Chapter Seven: Friendship with the Beast - Fifteen Nights with the Beast for the Ruby Rose

By the sixth day, Isla realised something that unsettled her more than fear ever had—she no longer counted her steps on the path to Blackwood Ridge. The journey had not become safe, nor easy, but it had become known, and that quiet familiarity crept in where terror once ruled. She knew where the trees thickened, where the mist gathered, where the silence pressed too closely against the ears. She knew the exact moment the manor would appear through the clearing, pale and immense like something waiting rather than merely existing. And that knowledge did not comfort her. It warned her.

Grover had improved again that morning. Not enough to be called well, but enough to sit longer, to speak with more strength, to complain about his medicine like a man who had not entirely surrendered to illness. Isla held onto that. It was the only reason she walked back into the woods that evening without hesitation. The roses were working—but only so long as she did not fail.

The manor received her as it always did now. The gates opened. The birds watched in silence. The doors yielded before she reached them. Inside, the air carried its familiar mixture of candle wax, old wood, and roses. The maids came, guided her to her chamber, prepared her with the same quiet efficiency. The gown was simpler tonight, though still fine, deep red rather than rich wine, as if the house itself had softened its display after the previous evening’s grandeur.

By the time she stepped into the corridor at nine, she no longer felt like a stranger in the house.

He was waiting.

As always.

“You are punctual,” he said.

“Yes.”

A pause followed, but it did not carry the same tension as before. Instead, something quieter rested between them.

“You did not injure anyone this evening?” he added.

The remark startled her.

Then, unexpectedly, she smiled. “No.”

“That is encouraging. I was beginning to fear for my survival.”

“I only stepped on you twice.”

“Twice too many.”

“Then you should not have asked me to dance.”

He regarded her for a moment, and there—just for a second—she saw it again. Not warmth exactly, but something dangerously close to it.

“Come,” he said.

Dinner unfolded differently that night. Not because anything in the room had changed—the candles still burned, the table still held its impossible abundance, the house still listened in its quiet, watchful way—but because they had. The silence between them no longer pressed. It lingered, but without weight. Isla found herself less rigid, less cautious in every movement, though she did not mistake that for safety.

He asked about Grover first, as he often did. She answered honestly—yes, the roses were helping, but only as long as they were given without interruption. Miss a day, and the strength faded quickly.

“Then you will not miss a day,” he said.

She looked up. “You sound certain.”

“I am.”

“You do not know that.”

“I know enough.”

There was no arrogance in the words. That was what unsettled her. He spoke as though it were fact, not belief.

“And your sisters?” he asked after a moment.

She exhaled quietly. “Unchanged.”

“That sounds unfortunate.”

“It is.”

“Do they speak of me?”

“Yes.”

“And what do you tell them?”

She hesitated, then answered, “That you are difficult.”

He inclined his head slightly. “Only difficult?”

“And frightening.”

“That is accurate.”

“And…” she stopped.

“And?” he prompted.

She shook her head. “I do not know how to say the rest.”

His gaze remained steady on her. “Then say it badly.”

She looked at him again, more directly than she might have before. “You are not what I expected.”

“That again.”

“Yes.”

“And what do you expect now?”

She did not look away. “I do not know.”

For a moment, something in his expression shifted—not enough to soften him, not enough to change what he was, but enough to suggest that uncertainty did not displease him.

“Good,” he said. “Certainty is often wrong.”

The candles burned lower as the meal went on. The fire softened. The house grew quieter around them, as though it too had settled into something less strained. Their conversation came more easily now—not constant, not effortless, but no longer edged with the same careful restraint. He asked whether she preferred books or music. She said books. He asked whether she had ever travelled beyond her village. She had not. She asked, more carefully now, whether he believed people could change.

“Yes,” he said.

The answer came without hesitation.

She studied him. “You sound very certain.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

He held her gaze.

“Because I have.”

The words lingered between them. She did not press further. Not this time.

When dinner ended, neither rose immediately. The moment stretched—not awkward, not silent in the old way, but thoughtful. At last he stood, and she followed.

“You will sleep,” he said.

“Yes.”

She turned to leave, then paused.

He noticed. “You have something to say.”

She hesitated, then asked quietly, “Why do you wait for me?”

A faint shift in his posture. “What do you mean?”

“At breakfast. At dinner. You are always there before I arrive.”

“That is the arrangement.”

“No,” she said softly. “It is not required.”

Silence followed.

“I prefer it,” he said at last.

“Why?”

He did not answer immediately. For once, he did not seem inclined to dismiss the question.

At length, he said, “Because this house is very quiet.”

The truth of it settled around them both.

“Yes,” she said.

He looked at her then, more directly than before. “And because you are not.”

The simplicity of it caught her completely unguarded. There was no flourish in the words, no attempt to soften or disguise them. That made them more powerful than anything else he might have said.

She looked away first.

“I should go.”

“Yes.”

That night, in her chamber, Isla did not lie awake in fear. She did not listen for forbidden sounds or imagine what might exist beneath locked doors. Instead, she lay quietly, staring upward, her thoughts unsettled in a different way.

She was still afraid of him.

But now—

she was also beginning to understand him.

And understanding, she realised, was far more dangerous than fear.

Morning came softly. At six, she rose. At eight, she entered the breakfast room prepared as instructed. He was already there, as always. But this time, she did not wait in silence.

“Good morning,” she said.

The words felt small, almost ordinary.

He looked at her.

“Good morning, Isla.”

At ten, he brought the rose himself. “Day five is complete,” he said.

She took it carefully. “Yes.”

“You will return.”

This time, it did not sound like a command.

“Yes,” she said. “I will.”

And this time—

she meant it without hesitation.

As she left the manor, the garden no longer felt entirely like a place of captivity. The birds still watched. The roses still burned darkly along the paths. The gates still closed behind her. Nothing in the world had changed.

Except her.

And as she walked back through the woods, the ruby rose held close, Isla realised something she was not yet ready to name—

She was no longer only enduring the nights in the manor.

She was beginning to belong to them.