do this if you don't want to."

"I'm fine," I lie, easing off the accelerator as we enter the outskirts of Lakewood, the small town nearest to my estate. "Just not used to... people."

She smiles, reaching across to place her hand on my thigh. "We'll start small. Bookstore, maybe lunch. Nothing overwhelming."

Her touch both soothes and inflames me. I cover her hand with mine, squeezing perhaps a little too tightly. "Stay close to me," I tell her, not quite a request.

"I'm not going anywhere," she assures me, misunderstanding my concern.

It's not her leaving I'm worried about. It's the eyes that will follow her, the thoughts other men will have. Thoughts I've had for years, now made reality. The possessiveness that's always simmered beneath my obsession bubbles closer to the surface.

I park on Main Street, a quaint stretch of storefronts that looks like it hasn't changed since the 1950s. Before I can come around to her door, Iris is already out of the car, stretching in the sunshine like a cat. Several passersby glance her way—her vitality draws the eye naturally.

I'm at her side in an instant, my hand finding the small of her back, claiming her with that simple touch. She looks up at me, something knowing in her expression.

"Ready?" she asks.

I nod, not trusting my voice. We start down the sidewalk, my hand never leaving her back, occasionally sliding to her hip when someone passes too closely. She leans into my touch, either unaware of or unconcerned by my territorial display.

The bookstore is our first stop—a small independent shop with creaking floors and the comforting smell of paper and binding glue.

The elderly woman behind the counter looks up as we enter, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of me.

I'm known here, not personally, but by reputation.

The reclusive artist with the scarred face who lives in the old estate outside town.

"Good morning," Iris says brightly, either not noticing or choosing to ignore the woman's reaction.

"Morning, dear," the woman responds, her smile genuine for Iris if not for me. "Let me know if I can help you find anything."

Iris wanders the stacks, trailing her fingers along spines, occasionally pulling a book out to read the back cover. I follow a step behind, hyperaware of the few other customers in the store, of how their eyes flick to us then quickly away when they catch me watching.

"Look at this," Iris says, holding up a collection of poetry. "Neruda. I love his work."

"Take it," I tell her. "Anything you want."

She smiles, tucking the book under her arm, and continues browsing. By the time we reach the counter, she's selected three books. I reach for my wallet, but she stops me.

"I can pay for my own books," she says quietly.

"I want to," I insist, not comfortable with her assertion of independence in this small way. Everything she has should come from me. Everything she needs, I should provide.

Something flickers in her eyes—recognition of the nature of my insistence, perhaps—but she nods, stepping back to let me handle the transaction. The woman behind the counter watches our interaction with poorly concealed curiosity.

"You live out at the Trevelyan place?" she asks Iris while I count out bills.

"Yes," Iris answers simply, offering no elaboration.

"You're the first person he's brought to town in... well, ever, I think," the woman continues, handing me my change with a speculative glance between us.

"I'm special that way," Iris replies with a smile that's both sweet and somehow pointed.

My hand finds her waist again as we leave, pulling her closer to my side than strictly necessary. She comes willingly, leaning into me.

"Possessive," she murmurs, low enough that only I can hear.

"Problem?" I ask, bracing for objection.

She looks up at me through her lashes. "Not for me."

The simple acceptance of my nature—the aspects of me most people would find disturbing or controlling—sends a rush of heat through me.

I want to drag her into the nearest alley, press her against a wall, and claim her mouth, her body, make it clear to anyone who might see that she is thoroughly, completely mine.

Instead, I guide her toward a small café for lunch. The place is busy, nearly full, but a table opens up just as we arrive. I position our seats so Iris's back is to most of the room. I don't want other men looking at her while I can't see their faces.

The waitress who takes our order is efficient but curious, her eyes lingering on Iris a beat too long, then darting to me with obvious questions she's too professional to ask. News travels fast in small towns. By dinner, everyone will know the Beast has taken a beauty into town.

As we wait for our food, I notice a man at the bar watching Iris, his gaze appreciative in a way that makes my blood boil. She's facing me, unaware of his attention, laughing at something I've said. The sound of her laughter, bright and unrestrained, draws more eyes.

Mine , I think, the word burning through my mind like a brand. All of this—her smile, her laughter, her body, her pleasure—belongs to me alone.

When she excuses herself to the restroom, I catch the man still watching her walk away. Before I consciously decide to move, I'm at the bar beside him, my larger frame crowding his space.

"Enjoy the view?" I ask, voice low and dangerous.

He startles, nearly spilling his drink. "What? I wasn't?—"

"Yes, you were." I lean closer, making sure he gets a good look at the scar on my face, at the coldness in my eyes. "She's with me. The only reason your eyes still work is because she'd be upset if I changed that."

The threat hangs in the air between us. His face pales, and he nods quickly. "Sorry, man. No disrespect intended."

I return to our table just as Iris emerges from the restroom. Her eyes narrow slightly as she looks between me and the man at the bar, who now seems deeply invested in his phone.

"Everything okay?" she asks as she sits.

"Perfect," I lie, reaching across the table to take her hand. "Just getting to know the locals."

She doesn't believe me—I can see it in the skeptical tilt of her head—but she doesn't press the issue. Instead, she turns her hand over beneath mine, interlacing our fingers in a gesture that's both surrender and claiming of her own.

The rest of lunch passes without incident, though I remain hyperaware of every person who enters, every glance cast our way. By the time we finish eating, my shoulders are tight with tension, my patience worn thin by the constant vigilance.

More errands would be sensible—Winters has given me a list of things the house needs—but I find I can't bear the thought of parading Iris through more public spaces, of more men seeing her, wanting her, fantasizing about her the way I did for years.

"Let's go home," I say abruptly as we leave the café.

She looks surprised. "I thought we were going to the farmer's market too."

"Another day," I tell her, my hand finding its now-familiar place at the small of her back, guiding her toward the car.

She studies my face for a moment, then nods. "Okay."

The drive back starts silently, tension thrumming between us. I can feel her watching me, assessing my mood. My hands grip the steering wheel too tightly, knuckles white with the effort of restraint.

"You didn't like them looking at me," she says finally, her voice neutral, observational.

"No." The single word contains multitudes of darkness.

"Why?"

I glance at her, uncertain if she's being deliberately provocative or genuinely curious. "You know why."

"Tell me anyway." Her hand lands on my thigh again, higher this time, fingers tracing dangerously close to where I'm already hardening at her touch, at the conversation.

"Because you're mine." The possessive declaration hangs in the air between us. "What's mine, I don't share. Not even visually."

Her breath catches, the sound small but unmistakable in the confined space of the car. Her fingers tighten on my leg.

"Pull over," she says.

I look at her sharply. "What?"

"Pull over," she repeats, her voice low and urgent. "Now."

I comply, guiding the car onto a service road that leads into the woods surrounding my property. We're still ten minutes from the house, secluded here among the trees. I put the car in park and turn to her, questioning.

She answers by climbing into my lap, straddling me in the driver's seat, her dress riding up her thighs. Her mouth finds mine in a hungry kiss, her hands tangling in my hair, pulling almost painfully.

"Show me," she breathes against my lips. "Show me I'm yours."

Something snaps inside me—the last thread of restraint I've been clinging to all day. My hands grip her hips, grinding her down against my hardness, making her gasp. I push her dress up higher, finding her already wet through thin cotton panties.

"This is what gets you hot?" I growl, rubbing her through the fabric. "Me threatening other men for looking at you?"

"You," she corrects, working at my belt buckle with frantic fingers. "You wanting me so much you can't stand anyone else even seeing me. You claiming me."

Her words inflame me further. I push her panties aside, sliding two fingers into her heat without preamble. She moans, head falling back, exposing the column of her throat. I attack it with lips and teeth, marking her pale skin where anyone who sees her will know she belongs to someone. To me.

"Hurry," she pants, finally freeing my cock from my pants. "I need you inside me."

I withdraw my fingers, shifting her position, and then she's sinking down onto me, taking me deep in one smooth motion that leaves us both gasping.

The angle is awkward, the space confined, but neither of us cares.

This isn't about comfort or finesse. It's about claiming, about possession, about marking territory.

She rides me with abandon, my hands guiding her hips, setting a punishing pace. The car windows fog with our exertion, creating a private world where only we exist. Each thrust drives home the same message—mine, mine, mine.

"Say it," I demand, one hand sliding up to tangle in her hair, pulling her face close to mine. "Tell me who you belong to."

"You," she gasps, inner muscles clenching around me as she approaches her peak. "Only you, Guy."

"Again." I thrust harder, deeper, feeling my own release building.

"Yours," she cries out, body tensing as orgasm washes over her. "Oh god, I'm yours, Beast, only yours."

The name—my name, the one she's claimed for me—pushes me over the edge. I come with a shout, emptying myself deep inside her, the most primal form of claiming possible. She collapses against my chest, both of us breathing hard, sweat-slicked and trembling with aftershocks.

As reason slowly returns, I wait for shame to follow—shame at my possessiveness, my territorial display in town, the animal need to mark her as mine. But it doesn't come. Instead, I feel only satisfaction as I hold her close, as I feel our combined release slowly seeping onto my pants.

"You're not like other men," she murmurs against my neck, pressing soft kisses to my skin.

"No," I agree, stroking her back. "I'm not."

She pulls back enough to meet my eyes, her own clear and certain. "Good. I don't want normal. I want you. All of you, even the parts that would frighten most people away."

I study her face, searching for any sign of hesitation, of regret. "And what about the parts that should frighten you?"

Her smile is small, secret, just for me. "Those are the parts I might love most of all."

The word—love—hangs between us, neither of us quite ready to claim it directly, but both aware of its presence. I kiss her instead of responding, pouring everything I can't yet say into the contact.

When we finally separate, rearranging clothing and ourselves, the air in the car is heavy with promise. I start the engine again, my hand finding hers as we continue toward home. Our home, now, in a way it wasn't before.

The Beast has claimed his Beauty, and against all expectations, she has claimed him right back.