Beast Part 3: An Erotic Fairy Tale

BEAST
3.

An Erotic Fairy Tale

ELLA JAMES

CHAPTER 1

Annabelle

Every time my lungs expand to draw in air, it feels like too much movement. Too much noise.

L
ogically, I know I can’t keep hiding indefinitely. If I stay here, someone will find me. But I’m not ruled by logic. I’m compelled by fear. So I crouch down on Beast’s bathroom floor until my knee caps ache and my back knots, and my fingernails are sore from picking at the grout between the small, gray tiles.

They just…took him.

How could they just take him that way?

Did he really kill that guy? The
Aryan?

Where is he now?

Too many questions banging around my head, so I stand up. Blood rushes into my legs, making them tingle, then ache.

I slide my phone out of my pocket and scroll to Holt’s name. If only I could call him—but I don’t have service in the prison.

Clinton. I turn toward the mirror mounted over the sink and inhale slowly. If I’m going to leave this bathroom, the first person I should look for is Clinton.

I can do that.
Surely I can find Clinton before the men who took Beast find me, too.

But what if I don’t?

I imagine myself in a small, empty room. Water dripping down the walls, leaving slimy mold trails. Rusted bars through which hazy sunlight floats. Nothing in the world but me and the dust particles drifting through the gross, stale air.

They couldn’t do that to me, right? I’m not a prisoner.

Beast is.

Shit, I’ve got to help him. I won’t leave her
e until I find out what the hell is going on.

I blink int
o the mirror one more time, then slide my phone back into my pocket. Step slowly into his room. His room. This is
his room
. That bed there—that rumpled bed, with its soft, black duvet—is where I lay with him and felt the hard warmth of his abs; his scratchy face; the softness of his lips pressed hard against mine. I sucked the head of his cock into my cheeks and tasted the slick saltiness of him. Just a little while ago, his tongue flicked between the swollen lips of my pussy.

He told me he remembered me.

He said he practically stalked me.

It’s
so hard to believe.

It’s like a
dream.

Like a
fairy tale.

A twisted fairy tale, because my prince is stuck in prison and as soon as he told me he remembered me, I lost him.

Tears fill my eyes as I stand there in the bathroom doorway, and in the blur of them, I notice the bookshelf that runs along the wall out in front of me. Somehow—I guess because my eyes went straight to him—I didn’t notice it when Clinton first brought me here.

I
know I need to get the hell out of dodge, but I can’t stop my renegade feet from carrying me over, or my eyes from skimming the spines of the books he chooses to keep here in his room with him.

Beloved
.
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
.
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time
.
A Clockwork Orange
.
Fight Club
.
The Bible
.
The Koran
.
Peace is Every Step. The Diary of a Young Girl: Anne Frank.

I wonder if these books were donated. I pull out
The Diary of A Young Girl: Anne Frank
and skim through the pages. I only have to flip a few before I find highlighted text.

“
It’s really a wonder that I haven’t dropped all my ideals, because they seem so absurd and impossible to carry out. Yet I keep them, because in spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.”

My eyes widen. Okay, well I think that confirms it: These books were definitely donated.

I flip a few more pages and see boxy, all-caps handwriting. ‘THE WEAK DIE OUT BUT THE STRONG SURVIVE.’

Well, hot damn.
That’s
his
writing. I’m almost sure I remember the tabloids reporting that he wrote in all caps. It was one of those mundane articles I remember only because I used to read so many of them in my star-struck, younger years.

I pull out
Peace is Every Step
, because I want to know what a man like Beast thinks is important about peace. After only a few pages, I start finding passages highlighted.

“
When you love someone, the best thing you can offer is your presence.”

“
To be loved means to be recognized as existing.” And out beside this, in the margin: MANAGE EXPECTATIONS.

What does that mean?
He feels no one loves him, and therefore no one recognizes he exists? That can’t be true.

I flip through more pages, and find another highlight.

“People have a hard time letting go of their suffering.” And beside this: PAN—ATTAX?

I stare down at the handwriting, scrawled into the margin with a thick black pen.

Is that code for panic attacks?

Does Beast have panic attacks? It seems impossible to believe.

I let the breath out I’ve been holding and put the books back. Too many things about this man stir me up. Too much about him haunts me.

I
walk to the door and stand there, with my over-hot cheeks and my racing pulse, and wonder what’s the best way to find Clinton.

First, I need to get as far from Beast’s quarters as possible. When I’m found, as I assume I will be pretty quickly, I’ll tell whoever finds me that I’m here to see Clinton. They’ll probably ask me how I got in, or maybe they won’t. Probably whoever mans the cameras is in Beast’s pocket like everyone else, and they’ll remember letting me in on the sly.

But what if they’re in the pocket of Beast’s enemies now? My body goes a little cold. I don’t know anything about prison. About the politics here. About how to take care of myself here.

Surely the people who work here will help me get to Clinton.

It’s a civilized place. The employees are just regular people. 

If I get caught, I’ll say I’m here to see Clinton, and whoever finds me will take me to him. Right? He’s not a prisoner. He’s a guard. They can have guests; at least I think they can. I’ve always been able to visit Holt when I wanted. Maybe I have special privileges because I’m his daughter?

Regardless. I will find Clinton.

I need to woman up. Shake off my anxiety and get this done.
I push through Beast’s door and spirit myself out into the hall. I’m so anxious, I forget to look around. I just bolt to the right, hoping to get down the short hallway that houses Beast’s quarters before someone sees me. That way they won’t know I was visiting him, and the men who took him won’t feel the need to “take care of it,” or whatever it was they said they’d have to do if I was found.

I’m mid-stride, hurling my body toward the doorway that leads back to the main hall, when strong finger
s close around my upper arm. I gasp and whirl.

For a second before my brain registers the
face, I allow myself to hope it’s him. Instead, when I blink and my mind clears, I find myself nose-to-nose with a hulking, blond guard. He’s got freckles all across his nose and cheeks, and a wicked-looking scar on his forehead. His blue eyes are so cold, I glance up and down his body to confirm he’s wearing a brown guard’s uniform and not a prison jumpsuit.

He’s a guard, but he looks mad enough to kill.
“Let go of me!”

He clenches my arm a little tighter and rolls his gaze down me. His brows draw
tightly together, as if he’s never seen a woman before. In a thick, Southie accent, he says, “Who the fuck are you?”

“
I’m…Belle. I’m looking for Clinton.”

“In Beast’s room?” He shakes his head vehemently. “You’re looking to get banned from here because you’re a
fucking liar.”

“You’re right. I am.” I open and shut my mouth
convulsively, trying to get my brain to come on board. Honesty. Just be honest, Annabelle. “I was looking for him—for Beast—but he’s not—”

“He’s not there
,” the guard snaps.

I nod.
“Right. But before I go, I really need to talk to—”

“Clinton’s gone
, too.”

“He’s
gone? What do you mean?”

“Went home.”

“His shift ended in the last hour? I thought he just got—”

“Doesn’t matter why,” he interrupts. “Clint’s not here. You
need to go. You don’t belong here.” He drags me down the hall, punches some keys into a keypad to open a thick, steel door, and puts his hands on my shoulders. He points me in a direction I think is the front of the prison. “Guard at the end of this hall’s Germain. Tell him Larry sent you.”

Before I can
fully process what’s going on, he says something into a Bluetooth. I hear mostly just grunts, and then an African-American man appears at the other end of the short hall.

I figure this new guy can’t be as bad as Larry, so I take a
few long, quick strides. Germain grabs my elbow and I fear I’m wrong. He starts to drag me past the rows of steel doors on each side of the hall. I jerk my arm away and dig my heels in.

“Stop it
!” My voice rings through the empty hall, and Germain peers down at me. “I don’t know who you people think I am, but—”

“I know exactly who you are, swee
theart. Come with Daddy. We’ve got some questions for you.”

“Beast?” I say.
Is he taking me to Beast?

“You’re his bitch. That’s why we’re asking you the questions.
”

I
’m about to tell him I’m also Holt’s daughter when I feel his hand press down on my back, and I’m guided through an open doorway to my right.

And there I find all three of them: the amoral
-looking bastard in the dress suit, and the two men in black jumpsuits and boots.

CHAPTER 2

Annabelle

The man in th
e suit is sitting at a faux wood table, in the middle of a boxy room. Under the harsh fluorescent lights, I can see he has salt and pepper hair and thick frown brackets around his mouth. He’s lean but well-worked-out. Maybe sixty? The other two, both closer to my age, sit on his left and right wearing apathetic frowns.

As soon as Suit sees me, his eyes widen. “Miss Mitchell.” He
sounds pleasantly surprised. After just a second, he locks his face down again, the frown lines reminding me a little of a Hollywood movie villain.

I
stand up straighter and try to look tough, despite Germain’s death grip on my forearm.

“
You can let go of Miss Mitchell,” Suit tells Germain.

He d
oes, and then steps back behind me somewhere. I have to resist the urge to massage my arm.

I try to keep my face as neutral as possible while
Suit stares at me. After a few seconds, my patience and anxiety get the best of me, and I speak first.

“How do you know my name?”

Suit smirks, and it’s a handsome smirk. A smirk that makes him look like the embodiment of ‘The Man.’

“You’re Beast’s new pastime,” he says in his old Marlboro commercial voice.
“Everybody at La Rosa knows he fucks you.”

My eyes bug
out. Did he really just say that to me?

“‘Mine.’
” His lips draw into a smug-looking pucker. “Isn’t that right, Annabelle?”

If his goal is to throw me off, he’s
starting to succeed. I’m confused and self-conscious, wondering if I look just-fucked in my yellow shirt and red jeans. I run my fingers over my curls, and he drags his gaze up and down me, blatantly assessing. I can’t tell what his judgment is. His face remains impassive. He waits another second before speaking, and I can tell this is his M.O. Whoever he is, and whatever he does, intimidation is not something he’s new to.

“Why don’t you sit down, Annabelle?”

I shake my head. “No thank you. I’ve gotta going home. I’ve got family waiting on me.”

H
is eyes flicker past me, to Germain—a silent order. “I don’t think so.”

I fight the cold fear that washes through me.
“I do. Do you know who my—”

“Y
our ex-step-father is?”

My mouth goes dry, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth as I say, “Yes. That’s right.
Mr. …what’s your name?”

He stands up and
extends his hand across the table. “Robert. Robert Ryan.”

I
lean over and shake it, because I’m moving on auto-pilot and I’m not sure what else to do. Why does that name sound so familiar?