Beauty and Her Beastly Love (Passion-Filled Fairy Tales Book 2) (4 page)

Beast stormed back to his room and closed the door with a thud that was harder than he’d intended. He wanted her to think he was in control, that he was able to master himself, to not hurt her, to not take what he wanted.

Only, he wasn’t sure he was. It had taken every bit of constructive will within himself not to rip her clothes off, throw her on the bed and take her. He’d imagined it. From the moment he saw her, with her straight auburn hair flowing to just beneath her shoulders, and her beautiful breasts tempting him from within that dress. Why was the neckline so low? He was sure her breasts beneath it were beautiful and round, like grapefruits, with gorgeous pink areolas that he could suckle. And when he did, she would moan with pleasure. She had wide, tempting hips, and he wanted nothing more than to grab them and hold them tight as he slid right into her and pounded her until she could take no more, until she cried out in pleasure that she wanted him to come. He wanted her. He wanted her more than he had wanted anyone, and he wanted her now.

He shook his head, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. He couldn’t do that. He just couldn’t. That would mean he hadn’t changed. All these years, he’d been confined to this estate would have been a waste if he hadn’t changed. He thought he’d become enlightened, learned his lesson, and was someone who could want a woman who didn’t want him and not let it bother him. But it wasn’t true. He wanted her, more than he’d ever wanted anyone. More than he’d wanted Isabelle. Beautiful, beautiful Isabelle, the pretty, shy girl that every boy wanted. Hair the color of straw, large round breasts, and a full rump. But he wasn’t every boy. He was a Verran, and all the girls wanted to be with boys from the Verran family. He was 18 and had bedded more of the town’s pretty girls than he could count. They threw themselves at him, hoping he would fall for them, hoping he would take them and be so enamored that he’d marry them. Marry them and they’d gain access to the Verran fortune.

Getting girls had always been easy. He didn’t care that he left some heartbroken. He would always buy them something special, usually a rose or a trinket, and then tell them it was over. But Isabelle. She had been different. She’d been beautiful, of course. All the girls had been beautiful. But Isabelle had played hard to get. She had pretended she wasn’t interested. It just made his passion all the more wild. He pursued her relentlessly, and she continued to deny him.

Finally one night, when most of the town was at the winter ball, he cornered Isabelle in the stables where she liked to tend to the animals. He told her it was time to stop playing, that she would finally be his. She told him no, but he knew it was just more of her playing, more playing designed to drive him insane with lust, so he pushed her down on a bed of hay intended for the animals and began to tear her clothes off, even as she begged him to stop. He was about to rip off her undergarments when she said something he’d never heard before, something so strange to his ears, that even now he couldn’t reproduce the sound. It was like a primordial cry. And then, behind him, he heard a thud, and in walked a woman in a red, hooded cloak. He couldn’t see her face, obscured by the hood, but he could see her eyes were red like a demon. The eyes scared him so much that he turned away, back at Isabelle, who was in tears, flanked by the shreds of her dress. It only occurred to him, then, at that very moment, that she had not been playing, that she really did not want him, and he felt sorry that he hadn’t seen it. He said her name like a question, “Isabelle?” In his mind, it was a question. He wondered, was that really her? Had he really caused her to cry like that?

“Don’t you dare!” said a voice behind him, and he turned back to see the cloaked woman standing before him. “Don’t you dare say this sweet girl’s name again, not after what you tried to do to her. I’ve watched her for a long time from afar, because I thought she was kind, and I knew you were no good. I told her if ever she was in trouble to call for me, and, thankfully, she did. You are a vile, vile human being for trying to hurt her.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. Even now, seven years later, he wasn’t sure if he had meant that he was sorry for what he had tried to do to the girl or if he was just frightened of the creature’s wrath. He didn’t know if the creature was a devil or sorceress or both.

“You’re sorry you got stopped,” the woman hissed, “Not sorry for what you did.” She looked at Isabelle, and said, “Encampe maison.” The girl disappeared. His heartbeat quickened. This woman was definitely an evil sorceress.

“Please,” he said. “Please, I’m sorry. I thought she was just teasing. Please don’t hurt me. Please have mercy on me.”

Before that moment, he had never begged for anything from anyone. He had always been given what he wanted, or taken it, if it wasn’t offered. He had always felt entitled to it, the way he’d felt entitled to Isabelle. But, he knew in that moment, as he stood in the shadow of this woman, that he was entitled to nothing. Not even life. He feared she would kill him. Some days, he wished she had killed him.

Instead, she said, “You are a beast, and everyone will know it by looking at you.”

He stared at her, confused, and waited a moment for her to say something more, but she didn’t. The fear that was paralyzing him moments earlier trickled away as he realized that she was all bark without bite. He laughed. “That’s it?” he said. “You call me a beast and say everyone will know it.”

“Your fear turns to hubris too easily,” she said. “Look at your hands.”

He looked down, and though he’d felt no change, his hands were covered in fur. He looked down at his legs. They were still in his pants, but his feet, somehow without him noticing, had broken through his shoes and were now giant paws, with clawed toes. He reached up and felt his face. It was covered in hair. His ears were now pointy, like a wolf’s. He felt his nose and mouth; they had morphed into something larger, like a snout. “What did you do to me?” he asked, wishing there were a mirror, wishing he could see himself.

She laughed, her whole frame shaking as her cruel cackle left her hood. “You will remain a beast until you learn how to control yourself.”

“I can,” he said. “I can do that now. I won’t ever do anything like this again. I promise.” He got onto his knees. “Please,” he said. “Please take it back. Please undo this sorcery.”

The hood shook from side-to-side, only the red eyes visible. “Only you can undo this.”

“How?” he begged, “Please, tell me how.”

“You must learn to control yourself, and you must convince another that you are worthy of her love, despite your appearance.”

He could do that. He would go home and tell one of the girls he’d been with what had happened. She would profess her love, and this curse would end. He was sure he could convince someone to love him, even if it was just the love of his status as a Verran.

There was a snarl from the woman. “You are so transparent,” she said. “Reading your thoughts is like finding the moon on a cloudless night. Too easy.”

He looked up at her, confused.

“You think your name, your status, will save you?”

His mouth fell open. She actually had read his mind.

“Emile de Verran, from now on, you will be called Beast. I suggest you tell no one your real name, for if they call you by your real name, it will be catastrophic.”

He waited for her to say more. She didn’t. He wanted to grab her and ring her neck, but he knew her magic was too powerful for him to counter. Why would she curse him to this beastly form and then play word riddles with him? “How will it be catastrophic? What will happen?”

She smiled. “It is not so funny when people play with your feelings, is it, Beast?” she said, as if she had searched his mind and seen all the cruelty he had exhibited toward his former lovers. And, yes, it was cruel of him to lead them on, he realized just then. The woman spoke. “If someone calls you by your name, you, Beast, shall die. You must convince someone to love you with only your personality. And it cannot be the shallow love of schoolgirl crushes. It must be time-tested and long-endured, the love of truth and unity.”

What the Hell did that even mean? A love of truth and unity. He was lost.

“I am sending you away now,” the sorceress said.

His eyes widened. “What?”

“You will be sent to an enchanted manor. Everything you need to live will be provided for you. But you will not be able to leave the grounds. If you do, you will die.”

“Then how am I to find a girl to love me?”

She laughed again, another wicked cackle. “I guess that does present a dilemma, doesn’t it? I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

The sides of the cloak rose, a sign she was lifting her arms. Beast saw a bright light, and then he was here. He’d been here for the last seven years. And now he had his chance. He had to make Beauty love him, and he had to control himself.

That night, Beauty had a dream. In it, Beast came into her room, where Beauty was lying in bed naked. Beast lay next to her and stared. His eyes drank her in greedily, but he didn’t touch her.

She wasn’t sure why she was naked, but she wanted him to touch her. She wanted him to glide his fingers along her breasts. She wanted him to kiss her, to know what it felt like to have his mouth on hers. She wanted him to pull her close to him so she knew what if felt like to have her body pressed against his. Only, he did nothing but watch. It drove her mad at the same time it pleased her. Pleased her to have him so close, but aggravated her that he wouldn’t do what they both seemed to want.

“Why do you just stare?” she asked, and her words sounded more like a plea than a question.

“Because you haven’t asked,” he said simply.

She stared at him, not sure she should ask, but realizing she couldn’t take the agony of wanting him any longer. “Kiss me,” she said.

He sat up, then climbed on top of her, straddling her naked body with his clothed body. She was startled by what this did to her, how it made her feel down below: moist, warm and yearning for more. He smiled at her, then leaned forward, pressing his lips to hers, sliding his tongue into her mouth. It wrapped with hers, doing a seductive dance. She liked the feel of his mouth on hers, the scent of him, so close, a little bit earthy and rustic. She even liked the tickle of his facial hair against her chin. His mouth stayed pressed to hers, their tongues mingling, and she felt short of air, but she didn’t care. She wanted to pull him closer to feel him closer, but he somehow resisted.

He pulled away, stared at her lying beneath him. “Did you like your kiss?”

She nodded.

He smiled crookedly, his brown eyes gleaming. “If you want more, you only have to ask.”

She did want more. She opened her mouth to ask, but then she heard a noise, a high-pitched warbling. She turned to see what it was. Then, her eyes popped open. It had been a dream. She was alone in her bed, and there was a bird singing outside her window.

* * *

Beauty didn’t want to see Beast, not after that dream. She conjured breakfast in her room, thinking of croissants, fresh fruit and milk. She ate, and then the dishes disappeared when she thought she’d like them gone.

She wanted to explore the house and grounds a little, but not run into him. She went outside to the garden and saw the golden roses. They were magnificent, even prettier in bloom than they were after they’d been cut and stuffed into a bag, as were the first ones she’d seen — the ones her father had brought back.

Beauty was looking at the flowers when she heard the sound of an axe, the clop of cut wood as it was stacked and labored breathing. She rounded the corner of the manor and saw Beast, an axe in his hand, splitting logs for firewood. He wore only trousers, and she could see just how powerful and muscular he was. Even though his skin was covered in thick black fur, she could see the defined pectoral muscles, brawny biceps and toned abdominal muscles. He was strong and powerful, and she wondered what it would feel like to be held in his arms.

He was lifting the axe to chop another log when he spotted her and smiled. He set the axe down and walked over toward her. “Good day to you, Beauty,” he said, upon reaching her. She didn’t want him to know she was avoiding him, so she forced a smile in response.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked.

She nodded, but again she didn’t want to speak. Instead, she stared at him, at just how massive he was up close, just how sculpted his chest was. Perhaps cutting firewood kept his upper body so strong.

“Have you seen the roses?” he asked, his voice a little uncertain, as if he were afraid he were boring her.

She shook her head.

“I’ll show them to you,” he said, turning toward the garden. He started to hold out his hand toward her, but then, as if suddenly remembering his vow not to touch her again until she asked, he retracted the hand and said, “Follow me.”

For some reason, Beauty felt stung by his action, but she didn’t know if it stung because she wanted him to touch her and he wouldn’t. Or if it stung because she wished she didn’t want him to touch her. She followed him to the roses, and they stood next to one of the bushes, a foot or so of space between them. Beast bent a branch with a rose toward her. “Touch it,” he suggested. “I think you’ll be surprised.”

Beauty reached out her hand toward the petal, bringing it within an inch of Beast’s hand. She looked at him, and he was watching carefully to see if she would actually touch him. She bit her lower lip and decided not to give him the satisfaction. She felt the rose’s petals, and they were soft, like those of a real flower. She actually was startled by how soft they felt. “How is this possible?” she asked. “The flowers my father carried were hard.”

Beast smiled. “After they’re cut, they turn to regular gold within a few hours, gold that can’t grow and breathe, expand, or open its petals, or even wither and die. But, as long as they’re growing, they’re like real flowers. In need of love and attention, so they can open up and blossom.” He looked at her longingly and said, “Sometimes they just need the right touch, the right caress, to bloom.”

The air between them was charged, and she felt herself drawn to Beast, drawn to his words, drawn to his sweaty, musky scent after cutting wood. She had to go. She turned and tripped over a rock. She was sure she was going to fall flat on her face and put her hands out in front of her. Instead, she felt Beast’s arms wrap around her waist and pull her back to him.

She was clasped against his body, a firm, sweaty, tangle of muscles and fur. Her breath was ragged from the shock of the near fall and the quick rescue. Her heart thumped in her chest. Beast released her. “I’m sorry,” he said.

She took two steps back and looked at him. “For what?” she asked.

“I promised not to touch you,” he said, looking at her eyes, seeming to beg permission to touch her again. “I only did it to stop your fall.”

“I know,” she said, but she looked down at the ground. The grass was still green, but not particularly lush, due to the cold.

He stepped closer to her, so close that she could feel his breath on her. “I will keep my promise in the future, so long as you’re not in danger of getting hurt. I won’t touch you unless you ask.”

Beauty looked into his eyes, and it was as if they were demanding she ask him. Demanding her to say, “Please, touch me.” Or was it her eyes that were demanding that? Maybe it was another part of her body. The body that felt drawn to his, that wanted to feel him touching her everywhere. “Yes, please don’t,” she whispered, then turned and walked away.