Beloved Beast

Chapter Fifty-Three

In the days that followed, Elle began to feel more like herself physically. The aches and pains had ebbed, and all that remained of her horrific ordeal was a small scar below her ribs.

Even her nightmares were few and far between.

But her sense of identity was in a tailspin. She couldn't shake this feeling of loss—this sinking aimlessness that left her staring blankly at the fortress walls—her mind reeling with anxiety.

So much had changed in such a short time. The shocking circumstances surrounding her true identity and the traumatic events that had occurred as a result of it had shaken her foundation to its core. It had fractured everything she thought she knew about herself, making her question her footing in the world and, more importantly, what sort of future awaited her.

I cannot call you mine until you consent to be my wife.

Mine. It was a word worth fighting for—a word she desired to be, and Don was giving her that choice, something no one had done before. But how could they expect to live a normal and fulfilled life if the risk of danger was imminent? She would be fearful of every dark shadow or suspicious noise, terrified that either would produce a threat. Frightened that Seraphine—or others like her—would be lurking with a firm mind to kill or steal her body.

That daunting prospect threatened her forever with Don.

Your body was fashioned solely for one purpose: to bolster unparalleled, everlasting power. Magic adheres to your body like a second skin, and it prevails.

Was that all she was meant to be? A conduit for power? A source to be weaponized?

Elle knew her quick recovery was due to the powerful magic rooted within her body. Lucy had explained as much when she questioned her rapid healing, revealing that her friend was apprised of the staggering details that had capsized her life; still, she found no solace in knowing that she was a vessel for magic.

She would rather die than allow the supernatural to use her body in a way that would cause irreparable harm and devastation. And the idea that she and everyone she loved most may never be safe because of something that was out of her control churned her stomach with dread. It made her sick.

True to his word, Don had rarely left her side. At sundown, he allotted her full use of his massive bed, and every night before she drifted asleep, her heavy eyes would peer through the silk curtains suspended from the ceiling to find him stationed in the corner of the room, his formidable sword anchored to his side.

His determinedness to protect her warmed her heart, but surely it was taking a physical and mental toll, for he hardly slept and always appeared on edge, yet he uttered no complaints.

When he did vacate the room, it was either to wash up or see to matters that could not be postponed, but she had been confined to his chambers for nearly two weeks, and she was going stark, raving mad, staring at shadows that eluded the moving sun.

Elle had hoped to visit with her family, convinced that if she immersed herself in familiarity, it would restore or nurture some semblance of her old self.

When Don returned that afternoon with their midday meal, she got to her feet, eager to broach the subject.

Her breath caught at the sight of him. It always did. There was never a moment where he did not rouse her pulse to excitement.