I stood there, chest heaving, fists clenched, my broken fingers screaming pain I refused to acknowledge.
Then I turned.
Belle stood against the wall, arms wrapped around herself, eyes wide and wet. Staring at me. Not with relief. With something else. Something I couldn't name. Something that made my chest ache worse than my shattered hand.
"Belle," I whispered.
She didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared. And I realized with sickening clarity—she'd never seen me like this before. The real me. The monster I kept leashed. The violence I'd always promised would only ever protect her. But standing here, blood on my knuckles, rage still burning in my veins—I looked exactly like what I was.
A beast.
Thank God my teammates decided against coming in. Thank God they knew better. They’d only scare her.
My hand trembled. Not from pain—though fire licked up my wrist with every heartbeat—but from the effort of standing still. Of not crossing the distance between us and crushing her against me until I knew she was whole.
"Belle." Her name cracked in half on my tongue.
She flinched.
The small movement gutted me worse than any hit I'd ever taken on the ice. She wasn't recoiling from me—not exactly—but from what she'd just seen. The violence. The rage. The monster I'd become the second I heard her scream.
I took one step forward. Stopped. Forced the words out. "Are you hurt?"
She shook her head. Trembling. Arms still wrapped tight around herself like she could hold the pieces together through will alone.
"You…" Her voice barely registered above a whisper. "Your hand?—"
I looked down.
My fingers jutted at impossible angles. Blood dripped from split knuckles, pattering onto the hardwood in dark, perfect drops. Purple bloomed across my entire hand, swelling already distorting the shape.
I flexed. White-hot agony exploded through bone and tendon.
I didn't care.
My vision blurred at the edges, but I kept my eyes locked on Belle. On the torn shoulder of her shirt. The red marks circling her wrists. The wild terror still haunting her face.
"I should've been here."
The words scraped out of me. Raw. Broken.
True.
Belle's lips parted. Her breath stuttered. She was shaking—fear, adrenaline, shock, something I couldn't name but felt in my bones. Every instinct screamed at me to close the distance. To wrap her in my arms. To prove she was safe now. But she stood pressed against that wall like cornered prey. Because of me. Because of what I'd just done.
I took another step—then stopped myself.
My voice came out hoarse. Wrecked. "Belle… I need you to tell me you're okay."
Her chest rose sharply. Once. Twice. Then she nodded. Just once. Small. Uncertain.
But there.
And only then—only when I saw that single nod—did I let myself breathe.
The air rushed into my lungs like I'd been drowning.
My broken hand throbbed in time with my pulse, each beat a reminder that I'd been too late. That she'd been alone when they came for her. That my control meant nothing if I couldn't keep her safe.
