Chapter five The Beast’s Temper - Fifteen Nights with the Beast for the Ruby Rose
By Hasnainhr
By the fourth evening, Isla knew the rhythm of the manor well enough to fear what lay outside it less than what might change within it.
The path to Blackwood Ridge no longer startled her, though it still unsettled her. The gate opened for her without protest, the white birds watched in silence, and the roses burned darkly in the fading light. Everything received her now as though she belonged to the pattern of the place, and that quiet acceptance disturbed her more than the terror of her first arrival ever had. She crossed the garden steadily and entered the manor without hesitation.
The ritual followed as always. The maids came, silent and precise, guiding her to her chamber. The bath was prepared, the gown laid out, her hair brushed and arranged. She submitted without question. The structure of the house had begun to settle into her bones: arrive before sunset, prepare, attend dinner at nine, withdraw at eleven, rise at six, breakfast at eight, depart at ten. It was a life of rules, and she had begun to understand that in this place, rules were not suggestions—they were the only protection she possessed.
At nine, she stepped into the corridor.
He was waiting.
The beast stood beneath a row of candles, his dark form almost blending into the shadows behind him. His posture was still, controlled, his presence filling the space with an authority that seemed to press outward into the walls themselves. When he looked at her, the amber of his eyes caught the light with a quiet intensity.
“You are punctual,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Good. Come.”
She followed him into the dining hall.
The table had been set as before, though with different dishes, different arrangements, nothing ever repeated exactly. The abundance remained, but Isla had learned by now that the feast was not for indulgence. It was part of the order of the house, as precise as the hour itself.
She took her seat.
He sat beside her.
For a time, they ate in silence. Isla kept her movements careful, her attention lowered, her thoughts turning over themselves with increasing insistence. The questions she had pushed aside the previous nights had not left her. They had grown. Every glance at the portraits, every word he spoke with that strange blend of refinement and distance, every controlled movement at the table—everything told her he had not always been as he was now.
Curiosity pressed against caution.
At last, she spoke.
“May I ask you something?”
The words felt heavier than they should have.
He did not look at her immediately. He finished cutting a piece of meat, set down his knife, and only then turned his head slightly.
“You may ask,” he said. “Whether I answer is another matter.”
“That is fair.”
He studied her for a moment, as though measuring not the question but her intent. “Go on.”
She drew a slow breath.
“I have seen the portraits in the corridor.”
A pause.
“Yes,” he said.
“They resemble you.”
Silence stretched between them.
She continued carefully. “Not as you are now… but as you might have been.”
His gaze sharpened slightly.
“Continue,” he said.
Her hands tightened faintly in her lap, but she forced herself onward. “You speak… not as a creature born to this. You move as though you remember something else. A different life.”
The tension in the air thickened.
She hesitated only a moment longer.
“Were you born like this?”
The words fell quietly.
But they struck like something loud.
The beast did not move.
Not at first.
Then, very slowly, he set down his glass.
The sound of it touching the table was soft—but final.
“What did you say?”
His voice had changed.
It was lower now, but not calm.
She felt the first sharp edge of fear return.
“I asked—”
“I heard you.”
The interruption came cold and precise.
She swallowed. “I did not mean—”
“You meant exactly what you said.”
His gaze fixed on her fully now.
The warmth that had been there before—faint though it was—was gone.
“Do you find my condition entertaining?” he asked.
“No.”
“Interesting?”
“No.”
“A curiosity to be examined at dinner?”
Her breath faltered. “I only wanted to understand—”
“You are not here to understand me.”
His voice rose.
Not into a roar.
Not into wild anger.
But into something far more controlled—and far more frightening.
“You are here because you made a bargain.”
The words struck with force.
She flinched.
“I know,” she said quickly.
“Do you?” His chair moved sharply as he stood. The sound echoed through the hall like a crack in something solid. “Because you speak as though you have forgotten your place.”
“I have not,” she said, though her voice trembled.
“Then remember it.”
The command cut through her.
“I did not ask you here for conversation,” he continued. “I did not ask for your curiosity. I did not ask for your sympathy.”
“I did not offer—”
“Then do not presume to question what I am.”
The words landed harder than they should have.
Not because they were loud.
But because they were deliberate.
Because they were controlled.
Because they meant exactly what they said.
Tears rose suddenly, sharply, before she could stop them. She hated that. Hated the way fear and humiliation came together so quickly.
“I am sorry,” she said, her voice small despite her effort to steady it.
He did not answer.
The silence that followed was worse than his anger.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Isla stepped back.
“I will go to my room.”
He did not stop her.
That hurt more than if he had.
She turned and left the hall quickly, her composure breaking with every step she took down the corridor. The manor seemed longer than before, darker, heavier. The candlelight wavered as she passed, the shadows deepening around her, the silence pressing in.
By the time she reached her chamber, her vision had blurred.
She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, pressing her hand to her mouth as the tears finally came. They were not loud. Not dramatic. Just quiet, steady, unavoidable.
Why had she asked?
Because she had wanted to know.
Because she had begun to see something in him that did not match the terror she had first felt.
Because she had forgotten—just for a moment—that she had no right to that knowledge.
“You are not here to understand me.”
The words echoed in her mind.
She crossed the room slowly and sat at the edge of the bed, her hands still trembling. The gown she wore felt too fine for the way she felt, too careful, too arranged. The room itself—so perfectly ordered—seemed to mock the disorder of her thoughts.
She lay down without changing, without extinguishing the candles, without caring for the routine she had followed so carefully before. The rules of the house suddenly felt less like protection and more like something she had mistaken for safety.
Sleep came unevenly.
Her mind returned again and again to the moment at the table—the way his voice had changed, the way he had risen, the way his words had cut not with rage but with something colder. He had not lost control. That was what frightened her most.
He had chosen it.
Morning came.
She did not rise at six.
She did not prepare.
She did not go to breakfast.
The breakfast room was prepared as always.
The table was set.
The food was arranged.
The tea was poured.
And he waited.
At first, he said nothing. Time passed. The light shifted faintly at the windows, the pale morning pressing gently against the glass. The servants moved quietly in the background, then stilled, sensing something unspoken in the air.
“She is late,” he said at last.
No one answered.
Another minute passed.
Then another.
The tea cooled.
His hand tightened slightly around the cup before him.
“She is never late.”
Still no answer.
He set the cup down more firmly than necessary.
The sound echoed.
She had not come.
Something moved through him then—not anger, not exactly, but something close to unease. It unsettled him more than anger would have done. He rose abruptly, the chair behind him shifting with a low scrape.
“Leave it,” he said.
The servants withdrew at once.
He did not wait.
Isla heard the knock.
Soft.
Measured.
Three taps.
She did not move.
Another knock followed.
“Miss Isla.”
His voice.
Different.
Lower.
Quieter.
She turned her face into the pillow.
“I am not hungry,” she called, her voice thick. “Go away.”
Silence.
Then—
“I brought breakfast.”
“I do not want it.”
A pause.
Longer this time.
“I was waiting.”
Something in the way he said it made her chest tighten.
“I said go away.”
Another silence.
Then—
“I am sorry.”
The words reached her through the door, quiet but unmistakable.
She sat up slowly.
For a moment, she thought she had imagined it.
“I should not have spoken to you that way,” he continued. “I should not have raised my voice.”
She stared at the door.
“I do not want your apology,” she said, though her voice had softened.
“I know.”
A faint shift outside.
“I deserve that.”
That stopped her.
She rose slowly and crossed the room, her hand hesitating on the latch. Every instinct told her to remain where she was, to keep the distance, to protect herself from whatever might come next.
But something else—something quieter—urged her forward.
She opened the door.
He was kneeling.
The tray rested beside him, untouched. Steam still rose faintly from the tea. The food had been arranged carefully, as though nothing had been rushed.
And he—
He was on his knees.
His head was bowed slightly.
“I am sorry, Lady Isla,” he said. “Please forgive me.”
She could not speak.
The sight of him—this powerful, terrifying presence—reduced to something so unexpectedly humble unsettled her more than his anger had.
“You do not have to—” she began.
“I do.”
He lifted his head.
There was no anger in his eyes now.
Only something rawer.
“I was wrong.”
The simplicity of it broke through her remaining fear.
A small, surprised laugh escaped her.
“Forgiveness granted,” she said, half amused, half overwhelmed.
For a moment, he simply looked at her.
Then, slowly, something like a smile touched his face.
“You are very quick to forgive.”
“I am very hungry,” she replied, glancing at the tray.
A quiet sound left him—almost laughter.
He rose carefully.
“Then you should eat.”
They ate in her room.
Quietly.
Without ceremony.
Without distance.
The tension between them had changed.
Not gone.
But altered.
After some time, he said, “You should not have asked.”
“I know.”
“I should not have answered as I did.”
“I know that too.”
Silence settled again, but it no longer felt sharp.
At ten, he brought her the rose himself.
“Day three is complete,” he said.
She took it.
“Yes.”
He hesitated.
“Will you return tomorrow?”
The question was quiet.
Uncertain.
She met his gaze.
“Yes,” she said. “I will.”
And this time, she meant it differently.
As she left the manor, the rose held close in her hands, her thoughts were no longer filled only with fear.
She had seen his anger.
But she had also seen something else.
Something gentler.
Something human.
And that—
more than anything—
stayed with her.