Page 71 of The Beast

His fingers twine in my hair, and his palm cups my head, holding me in place while he devours me with his kisses, wilder than I remember and full of a desperate need that matches my own, making me want and crave, my body begging for more. It’s wild and wonderful. Familiar and yet not. This is the man I love—the only man I’ve ever loved, and the memories flood back with each touch, each stroke, each claiming, brutal kiss.

When we finally break apart—both of us breathing hard—I expect him to rip my shirt off. To slide his fingers into my jeans. To tell me to stand up and strip. Or just to pull me close in one of those long, deep kisses that almost feel like fucking.

Instead, he squeezes my hand and whispers, “We should get some sleep.”

For a moment, I sit there, as startled as if he’d dumped a pail of cold water all over me. “Oh. Yeah. I guess we should.”

“I’ll take the sofa. There’s an actual bed back in the storage area I use as a bedroom.”

“Oh. Okay.” I shouldn’t be disappointed, but I am. “Well, goodnight, Gabriel.”

“Goodnight, Isabella.”

I nod and head down the short hall, then I open the door across from the bathroom to reveal the tiny space with only a twin-sized mattress bed and a single painting on the wall.

It’s me.

I’m sleeping, my face peaceful, my hair is longer, like I used to wear it, and spread across a pillow. The brushstrokes are looser than his usual style, almost impressionistic, like he painted it from memory rather than life.

Because he did.

He must have painted this after he thought I’d betrayed him. After he believed I wanted him dead.

And still, he painted me like this. Soft. Beautiful. Loved.

I stand there for a long time, staring at that painting, feeling something crack open in my chest.

Then I step back into the hallway and stand where I can see him still sitting on the sofa. “Gabe?”

He looks up.

“Will you—I mean, not sex. But will you come sleep with me?”

His smile is slow. “Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.”