Page 109 of The Beast

“Dammit, you don’t know what you’re asking.” His voice has gone rough. “Watching me fight—it’s not like watching a boxing match on TV. It’s brutal. Bloody. I become something else in that ring.”

“The Beast.”

“Yes.” The word sounds like a confession. “And not like you’ve seen. I don’t want you to see me like that.”

“Why not?”

He starts pacing the room. His back is to me, shoulders taut. “Because you might not look at me the same way after. Because there’s a difference between knowing what I am and actually watching me tear someone apart with my bare hands.”

I follow him, stopping just behind him but not touching. “After everything we’ve been through, do you really think watching you fight is going to be the thing that drives me away?”

“I don’t know.” The rawness in his voice makes my chest ache. “That’s the problem. I don’t know what’s going to be too much. What’s finally going to make you realize that the man you loved is gone and all that’s left is⁠—”

“Don’t.” I close the distance between us, then fist the front of his shirt. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence. The man I love is standing right in front of me. Changed, yes. Scarred. But still here. Still fighting to come back to himself.” I rise up on my toes, brush my lips against his. “I need to see all of you. We need this. Both of us.”

He’s quiet for so long, I think he’s going to refuse. Then his forehead drops to mine, and he exhales, long and shaky.

“I’m terrified,” he whispers.

Two words. That’s all. But coming from a man who’s spent five years armoring himself against any hint of vulnerability, they feel like a revelation.

“I know,” I say. “That’s okay. We’ll be terrified together.”

His laugh is more breath than sound. “That’s not exactly comforting.”

“It’s the best I’ve got.” I pull back so I can see his eyes. “Soon? Will you take me back there soon?”

He studies my face for a long moment, searching for something—doubt, maybe, or the first cracks of fear. Whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t seem to find it.

“Okay,” he finally agrees. “But not today.”

“No?”

“No.” He pulls me closer, his hands settling on my hips. The tension in his body shifts, transforming into something warmer. “Today I just want you.”

The heat in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. But I make myself hold back, make myself ask the question that’s been circling in my mind all morning.

“I want that, too. But could you…just right now, I mean…can you be gentle with me?”

He goes still.

I watch emotions flicker across his face—surprise, uncertainty, something that looks almost like fear. “What?”

“Last night was intense. Necessary, sure. But pretty damn awesome, too.” I trace patterns on his chest, feeling the raised ridges of scars through his thin t-shirt. “But I don’t want intense right now. I just want...you. Simple. Tender.” I look up at him. “Is that something you can give me?”

The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything he’s not saying.

“I don’t know,” he finally admits. His voice is barely above a whisper. “You know how I’ve been living for years. I’m not sure I remember how to be gentle.”

The confession breaks my heart a little. This man who used to paint me like I was made of starlight, who used to trace every inch of my skin like he was memorizing a sacred text—and now he’s not sure he remembers tenderness.

They did this to him. Those bastards in Aspen. They tried to burn his heart out of him.

But I refuse to believe it’s gone completely.

“Then let’s find out together,” I say. “And for the record, raw and wild and deliciously kinky are definitely on the menu. But right now, I want slow and sweet. And I think we can do that.”

I don’t give him a chance to protest. I take his hand and lead him toward the bedroom. When we reach the bed, I turn to face him. Slowly, I pull my shirt over my head. He watches, his eyes, dark and hungry, but he doesn’t reach for me.