Chapter Seventeen: When Fear Found the Gate - Fifteen Nights with the Beast for the Ruby Rose
By Hasnainhr
Isla did not run from Blackwood Ridge, but every step back toward Briar Hollow felt like running.
The eleventh rose was held tightly beneath her cloak, protected from the morning mist. Its petals were still fresh, deep red with one pale mark at the edge, like a quiet reminder of the white rosebush beginning to live again in the beast’s hidden garden. Only an hour ago, that small sign of life had filled Isla with fragile hope. Now the hope felt threatened. She had seen the men near the trees. She had seen the lantern. She had seen the knife.
The village was no longer only whispering. It was watching.
Behind her, the manor had disappeared into mist, but Isla could still feel the beast’s presence at her back. He had stood on the steps when the birds screamed. He had seen the men vanish into the trees. He had understood exactly what it meant. Briar Hollow had found the road to his door.
By the time Isla reached the first cottages, the village had begun its morning work, but the ordinary sounds felt false. A cart rolled past too slowly. A woman stopped sweeping her step and watched Isla pass. Two men outside the blacksmith’s shop lowered their voices when she came near. One of them was Thomas Reed. Isla knew him by sight. He was the miller’s nephew, a broad-shouldered young man who had always seemed more eager to impress others than to think for himself.
He looked away when Isla met his eyes.
That told her enough.
At home, Beatrice opened the door before Isla knocked. She looked even paler than the day before.
“You saw them,” Beatrice said.
Isla stepped inside. “You knew?”
“I guessed. Three men left before dawn. Thomas Reed, Peter Vale, and Owen Pike. Peter’s mother told half the village yesterday that something wicked lives beyond the ridge. By evening, men were drinking at the inn and pretending they were brave.”
Isla removed her cloak and revealed the rose. “They were near the manor.”
Beatrice closed the door slowly. “How near?”
“Near enough for the birds to scream.”
Beatrice’s face tightened. “Does he know?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And he looked exactly as you would expect a hunted creature to look.”
Beatrice said nothing to that. For once, she did not argue with the word creature. Perhaps she heard the pain beneath it.
“Where is Father?” Isla asked.
“In his room. Lavinia has already been there this morning.”
“Of course she has.”
“She insists she never told anyone to go to the ridge.”
“Did she?”
“No,” Beatrice said. “She only told the story loudly enough for fools to decide it for themselves.”
Isla started toward the stairs.
Beatrice caught her sleeve. “Do not tell Father everything at once.”
“I will not lie.”
“I did not ask you to lie. I asked you not to kill him with the truth before the rose can save him.”
The words were harsh, but the fear behind them was real. Isla nodded and went upstairs.
Grover was awake when she entered. He was sitting upright, one hand pressed to his chest, his eyes fixed on the door as if he had been waiting for the worst to walk through it. When he saw Isla, relief came first. Then he saw her face, and the relief died.
“What happened?” he asked.
Isla crossed the room and placed the rose on the table. “Drink first.”
“Isla.”
“Please, Father.”
Grover stared at her for a moment, then gave a tired nod. Isla prepared the eleventh rose with careful hands. She had done it so many times now that the work should have felt simple, but today every movement felt heavy. She removed the petals, crushed them in the cloth, and pressed their ruby essence into the vial. The scent rose into the room, sweet and powerful, but it could not hide the fear.
Grover drank. As always, the rose worked. His breath eased. His shoulders lowered. His face gained a little colour. Isla waited until she saw the cure settle in him before she spoke.
“I saw three men near Blackwood Ridge this morning.”
Grover’s eyes closed.
“They were watching the manor,” Isla said. “One had a lantern. One had a knife.”
Her father opened his eyes again. “Names?”
“I recognized Thomas Reed. Beatrice thinks the others were Peter Vale and Owen Pike.”
Grover’s jaw tightened. “Fools.”
“Yes.”
“Frightened fools are worse than cruel men. Cruel men know what they intend. Frightened fools think any harm they do is righteousness.”
Isla sat beside him. “They ran when they saw me.”
“They will return with more courage and more company.”
“I know.”
Grover looked toward the window. The morning light made his face look stronger than it had in weeks, but sorrow aged him more than sickness now. “This is what I feared. The danger has escaped the manor.”
“It began here too,” Isla said quietly.
He looked at her.
“Lavinia spoke,” she continued. “Mrs Vale carried it. Men listened. Now fear is growing because people are feeding it.”
Grover covered his face with his hand. “I should speak to them.”
“You are not strong enough.”
“I am still master of this house.”
“And if you fall in the village square trying to calm men who want to fight a beast, what then?”
He lowered his hand. “Then at least I fall doing something.”
“You are doing something. You are living. That is why I keep going.”
He looked at her with pain in his eyes. “And if your going leads men to him?”
“They already know the way.”
“Not all of them.”
“No,” she admitted. “Not yet.”
A heavy silence settled between them.
Grover reached for her hand. “Do not go tonight.”
Isla had expected it, yet the words still hurt. “Father—”
“Listen to me. If they follow you, you may lead them straight to the gates. If the beast sees them, he may attack. If they see him, they may strike first. You may be caught between both.”
“I know.”
“Then do not go.”
“I must.”
“No,” Grover said, and his voice broke. “No. Not this time. I have begged before because I feared him. Today I beg because I fear everyone. Stay one night. Let the village calm. Let me speak to them tomorrow.”
“One missed night could undo the cure.”
“Perhaps not.”
“We tried perhaps once. You nearly died.”
He flinched, because the memory was true.
Isla held his hand tighter. “I cannot risk it. Not when we are so close. Tonight is the twelfth night. After that, only three nights remain.”
“Three nights,” he repeated bitterly. “You speak of them like steps across a bridge, but I see only three chances for you to fall.”
“I will be careful.”
“You will be brave. That is different.”
She had no answer.
A knock came at the door, and Beatrice entered without waiting. Lavinia stood behind her, stiff and offended, with Cecily hovering nervously at her side.
“Tell her,” Beatrice said to Lavinia.
Lavinia’s face flushed. “I have nothing to tell.”
“You have many things to tell. Choose the useful one.”
Grover straightened. “What is this?”
Beatrice’s eyes stayed on Lavinia. “Mrs Vale did not guess the ridge by magic. She heard it from Lavinia.”
Lavinia’s eyes filled with tears at once. “I never told anyone to go there.”
“No,” Isla said. “You only made sure they wanted to.”
“I told what happened to me.”
“You told pieces.”
“I was attacked!”
“You stole a rose.”
Lavinia turned to Grover. “Father, how can you let her speak to me like this? I was bleeding. I could have died.”
Grover’s voice was tired. “And did the beast save you?”
Lavinia looked away.
“Answer me.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Did you thank him?”
Her silence was answer enough.
Cecily began to cry softly. “I do not want men to go there. I do not. The garden will hurt them. Or he will. Or both.”
“Then help me stop it,” Isla said.
Cecily looked terrified. “How?”
“By telling the truth when people ask.”
Lavinia gave a sharp laugh. “The truth? That our youngest sister spends every night with a beast and returns defending him?”
“The truth,” Beatrice said, “that you stole from him and lived because he paid the price.”
Lavinia’s face crumpled with humiliation. “You hate me.”
“No,” Beatrice said. “I am trying very hard not to.”
Grover raised a hand. “Enough. All of you.”
The room fell silent.
He looked at Lavinia, and for the first time, Isla saw a father’s disappointment in his face not hidden by tenderness.
“You were frightened,” he said. “I understand that. You were hurt. I understand that too. But fear does not excuse pride. If your words send men to that manor, their blood may be on this house.”
Lavinia went pale.
Grover turned to Beatrice. “Find out who is speaking and where.”
Beatrice nodded.
He looked at Cecily. “If anyone asks you what happened, you will say the beast saved your sister.”
Cecily swallowed. “Yes, Father.”
Then he looked at Isla.
His voice softened. “And you will come back tomorrow.”
She nodded. “I promise.”
The day dragged like a wound that would not close. Beatrice moved through the house like a spy in her own home, gathering news from servants, delivery boys, and anyone foolish enough to speak near an open window. By noon, she knew enough to worry them all. Peter Vale had told the blacksmith that a cursed creature lived beyond the ridge. Thomas Reed had said Isla might be under a spell. Owen Pike claimed he had seen the manor gates himself, though Isla doubted he had gone that close. By mid-afternoon, men at the inn were arguing over whether the beast should be driven out, killed, or reported to the magistrate.
“The magistrate will not believe them,” Beatrice said.
“That may not stop them,” Isla replied.
“No. Men who feel heroic rarely wait for permission.”
Lavinia stayed quiet most of the afternoon. That worried Isla more than her crying. Cecily followed Beatrice like a shadow, still frightened but trying to be useful. Twice, she corrected servants who whispered that Isla had been bewitched. Her voice trembled both times, but she did it.
Near sunset, Grover asked to see Isla alone again. His strength from the eleventh rose remained, but the day had exhausted him. He lay back against the pillows, his face pale and serious.
“I will not forbid you again,” he said.
Isla stood near the foot of the bed, her cloak folded over her arm. “You do not have to.”
“I still want to.”
“I know.”
“If men follow you tonight, do not stand between them and the beast.”
She did not answer.
Grover sighed. “There it is again. Your silence has become the most frightening thing in this house.”
“I cannot promise what I may not be able to keep.”
“You mean you will stand between them.”
“If I must.”
“He can defend himself.”
“Yes,” Isla said. “That is what frightens me.”
Grover looked at her then with painful understanding. “You are not only protecting him from them.”
“No.”
“You are protecting them from him.”
“I think so.”
“And who protects you?”
The question was quiet.
Isla thought of the beast outside her chamber door. The beast pulling thorns into his own hand. The beast laughing because she said she would protect him. The beast warning her not to trust dreams wearing his old face.
“We are trying,” she said at last. “Both of us.”
Grover closed his eyes briefly. “Then may God help us all.”
She went to him and kissed his forehead. “I will bring the twelfth rose in the morning.”
He held her hand. “Bring yourself with it.”
“I will.”
When Isla left the house, no one stopped her. Beatrice stood by the door and gave her one last warning.
“Take the lower path after the mill,” she said. “The men were seen near the main road.”
“That path is longer.”
“Then walk faster.”
Isla almost smiled. “You are very comforting.”
“I am not trying to comfort you. I am trying to keep you alive.”
“Thank you.”
Beatrice looked uncomfortable with the gratitude. “Go before I become sentimental and embarrass us both.”
Isla stepped into the evening.
The village watched her leave.
She felt it in the stillness behind curtains, in the sudden quiet near the inn, in the way a dog barked once and then was hushed. She did not take the main road. She followed Beatrice’s advice and slipped behind the mill, crossing the wet ground near the stream before joining the older path into the woods.
For a time, she heard nothing but her own footsteps.
Then, somewhere behind her, a branch snapped.
Isla stopped.
The forest held its breath.
“Who is there?” she called.
No answer came.
She continued, faster now. The sky darkened between the branches. Mist thickened at the roots of the trees. More than once, she thought she heard movement behind her, but when she looked back, she saw only trunks and shadows.
By the time the manor gates appeared, her heart was pounding.
They opened at once.
The beast stood just inside them.
Not in the garden. Not at the manor steps. At the gate itself, as if he had been waiting there for hours.
“You were followed,” he said.
“I do not know.”
“I do.”
His voice was cold.
Isla stepped through the gate, and it shut behind her with a deep iron sound. The white birds lined the walls, all facing the forest.
“How many?” she asked.
“Two, perhaps three. They stayed beyond the old boundary.”
“Will they enter?”
“Not yet.”
“Can the garden keep them out?”
“The garden can do many things. Mercy is not its strongest talent.”
Isla looked up at him. “Then we must be careful what we ask of it.”
His mouth tightened. “We?”
“Yes.”
The beast turned away and started down the path. “You should not have come.”
“I had to.”
“You could have stayed one night.”
“No.”
“You could have sent word.”
“How? With a polite note? ‘Dear Beast, Father requires a rose, but the village may arrive with weapons, so kindly send one by post’?”
He stopped and looked back at her.
Despite his anger, something in his eyes shifted.
“That was a poor joke,” he said.
“It was a desperate one.”
“It showed.”
She almost smiled, but the danger around them held it back.
They walked through the garden together. The roses seemed darker tonight. Their petals were open, and their thorns shone black in the fading light. The birds did not move from the walls. Every part of the manor seemed alert.
Inside, dinner waited, but the beast did not lead her to the dining hall. Instead, he brought her to the library. A fire burned there, and the curtains were drawn. On the table sat a simple meal, but neither of them looked at it.
The beast stood near the hearth, still tense. “Your village has chosen its path.”
“No. A few frightened men have.”
“Frightened men become villages quickly.”
“Only if no one stops them.”
“And you plan to stop them.”
“Yes.”
He gave a short laugh without humour. “With your voice? Your stubbornness? Your great height?”
She folded her arms. “You laughed better last time.”
“Last time, the threat was still imaginary.”
“It was not imaginary to you.”
“No,” he said. “But tonight it has feet.”
Isla moved closer to the fire, warming her cold hands. “I told Father I think I may need to protect both sides.”
The beast looked at her sharply.
“Do not.”
“Do not what?”
“Do not put yourself between villagers and me.”
“I may have to.”
“No.”
The word struck hard.
Isla turned to face him fully. “You do not get to forbid me.”
“In this house, I do.”
“Not in this.”
His eyes flashed. “You have no idea what I can become if they come here with fire.”
“Then tell me.”
“No.”
“Tell me.”
The beast stepped closer. “Why? So you can look brave and say I am better than that?”
“Yes,” Isla said. “If it is true.”
“And if it is not?”
She did not answer quickly enough.
His face darkened. “There. You see the problem.”
“No. I see someone using past sins as proof he cannot choose differently.”
His voice dropped. “They came before.”
The room seemed to still.
Isla waited.
He looked toward the fire, but she could tell he was seeing another one. An older one.
“Years ago,” he said. “Not long after the curse. Rumours spread then too. Servants fled. A hunter saw me near the ridge. By the next night, men came with torches. They shouted that I had killed people, though I had not. They said the house was evil, which was closer to truth. They tried to burn the outer gate.”
“What did you do?”
His jaw tightened. “I warned them.”
“And then?”
“They threw fire into the garden.”
Isla’s hands went cold despite the hearth.
“The roses burned,” he said. “The birds screamed. The house screamed with them. I was younger in the curse then. Angrier. Less able to understand where the beast ended and I began.”
“What happened?” she asked softly.
He looked at her. “I went through the gate.”
She did not ask at once. She did not want to know, but she needed to.
“Did you kill them?”
“Two lived. One did not.”
The answer lay between them like a blade.
Isla looked down.
The beast gave a bitter smile. “There. Now you know why I tell you not to stand between us.”
She lifted her eyes again. “Did you mean to kill him?”
His expression changed.
“No.”
“Then that matters.”
“Not to him.”
“No,” she said quietly. “Not to him. But it matters to what you choose next.”
He stared at her as if he wanted to reject the comfort but could not find a clean way to do it.
“You keep speaking as if you are the only danger,” Isla said. “You forget that people can be cruel without claws.”
The words reached him. She saw it in the way his anger faltered.
Before he could answer, the white birds screamed.
The sound came from outside, sharp and sudden, cutting through the library walls. The beast turned at once. Isla was already moving.
“Stay here,” he ordered.
“No.”
“Isla—”
“No.”
He looked furious, but there was no time to argue. They ran through the hall and out into the garden. The night had fully fallen now. The sky was dark, and the garden paths were silver under the moon.
At first Isla saw nothing.
Then she smelled smoke.
The beast froze.
The smell changed him instantly. His face went hard. His shoulders lifted. His injured hand flexed as if remembering old fire.
The birds screamed again from the western wall.
They ran toward it.
Near the old boundary, beyond the smaller gate, orange light flickered between the trees. Men’s voices carried through the dark. Not many. Three, perhaps four. Isla saw the glow of torches and the quick movement of bodies behind branches.
A flame struck the outer thorn hedge.
Dry vines caught at once.
The fire climbed.
The beast made a sound low in his chest, and the garden answered. Roses twisted toward the wall. Thorned vines pulled back like muscles before a strike. The gate shook.
Isla grabbed his arm. “No.”
His eyes were fixed on the fire.
“They burn my garden.”
“I know.”
“They came to my door.”
“I know.”
“Move.”
“No.”
The word seemed impossibly small against the firelight, the screaming birds, and the living anger of the garden, but Isla held her ground.
The beast looked down at her. His eyes were too bright.
“Do not stand there,” he said.
“I promised I would.”
“I release you from it.”
“You cannot.”
The fire spread along the hedge. One of the men shouted, “Burn it back! See if the devil comes out!”
The beast’s lips drew back. Not fully. Not like an animal. Like a man at the edge of becoming one.
Isla stepped in front of him.
“Open the gate,” she said.
“No.”
“Open it.”
“They may hurt you.”
“They came because of me. Let me speak.”
“They will not listen.”
“Then they will have chosen what follows.”
The beast looked at the fire, then at her. The struggle in his face was terrible. Every instinct in him wanted to move, strike, defend, punish. But he opened the gate.
Only a little.
Enough for Isla to pass through.
She stepped outside before fear could stop her.
The night beyond the wall was full of smoke. Three men stood near the burning hedge: Thomas Reed, Peter Vale, and Owen Pike. A fourth figure lingered farther back, but ran as soon as Isla appeared. Thomas held a torch. Peter gripped a heavy stick. Owen had a knife at his belt and fear all over his face.
They stared at Isla as if she had risen from the fire.
“Miss Isla?” Thomas said.
“Put the torch down.”
Thomas blinked. “You should not be here.”
“Neither should you.”
Peter Vale stepped forward. “We came to help you.”
“No. You came to frighten yourselves into doing something foolish.”
Owen looked past her toward the gate. His face went pale. Isla knew what he saw. The beast stood behind the iron bars, tall and dark in the garden’s shadow, his amber eyes fixed on the men like burning lamps.
Peter lifted his stick. “Step away from it.”
Isla did not move. “His name is not it.”
Thomas swallowed. “They said he bewitched you.”
“Did I look bewitched when I told you to put down the torch?”
No one answered.
The hedge crackled. Smoke thickened.
Isla pointed to the fire. “You came to burn a garden you do not understand, beside a house you have no right to enter, because you heard frightened stories from people who do not know the whole truth.”
Peter’s face hardened. “We know enough. Your sister was nearly killed.”
“My sister stole from him,” Isla said clearly. “And he saved her life.”
Thomas hesitated.
Owen looked at Peter. “His garden trapped her, though.”
“Yes,” Isla said. “Because she stole from it. Would you not defend your own home if strangers broke in and took what was yours?”
Peter gripped the stick tighter. “He is not a man.”
Behind Isla, the beast went very still.
Isla felt it.
She kept her eyes on Peter. “Perhaps he is not only a man. But you are men, and you are choosing cowardice.”
Peter stepped forward angrily. “Careful.”
“No,” Isla said. “You be careful. If you came to save me, then listen to me. I am not his prisoner tonight. I came by my own will, and I will leave by my own will in the morning. But if you raise fire against this house, you will make him your enemy. And if that happens, I do not know if I can save you from what you have chosen.”
The men fell silent.
For the first time, they looked truly afraid.
Not of the stories.
Of the truth standing before them.
Thomas slowly lowered the torch.
Peter glared at Isla, but his courage was thinning. “You speak like one of them.”
“One of whom?”
“Witches. Cursed things. Those who protect monsters.”
The beast moved behind the gate.
Isla raised one hand slightly without turning, warning him to stay.
She saw Thomas notice the gesture. His eyes widened.
“You control him?” Thomas whispered.
“No,” Isla said. “I ask him to choose.”
That frightened them more than control would have.
Owen stepped back. “We should go.”
Peter did not move.
Thomas dropped the torch into the mud and stamped it out. “Peter.”
The fire on the hedge still burned, but the garden had begun to smother it. Vines moved from inside the wall, wrapping around the flames, choking them despite the heat. The smell of smoke changed to wet ash.
Peter stared at the moving thorns. Whatever bravery he had brought from the inn began to leave him.
“This is not finished,” he said.
“No,” Isla replied. “It is not. But tonight it is over.”
Peter backed away. Owen followed quickly. Thomas looked at Isla once more, shame and fear fighting in his face.
“Miss Isla,” he said, “if you are wrong about him—”
“Then pray I remain between you.”
Thomas had no answer.
The men disappeared into the trees.
Isla stood still until the last sound of their footsteps faded. Only then did she let herself breathe.
Behind her, the gate opened wider.
The beast stepped out.
“You should not have done that,” he said.
His voice was low and rough.
Isla turned. “You keep saying that after I do things that work.”
“That could have failed.”
“But it did not.”
“They could have struck you.”
“But they did not.”
“I could have—”
He stopped.
Isla looked at him. “But you did not.”
The burned hedge hissed softly as the last flame died. Smoke curled between them.
The beast stared at the place where the men had vanished. “You stood before them.”
“I told you I would.”
“You were afraid.”
“Yes.”
“And still you did it.”
“Yes.”
His gaze returned to her, and there was something raw in it. “Why?”
She stepped closer. “Because I did not want them to hurt you.”
“They could not have.”
“That is not true.”
He looked away.
They both knew she was right. The men might not have been able to wound his body easily, but they had already reached something more fragile.
“And because I did not want you to hurt them,” she added.
His jaw tightened. “That was more likely.”
“I know.”
For a while, they stood in the smoky darkness. The garden behind them slowly calmed. The birds settled along the walls again, though none sang. The western hedge was blackened in one long scar, but the fire had not spread far.
At last the beast said, “Come inside.”
This time, Isla obeyed.
Back in the manor, the servants appeared silently with water, cloth, and a cloak warmed by the fire. Isla had not realized how cold she was until a maid wrapped the cloak around her shoulders. Her hands shook when she accepted tea in the library.
The beast noticed.
Of course he did.
“You are trembling,” he said.
“I shouted at armed men outside a cursed garden. It seemed polite to tremble afterward.”
He looked at her for a long moment.
Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.
Not loudly. Not with joy exactly. But with wonder, disbelief, and something close to relief. The sound broke the tight fear in the room.
Isla managed a small smile. “You laugh at strange times.”
“You are a strange woman.”
“I was trying to be heroic.”
“You were terrifying.”
“That is better.”
“Much better.”
He sat across from her, but not as far away as usual. The firelight caught the side of his face, softening the hard lines. For the first time that night, the beast looked less like something preparing for war.
“You saved them,” he said.
“I warned them.”
“You saved them from me.”
“And you let me.”
His eyes met hers.
That was the truth between them. He had opened the gate. He had stayed behind it. He had allowed her voice to stand where his anger wanted to go.
“That was not easy,” she said.
“No.”
“But you did it.”
His injured hand rested on the arm of the chair. Slowly, he looked down at it. “I remembered the man who died.”
Isla’s expression softened.
“I remembered his face after,” the beast said. “Not when he came with fire. Not when he shouted. After. When he was only a man and not a threat anymore.”
Isla said nothing.
“There are memories that never stop looking at you,” he said.
She moved from her chair and knelt beside him before he could stop her. She did not touch him at first. She only came close enough that he could not be alone with the memory.
“You chose differently tonight,” she said.
His voice was rough. “Because you were there.”
“No. Because you chose to listen.”
He looked at her then, and the silence changed.
For a moment, Isla thought he might reach for her. His hand shifted slightly, then stopped. He still feared what wanting might do to him. She understood that now.
So she reached first.
Not for his face. Not even for his hand.
She placed her fingers lightly on the arm of his chair, near his.
That was all.
It was enough.
The beast looked at her hand as if it were a promise written in a language he had nearly forgotten.
“You should go to sleep,” he said quietly.
“So should you.”
“I will not.”
“I know.”
“Do not argue.”
“I was not. I was noticing.”
His mouth curved faintly. “That is often worse.”
The rest of the night passed without dreams, though neither of them slept much. Isla rested in her chamber while the beast remained nearby. Once, near the darkest part of the night, she woke and heard movement outside her door. Not pacing. Guarding. She turned onto her side and closed her eyes again, feeling safer and sadder than she wanted to admit.
At dawn, the manor was quiet.
The garden smelled faintly of smoke, but the air was clear. Isla dressed and went down to breakfast. The beast was waiting by the window, looking toward the western hedge. In the morning light, the burned place looked ugly and black against the red roses.
“It will heal,” Isla said.
He did not turn. “Perhaps.”
“The garden is stubborn.”
“That it is.”
“So are you.”
He glanced at her. “And you.”
“I learned from difficult company.”
“That explains much.”
Despite the night behind them, Isla smiled. He almost did too.
At ten, he brought the twelfth rose himself.
The bloom was deep ruby red, but one outer petal was edged in white. More white than the eleventh rose had carried. Isla noticed immediately, and so did he. Neither spoke of it at first.
He held the rose out to her.
“Day twelve is complete,” he said.
The words felt heavier than before. Isla had survived the twelfth night at the manor. Twelve nights had now been completed, and three nights remained before the bargain would end.
She took the rose carefully. Their fingers touched, and this time his hand closed briefly over hers before he let go. The touch lasted only a moment, but it carried the whole night with it: smoke, fear, courage, restraint, and trust.
“You stood before them,” he said.
“I told you I would.”
“They will return.”
“Yes.”
“With more men.”
“Maybe.”
“With more fear.”
“Certainly.”
The beast looked toward the window. “You should not come tomorrow.”
Isla held the twelfth rose close. “That is not your choice.”
“No,” he said quietly. “It is yours.”
The difference mattered.
She looked at him. “Tomorrow, we need more than promises.”
His eyes returned to hers.
“We need a plan,” she said.
For a moment, the beast said nothing. Then he nodded once.
“Yes,” he said. “We do.”
Isla left the manor with the twelfth ruby rose in her hands. The gates opened for her, and the white birds watched from the walls without screaming. Beyond the garden, Blackwood Ridge waited in the pale morning light. Somewhere beyond the trees, the men of Briar Hollow would already be telling others what they had seen: the gate, the fire, the beast in the shadows, and Isla standing before him.
The twelfth night at the manor was over. Twelve nights had now been completed, and three nights remained before the bargain would end, but now the village had seen the beast’s gates, and fear had learned the road to his door.