Page 108 of The Beast

Chapter Thirty-Two

My morning at the Monarch is grueling as I deal with enough paperwork to wallpaper the Louvre. When I finally escape, the sun is high in the sky, and I find Gabriel at his easel, taking advantage of the light filtering through the high windows of his underground apartment. The canvas in front of him is different from the chaotic fragments he’s been producing—this one has structure. Intent.

I mentally cross my fingers. Progress.

I look closer and see a woman’s silhouette emerging from shadows, reaching toward something I can’t quite make out.

My breath hitches. Me. He’s painting me again.

I lean against the doorframe, watching him work. The tension that’s lived in his shoulders for days is softer this morning. Not gone—I’m not sure it will ever be completely gone—but manageable. Like a tide that’s finally started to recede.

Now, as I watch him paint, I see the difference in every brushstroke. Less frantic. More deliberate. Like he’s finally creating instead of just exorcising demons.

“I know you’re there,” he says without turning around.

“I know you know.” I push off the doorframe and cross the room, stepping over discarded sketches and dried paint rags. When I reach him, I rest my chin on his shoulder and study the canvas. “She’s beautiful.”

“She’s you.”

I press a kiss to the side of his neck. “When did you start this one?”

“This morning. Couldn’t sleep after you left for work.” He sets down his brush and turns, pulling me into the circle of his arms. His eyes search my face, looking for something—damage, maybe, or regret. “Are you okay? After last night?”

“Better than okay.” I trace my fingers along his jaw, feeling his beard rasp against my skin. “Are you?”

He doesn’t answer right away. I’ve learned to wait him out instead of rushing to fill the silence.

“I don’t know what I am,” he finally admits. “Different. Less fractured, maybe.” His arms tighten around me. “You shouldn’t have had to…fuck. You know.”

I smile. “We’re not keeping score.”

“Maybe we should be. The tally’s pretty one-sided at this point.” There’s a darkness in his voice—the familiar self-loathing that rises up whenever he lets himself think too hard about everything he’s done.

I catch his face in my hands, force him to look at me. “Stop. Day by day, remember? No more drowning in the past.”

“Some days the past feels pretty fucking present.”

“I know.” I brush my thumb across his cheekbone and catch the edge of the scar that extends from under his beard. “That’s actually something I want to talk to you about.”

Something shifts in his expression. Wariness creeping in at the edges. “That sounds ominous.”

“It’s not. I promise.” I take a breath, organizing my thoughts. “I’ve been thinking about The Beast. The fight club.”

His whole body goes rigid. “What about it?”

“You go there to burn off the fury. The pain. That’s why you fight—because the violence helps you sleep without nightmares.” I hold his gaze. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

He’s silent for a long moment. Then his shoulders drop, just slightly. “It’s not exactly the picture of the normal man I want to be. But since you already know the answer, then yes.”

“We skipped over normal a long time ago,” I say, then step even closer—close enough that our bodies are almost touching. “You’ve never actually shown it to me. Not really. And the bits I have seen are from practice rounds. At least that’s what Anissa said. “They’re not the real deal. That’s on a different level altogether.”

“Bella.”

There’s a warning in his voice. I ignore it. “I want to see it. All of it. Including you in the ring.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

I press my hand flat against his chest, feel the rapid beat of his heart. “Please.”