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Beastly: Chapter 22

Chapter 22 of Beastly, a dark and very whumpy Beauty and the Beast retelling where the captive is as dangerous as the captor… and their cat-and-mouse game is as entertaining for them both as it is deadly.

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Beauty didn’t know how long she lay on the bed of roses, surrounded by silky softness, bathed in the fragrance of the petals and the soft pale light of the moon. The vines seemed friendly now, but she knew it for the illusion it was. She still had the wounds from when they had pierced her through with thorns. The curse had saved her because it did not want Valentin to be done with her yet. That was no kindness.

The door creaked. Beauty tensed, but didn’t move. Let him come for her. What more could he do, now that he had thrown her to her death? What hope did she have, when even death—the form of escape she had not been willing to consider, the option of last resort—was denied her? She would have laughed if she’d had the strength. As it was, she closed her eyes and waited.

The fear was gone, winked out like a light. At least for now. So, too, was the fierce flame, the boiling anger. What was left? Anything? Maybe all this was an illusion, and she truly was dead.

“She’s dead,” came a soft voice, echoing her thoughts. “Oh no, oh no, oh no. Oh, Beauty, I’m so sorry.”

That voice did not belong to Valentin.

She opened her eyes to see Wyn leaning over her. Her long, unbound hair nearly brushed Beauty’s cheeks. Her tear-filled gray eyes were more enormous than ever in the moonlight.

As soon as their eyes met, Wyn jumped back with a startled squeak. “You’re… not dead?”

“I’m not dead,” Beauty agreed. She tried to sit up. Then, finding it too much work, she collapsed back down into the roses again. “At least, I don’t think I am.”

“What happened?” Wyn asked. “Are you… all right? You’re covered in blood. And your dress… did he do that?”

“Not exactly,” said Beauty. “Mostly, it was the curse.”

“One of the servants said you fought him.” From the sound of it, a listener might have thought Beauty had attempted to wrestle three full-grown bears. On the other hand, that might have been smarter than going up against Valentin.

Whatever Wyn was thinking, Beauty was sure she both had it right and completely wrong. Beauty didn’t know how to explain what had happened between her and Valentin. The chase. The fear and excitement merging into one. The constant rhythm of his footsteps, never growing closer. The strange impulse that had taken hold of her tongue and goaded him instead of begging forgiveness.

“Mostly, I ran from him,” she said at last, and knew it for an utterly inadequate explanation.

“That’s good,” said Wyn. “That’s smart.” But the sadness in her eyes said something else: It won’t make a difference in the end.

And it hadn’t.

“He caught me,” said Beauty, and again thought back to that brief and strange exchange in the skinny hallway. “He brought me up to the balcony.” Her eyes found it in the darkness—the moonlight glinting off the iron railing. “He threw me over the side.”

Wyn’s eyes grew rounder. “He what? But you…” Wyn’s careful, worried eyes scanned Beauty’s body, up and down, clearly searching for the larger injuries she should have had.

“It’s all right,” said Beauty. “I’m not hurt. Not from that, at least. The curse saved me.” She gestured down at her bed of roses.

Wyn’s eyes followed her gesture. “I don’t understand.”

“The roses. They grew under me. When I fell, I landed—”

“I figured that out,” said Wyn, with a faint hint of impatience. “But it doesn’t make sense. The curse… it doesn’t do that. If it did…”

She didn’t finish her sentence, but Beauty could hear the rest. If it did, it would have saved the others. Six chests in the hidden room. Six deaths. But Beauty was still alive.

“He thinks it saved me because he’s not done having fun with me yet,” said Beauty. The words hung in the air like a grim prophecy.

Wyn was silent for a moment, perhaps thinking through the implications of what this meant. Perhaps thinking of the offer she had made to Beauty, and wondering if it was worthless now. Not that it mattered—Beauty would never so much as consider taking that option.

Would she?

“I’m glad you’re not hurt any worse than you are,” Wyn finally said. “But… those scratches still look painful. And deep, some of them.” She patted her pocket. “I brought some supplies, just in case. I didn’t know how I would find you. Can I treat your wounds for you?” She looked away as she asked, her voice shy.

The thought of gentle hands on her skin, a cooling touch to chase away the fire of the pain, nearly made her weep. But she shook her head. “Best not,” she said, with no small amount of reluctance. “I promised Alistair that if he took me to you so I could apologize, it would be the last time I spoke with you.”

Wyn made a small exasperated noise. “Oh, you don’t have to listen to him,” she said, with a backbone Beauty would not have expected from her if she had not already seen Wyn face down Valentin for her. “I certainly don’t plan to.” Her eyes drifted down to the deep claw marks on Beauty’s wrist. “Let me treat your wounds. Let me ease some small amount of your pain. Please.”

Beauty needed no more encouragement than this. But for some reason she could not name, she could not speak her assent allowed. Instead, she gave Wyn a small nod.

Wyn’s velvet fingertips explored Beauty’s body carefully, pausing where she found skin that was broken and bleeding. She spread a cooling ointment over the wounds, but Beauty thought it was hardly necessary—her soft touch alone made the pain bearable. And the rough fabric of the simple bandages was more welcome to Beauty than the touch of the softest silk gown against her skin.

When was the last time she had felt so cared for? When was the last time she had felt cared for at all? The last time someone had treated her as a precious thing, something worth tending as gently and diligently as the most delicate rose?

Valentin regarded her as his dear one, as a precious treasure, but his affection had terrible a bite to it. He saw her as a thing to possess, as a means to an end. Wyn, though… what did Wyn see her as?

Watching Wyn work calmed her nerves. Wyn, focused intently on the task before her, didn’t seem to notice Beauty watching. This gave Beauty the freedom to study her more carefully than she ever had in the past. Wyn sucked on her lower lip in silent concentration, her hands diligent, her eyes sad and innocent. That unexpected flash of hatred came upon Beauty again.

Wyn was the perfect example of everything Beauty could never be. She helped Beauty by choice, when she would get nothing from it in return. Not out of duty, not out of guilt. Simply because she wanted to help. If she chafed against the task at all, the way Beauty would have, her face showed no sign of it.

That face was an unwelcome reminder of everything she was not. An example of all the times she chafed against her own duty—that in fact, she resented it every day, every hour, every minute. She wanted to think of herself as perfectly selfless, perfectly obedient. A look into Wyn’s countenance, which glowed with the simple pleasure of helping someone who needed it, was like gazing into a mirror that reflected back everything she could never be.

Wyn had a gentle smile on her face as she worked, as if the work itself were all she needed to bring her perfect contentment. As if caring for others was all she needed from this life. As if caring for Beauty was all she needed. The moonlight shone softly off her eyes, turning them from gray to silver, making her look like some otherworldly creature descended from the heavens solely to brush her feather-soft hands against Beauty’s skin and tend her wounds.

The scent of the roses blended with the touch of Wyn’s fingers, until Beauty could no longer tell what was smell and what was touch, or where the softness of the rose petals ended and the softness of Wyn’s fingers began. Wyn’s hands were softer than the petals, softer than Valentin’s fur.

Her eyes had drifted shut. Her lips parted slightly.

What was she doing? She snapped her mouth closed and her eyes open, and shook herself as if waking from a dream.

Wyn frowned, her hands pausing in their work. “Did I hurt you?” she asked, her voice as feather-light as her touch. “I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful.”

“No,” Beauty assured her. “No, you didn’t hurt me. I was just…” Just what? Just leaning in toward Wyn as if expecting a kiss?

Wyn didn’t resume her work. “Something upset you just now—I can tell. What is it?”

Beauty could not say what she was thinking—how could she? But she had no ready lie to offer. All she could do was shake her head.

“It’s okay.” Wyn met her eyes earnestly, then dropped her gaze. “I know what it is, I think.”

Beauty blushed, horrified. “You… do?”

“You’ve seen the truth of your situation now.” Wyn’s voice was so terribly sad. “You’ve seen him for what he is, and you know you can’t make yourself love him.” Her hand found Beauty’s and clasped it gently enough that the wounds there didn’t sting. “My offer is still open. If the curse will let me do it. I can try, at least.”

Beauty didn’t know what she felt—relief that Wyn hadn’t guessed her secret thoughts, or disappointment that Wyn hadn’t been thinking the same thing. “No,” she said. “I still intend to save myself, and you besides. I will love him.”

Wyn’s brow creased. “He threw you from a balcony.”

“I vowed to love him after I saw him flay the skin from your feet,” Beauty said, averting her eyes at the memory. It felt like a hot coal in her mind, burning too painfully to touch. “Why should it be different just because he hurt me?”

“Wanting to love someone isn’t the same as loving them.”

“But I’ll do it,” said Beauty. “I’ll do it to save myself. To save all the women who will come after me if I fail.” She paused, giving Wyn’s hand a slight squeeze. “I’ll do it to save you.”

Wyn shook her head. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

“You don’t deserve to be trapped here for centuries—trapped here with him—just because you happened to be working in the castle when he was cursed.”

“You don’t deserve this either,” Wyn pointed out with an answering squeeze of her hand.

Beauty said nothing. She knew otherwise, but she could not say so aloud.

“I’m grateful you want to save me,” said Wyn. “But when you fail, please don’t feel like you’ve failed me. He’s set you an impossible task. No one can control their heart.”

“I can.”

 “The heart can’t be controlled.” Wyn’s moon-silver eyes found Beauty’s for a second, then darted away. “I know,” she whispered, “because otherwise I would be able to control mine.”

When she leaned in for a kiss, Beauty was so surprised that she forgot to close her eyes.

There was no blood and pain in this kiss. There was no confusion. No terrible awareness that she was falling short, that she was failing in her duty. There was only softness, and gentleness, and a sweet, aching longing.

Wyn jerked back. Beauty felt bereft, as if she had been snuggled up warm and safe in her bed at home only for someone to yank her blanket away.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Wyn said, shaking her head frantically. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… Just forget that ever happened.”

But as she spoke, her eyes found Beauty’s, and lingered there with a silent question.

Beauty wanted to answer that question. She wanted to answer it with a soft but emphatic yes.

She looked away.

“I’ve learned my lesson about what happens when I don’t control my heart,” she said. “I learned a long time ago. I will make myself love him. You’ll thank me once you’re free.”

The light went out of Wyn’s eyes. “I understand.” She released Beauty’s hand. It was as much of a loss as the end of the kiss had been. “Let me know if you need any of more that ointment. I’ll have someone bring it to you.”

She turned and walked toward the door. Her steps were slow, as if she was waiting for something. Waiting, perhaps, for Beauty to tell her to wait.

Beauty’s mouth opened. She clamped a hand over her lips, and held it there until Wyn was out of sight.

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Captive Whumpee who, every day, lists off the names of the loved ones they haven't seen in months. One day they panic as they realize they can't remember one of the names.

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Beastly: Chapter 21

Chapter 21 of Beastly, a dark and very whumpy Beauty and the Beast retelling where the captive is as dangerous as the captor… and their cat-and-mouse game is as entertaining for them both as it is deadly.

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Beauty sprinted for the woods, for the gap in the crumbled wall. She wasn’t thinking about what the roses had done the last time she had run. Neither was she thinking about the woodland path waiting for her if she could only make it far enough. She had no hope driving her, and no fear—no fear of success or failure, at least. She acted on instinct. Her only fear was of the beast.

Her feet caught against the thorny vines. The vines snapped as she plowed through them, but there were always more to take their place. Her ankles bled. She brushed against soft blossoms, releasing the sweet scent of the flowers.

Behind her, an outraged howl shook the air.

Ahead of her, where the gap in the wall had been a mere instant ago, a wall of vines rose up. As high as her waist… no, as high as her nose… no, taller than Beauty herself, and stretching higher as she watched. The vines laced themselves together in an intricate latticework, rising, thickening.

The vines reached for her. She shrank back.

She might have caught the curse off guard earlier, made it wary of her, but clearly its caution had been temporary. As had her victory. It would not let her go.

So she did the only thing her panicked heart—caught between the curse and the beast, caught between fear and anger—could think to do. She spun and ran straight at the approaching beast.

Tear him open, hissed an inner voice. Gouge out his eyes—make him bleed—

Instead, she darted under his grasping arms and through the door into the castle.

The sudden warmth of the castle embraced her as the door fell shut behind her. On the other side of the thick wood, she heard the beast’s surprised cry—followed by a howl that rattled the foundations.

The door creaked open, then slammed shut. Rhythmic footsteps slammed down on the floor behind her.

She didn’t stop running.

She ran blindly through the maze of hallways. Blood dripped from her wounds as she ran—a trail that would be easy for him to follow. And yet he hadn’t caught up with her. His footsteps shook the floor in a constant rhythm, but they never seemed to draw closer.

It made no sense. He had the legs of a wolf, and she wasn’t that fast. And he had the advantage of knowing his territory.

She darted down a skinny and dimly lit hallway, hoping she had found some secret passage. No luck. The hallway ended after a few short strides, and all that lay ahead of her was a simple wooden door. When she threw the door open, she found only a pantry full of dried herbs and jarred preserves. A thick herbal fragrance drifted out the door and filled the hallway.

She turned around—too late. His bulk filled the doorway, darkening the hallway between them. His shadow stretched all the way to her, looming larger than life. The shadows his claws cast were each easily as long as her forearm.

His breathing was heavy. His tongue lolled out like a dog’s. His eyes seemed to glow a brighter red as he regarded her like a wolf might regard a trembling rabbit.

“You gave me quite a chase,” he said, licking his lips. He sighed. “But of course, it ended the only way it could end. And so soon.”

Nowhere to run. Not anymore. Her heart slammed against her chest as if trying to flee without the rest of her. But it, too, could not escape its cage. There was nothing for her to do now but—

—tear him limb from limb—

—fall at his feet and beg his forgiveness.

But she stayed on her feet. When she held his gaze, she thought she could sense a glowing red spark leap from his eyes to her, lighting her veins on fire. Or were they already aflame from the chase? She felt as if she could have kept running for days. If only she had been the hunter, and he the frightened rabbit.

No. What was she doing? Those thoughts would only lead her further into danger. She had already seen what he was capable of.

Hastily, she lowered her eyes.

“You didn’t wait for me in my garden,” he said. “Instead, you damaged my roses tearing yourself free—and for what? You know neither I nor the curse will let you go.”

She opened her mouth to apologize, but her tongue had other ideas. “Your garden?” she asked. “Your roses? I thought you had promised them to me.” Her eyes stole up to his again.

“I promised them to you in exchange for perfect obedience. It was my only request—and you have failed me yet again. You could have waited. You could have been obedient. It would have cost you nothing. Certainly you would have come out the better for it.” He swept his gaze across the bloody gashes in her fingers.

Again, she intended to apologize. Again, some rebellious force took hold of her tongue. “You never ordered me to wait.”

His red eyes flashed. His lips pulled back in a snarl—or was it a grin? “You shouldn’t have said that,” he purred.

He crossed the distance in two easy strides and took hold of her wrist with one paw.

His massive paw swallowed her wrist, and most of her hand besides. This time, he made no effort to be gentle. His claws dug deep enough to draw blood. His fur brushed the scratches the thorn had left, and she gasped at the whisper-soft sting. Blood wet his fur, but he either didn’t notice or, more likely, didn’t care.

“Come with me,” he growled, and took off at a loping trot. His claws dug deeper, drawing a sharper gasp from him as she hurried to follow.

Her legs could barely keep up with him—and for him, this was clearly an easy pace. It made her wonder all over again how it was he hadn’t caught up with her right away. Could it be he had been playing with her? Could it be he had enjoyed the chase?

Then she recognized the stairs he was leading her up, and stopped wondering anything but what awaited her at the top.

They were headed up to the balcony.

He couldn’t possibly expect her to sit down for another romantic dinner with him and pretend nothing was wrong. Not with her dress shredded by the thorns and her skin coated in blood. And yet she didn’t know whether the sudden cold in her veins was the chill of dread or a soft, cool rush of relief. She would rather force a gourmet meal into her churning stomach, and let the beast gaze upon her with hopeful adoration, than kneel before his portrait while he flayed the skin from her feet.

The beast opened the door to the balcony and pulled her through. The sky was dark, the moon gazing down like a single all-seeing eye. The moonlight brought out a sparkle silver shimmer in the stones she hadn’t realized was there. The smell of roses seemed even thicker than it had during the day. A cool breeze washed over her, drying the sweat on her brow.

But there was no cloth laid out. There were no cushions. No trays of food.

And the beast did not release her wrist. Instead, he dragged her to the railing. With his free paw, he caught her by the waist and held her aloft. Before she had a chance to scream, he flipped her over the edge. His paw holding her wrist was the only thing that kept her from tumbling to her death. His grip was nearly strong enough to break bone; his claws dug deep into the muscle.

She tried to draw in air to scream, but her breath was frozen in her lungs. The whisper of the wind was suddenly as loud as a shout, the railing icy against her skin. The pain of his claws in her wrist ignited into a fire, flames of agony leaping down her hand and up her arm. The wind brushed against her hypersensitive nerves like a caress, scraped across her skin like a knife.

His voice, when it came, was a whisper—but that whisper filled the air like a scream. “Do you love me?”

“Pain can’t inspire love,” she reminded him, and was surprised to find that she had breath after all. Surprised, too, that she would be foolish enough to use it to criticize him now. And yet she kept going. “Neither can fear.”

“You forget,” he said, leaning down over the railing until his warm breath chased away the cool of the breeze. “Pain is love.” His long tongue stretched down to softly lick her lips—the lips that were still raw and stinging from his earlier bite. She drew in a sharp, pained breath.

“Kiss me,” he ordered her. “Love me.” Her shoulder strained perilously in his grip, the arm pulling at its socket. His claws dug deeper, almost down to the bone.

She tilted her head up to his. The glow of his eyes cut through the moonlight. Then his eyes closed as he leaned down for a kiss.

She tried, once again, to think of love. But all she could think of was the fire in her wrist, the stinging through her body where the thorns had dug in. The fierce pounding in her chest as her heart screamed for a chance to survive. His soft growl and his softer fur. The knife-blade caress of the breeze.

He pulled back. When she opened her eyes, at first she expected to see the man in the portrait—his gentle face, his mysterious eyes. Why was she surprised when she only saw the beast, his eyes narrowed in fresh anger? Of course the curse was not broken. Of course she did not love him, could not love him, not like this. Not hanging from this height, with his claws the only thing between her and certain death.

He let out a growling sigh. “Of course you cannot obey,” he said, his voice resigned. “I don’t know why I had such high hopes for you. You’re no different from the others.”

She opened her mouth. Forgive me, she wanted to beg him, please, I’ll try harder— But the words burned up in her throat before they could escape.

“I suppose there’s no point in keeping you around, then,” he said, lowering his head as if in defeat. “You will never free me. All you will bring me is heartache.”

Finally, she forced a word out. “Please—”

That was as far as she got before his grip loosened and his claws pulled free of her flesh.

She was weightless. No—she was falling. Plummeting toward her death, without even the breath to give one last cry of protest. The beast grew smaller above her, until all she could make out clearly was the sorrow in his burning eyes.

Then, softness embraced her. She was no longer falling—but neither was she dead. Unless… was this heaven? She certainly felt as if she was lying on a cloud.

But when she died, there would be no heaven waiting for her. She had known that for a long time.

And when she looked up, she could still see the beast’s eyes.

Her fingers quested downward. It was no cloud that had caught her. It was… roses. Hundreds and hundreds of roses, their petals silky against her skin. They made a pillow for her head and a bed for her body, leaving a gap only in the space under her neck.

The beast’s voice drifted down on the breeze. “Well, that has never happened before,” he said, sounding more bemused than angry. “I suppose the curse thinks I’m not done with you yet.”

She ran a finger up and down one of the rose petals, and wondered if this was kindness on the part of the magic… or cruelty.

“You know,” the beast mused, “I think it may be right. I’m not ready to give you up yet.” As he turned away, she barely caught his final few words: “I’m having far too much fun with you.”

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Beastly: Chapter 20

Chapter 20 of Beastly, a dark and very whumpy Beauty and the Beast retelling where the captive is as dangerous as the captor… and their cat-and-mouse game is as entertaining for them both as it is deadly.

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The sun seemed to pass across the sky with the slowness of a river wearing a path through the rock. It reached noon and began descending again, the light turning painfully bright and then softening into late-afternoon gold. The heat of the day blazed down on Beauty’s skin, and she wished for a patch of shade—the vines tangled around her body did nothing to protect her from the rays. But once the sun slipped below the horizon, the cold of dusk crept in, and she longed for the sun whose heat she had cursed only hours ago.

She strained her neck to watch the door, praying for it to open, praying for it to remain closed. How long did he plan to leave her out here? She had thought he would be back for her hours ago. With every moment that passed, the thorns seemed to dig deeper. The sharp pains became dull aches, then turned sharp again as soon as she forgot herself and made the tiniest twitching motion.

Surely he would come back and free her. Surely it would be soon.

But once he did, he would ask her his question all over again. She knew the answer he wanted. Knew, too, that all she could give him was what she had already given. A yes, a kiss, and all the earnest effort her heart could muster.

What would he do when it wasn’t enough next time?

Her cheeks felt wet. Fresh blood, she thought at first, but there was no new pain to go along with it. It took her a moment to realize she was crying. Silent, hopeless tears poured down her face, stinging when they met the wounds on her neck.

Why had she ever agreed to come here?

She spent the time between dusk and full darkness lying as still as she could and indulging her despair. Why shouldn’t she indulge herself? It wasn’t as if she had anything left to her. She had given all that up when she had walked willingly away from her life and into the home of a monster.

But she had done it because it was what she deserved. Her father had known it. It was why he had agreed to Valentin’s deal in the first place; it was why he hadn’t argued when she had said she would give herself up in his place.

She owed him this.

She deserved this.

A quiet flame kindled in her belly, whispering soft words of dissent. She tried not to listen—she knew what was expected of her. She knew what she deserved. But the whisper of the inner flame would not be denied. As the moon rose, so did the voice that asked, And what does he deserve?

Did Valentin deserve perfect obedience? A captive who lay soft and pliant, marinating in her own tears, until he deigned to return? A woman who dressed in the clothes he offered, thanked him sweetly for his gifts, let him kiss her, let him kill her?

Before she quite knew what she was doing, her hands grasped awkwardly at the only vines she could reach. The thorns bit into her fingers, but she only grasped tighter. She held her breath, her eyes welling with fresh tears at the ripping pain, as she tore with all her strength.

The curse must not have been expecting her to fight back, because the vines broke easily. The broken tendrils reared back, questing through the air as if searching for an escape. As if they were afraid of her.

The flame in her burned brighter as she tore away vines in handfuls. She tore them from her arms, her torso, her legs, her neck. When the magic got over its surprise, and lashed out with vines twice as thick, she found strength she didn’t know she had and ripped them in two. Only when the salt of her tears passed her parted lips and wet her tongue did she realize she was smiling.

After so long of begging forgiveness, it felt good to have something to fight.

She took an experimental step forward. No vines stopped her. Nor did any reach up to attempt to entangle her again. The curse had learned a lesson, it seemed. At least for now, she had won.

A few broken vines still hung limply off her shoulders. They weren’t stopping her, not anymore, but she ripped them in two just because she could. Then she ripped them again. She welcomed the pain. It meant she was fighting.

Then she glanced down at a torn fragment of vine in her hand. Blood coated the green stalk. At her feet, blood dotted the white roses, and turned the pink flowers’ blushing petals angry red. Everywhere she looked, she saw beauty stained by blood.

Her mother’s roses.

Her mother’s blood.

The flame went out. The night seemed twice as cold now. She wrapped her bloodstained arms around herself, and shuddered at the sight of all that red on her torn dress.

What had she done?

What would he do, when he came back and found her like this?

A part of her hoped he would draw back from her in horror. That he would be afraid. That he would wonder just who he had brought to his castle to be his captive.

For an instant, only an instant, she imagined tearing at his beastly flesh the way she had torn away the vines. She wanted to draw blood. She wanted to break him. For everything he had done to the women who had owned the belongings in those chests. For everything he had done to Wyn. For everything he had done to her.

He should be the one to bleed.

The sight of his blood would be more perfect than any sunset.

No. What was she thinking? She, a simple village girl, against a vicious beast? She, who had no knowledge of fighting? All she knew was how to serve others. How to do her duty. How to obey.

No, fighting back would not give her an escape. That was what Wyn had told her, and she knew the truth of it. Her only way out was to offer him the obedience he demanded.

But how could she love him, knowing what he had done? How could anyone?

He had clearly killed the witch’s daughter. She could read between the lines of his story well enough to see that. He had killed her, and all the women who had come after. And she had seen him with Wyn—she knew he must have enjoyed it.

No one capable of such crimes could ever be loved. Nor could one who took pleasure in the pain of others. He did not deserve love, nor would he ever find it. Love was for people, not for monsters.

But loving him was her only way out. The truth of that had not changed.

All she knew was how to serve—but she did know how to serve. All she knew he was how to be dutiful—but she did know how to do her duty. All she knew was obedience—but she knew how to obey. It had been a harsh lesson, but she had learned it well.

She could do what she had to do. She could love a creature no one could love. A creature who did not deserve love.

And in so doing, she could serve. She could selflessly save future women from this fate.

She could, perhaps, finally atone.

Her mind made up, she prepared to lower herself into the tangle of vines again. Perhaps, when they saw her brief madness was over, they would wrap themselves around her again, and Valentin would never know what she had done.

But some lingering rebellious impulse slowed her just enough that she was still standing with an excellent view of the door when it opened a crack.

“Are you there, dear one?” Valentin asked. “Have you had enough time to think on what I’ve said?”

That rough, crooning voice rippled through her like an earthquake. She longed to fall at his feet and beg forgiveness. She longed to dig her nails into him like claws and rip him limb from limb.

Tears welled in her eyes. If she started crying, she would cry enough tears to drown in.

Anger boiled up from her belly. If she started screaming, the flame in her would grow until it consumed everything around her.

With a small, helpless noise, she turned and fled.

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Beastly: Chapter 19

Chapter 19 of Beastly, a dark and very whumpy Beauty and the Beast retelling where the captive is as dangerous as the captor… and their cat-and-mouse game is as entertaining for them both as it is deadly.

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The next morning at dawn, he took Beauty out to the patio. The sunset was a pale blush; the roses were perfume on the wind. The looming presence of him next to her was a storm she couldn’t stop.

He asked her nothing—yet—but she sensed it coming. The silence between them made every sound deafening. The whisper of the leaves in the trees, like neighbors gossiping about her just out of hearing range. The scurry of a small rodent through the brush—a creature with more sense than her, sense enough to run right away. She should have turned back when she still had the chance. Instead, she had walked into the monster’s lair, and now it was too late.

She wished the roses weren’t so beautiful, that the colors of the sunset were not so exquisitely delicate. It seemed unfair for someone so terrible to be surrounded by such beauty. Beauty and cruelty should not mix so easily.

Valentin stirred, and Beauty flinched back. But he only lifted a paw to wave toward the roses. “How beautiful are,” he said, with a note of sadness threading through his voice. “And yet so unruly. So neglected. They need the touch of a queen. Someone who knows her way around roses.”

He didn’t move, but his eyes flicked sideways toward her. His eyes were back to looking human again. So terribly human. A monster should not have been able to pass for human so easily. Especially while wearing the skin of a beast.

But would it be any better if he had worn a human skin that made everyone admire him as he passed? Or would that only have made his body a liar? Evil could not, should not, be beautiful. And anyone who could do the things he had done, and take pleasure in it, it was evil. Irredeemable.

“You love the roses, I know,” Valentin continued. “They are yours, if you will only love me. The entire castle is yours. The entire kingdom. Your love will restore it to greatness when you break my curse, and you and I will rule together.”

“I’m trying,” she promised him. “I’ll do my best.” She looked out at the roses. It was easier than looking at him. But even there, beauty was deceptive. She rubbed the scratches on her arms. All roses had thorns.

“Why do you have to try?” Valentin sounded almost forlorn. “Why can you not simply obey? You promised perfect obedience. So did all the others. Is it that difficult to keep a promise?”

Wyn, beauty knew, would have looked at him as if his words made no sense. But to Beauty, they did—more sense than her own heart’s unwillingness did. Yes, she knew love was supposed to descend on a person like a storm, unpredictable, uncontrollable. But that, surely, was how it worked for other people. Beauty had a lifetime’s worth of practice at controlling her passions. Why, then, could she not to do the reverse now, and awaken passion where none existed?

“I will do my best to obey,” was all she said.

“Will you?” he asked softly. “If I were to kiss you now, would the curse be broken?”

“I don’t know,” she said, knowing it wasn’t the answer he wanted. Knowing, too, that the curdled feeling in her stomach gave lie to her words. She did know the answer to his question. She just didn’t want to voice it.

The tangle of roses ahead of her seemed to grow thicker before her eyes, a wall, a cage. Behind her, the ruin of the castle stretched toward the sky. She would find no escape in that direction.

“I asked for your obedience last night,” he said. “I will ask you again, in the light of day, now that you have heard my story. Do you love me?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

“That’s not good enough.”

“I swear I’m trying—”

“Do you recall what I asked of you when you first arrived? The only condition I imposed, in exchange for a life of perfect luxury?”

She dropped her gaze, but her eyes found their way back up to him, as if pulled there by some magnetic force. “Perfect obedience.” Her voice was so low she could barely hear herself.

“Perfect obedience,” he repeated slowly, tasting the words. “Trying is not obedience. And it is most assuredly not perfection.” He ran a claw slowly down her cheek. It did not feel like affection, not this time. “Do you love me?”

There was only one answer she could give. “Yes,” she whispered, and prayed it would not turn out to be a lie.

His eyes searched hers, like knives that could strip truth from falsehood. She did not allow herself to look away. She tried to soften her gaze, tried to look at him the way one lover might look at another. What did love look like? Was it something soft? Something hot and fierce? She didn’t know. Who would she have had occasion to love? Not Claude, for certain.

And passion was dangerous, for someone like her.

She must have made a decent approximation, though—the anger in his eyes softened, replaced by that shy hope. He lowered his head toward her, and she closed her eyes. It would be easier that way.

The soft warmth of his muzzle met her lips. As he kissed her with exquisite gentleness, she thought about love.

What was love? Was it a bouquet of sweet gestures and romantic moments? His gift to her, his promises, his soft and affectionate touches. The roses. The romantic dinner. The conversation between them that had made her mind take flight for the first time in her memory. What was love, if not the sum of all that?

An unwelcome memory flashed into her mind, erasing the smell of the roses, the picture of the sunset picnic. Wyn, kneeling before him, bleeding into the carpet.

After everything he had done, surely loving him would be a betrayal of Wyn, who had risked so much for her.

But what choice did she have? And, she told herself, this was the only way to break the curse. This was how Wyn, and all the other servants, could finally have their freedom. Loving him was no betrayal. It was the selfless thing to do.

It was her duty. And there was none more dutiful than her.

She parted her lips and let herself sink into the kiss. The scent of roses thickened around her. Yes, thus must be love. She loved him. She loved him.

He pulled back. She didn’t open her eyes.

But when she heard a low growl, she knew she had failed.

“Liar.” He punctuated the sharp word with a snap of his teeth.

She opened her eyes, trying not to look at him. At those fangs, at the terrible anger in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Apologies,” he said, “will not break this curse. I will ask again: Do you love me?”

Once again, there was only one possible answer. “Yes.”

This time, when he brought his muzzle to hers, his kiss was not gentle. His fangs pierced her lips, drawing blood. The thick liquid filled her mouth with its intoxicating tang as he pulled her against him.

His claws pressed into her back. She heard the fabric tear, threads popping free one by one. Needle tips pressed up against bare skin where her dress had torn. Not drawing blood, not yet, but so close.

Was this passion? Surely there was more life in it than Claude’s clumsy groping in the barn. But when she tried to imagine passion, all she could taste was blood, thick and hot in her mouth. All she could think about was blood, blood and screaming.

When he pulled back, she held her breath, hoping. But she already knew he would not find himself transformed.

She pressed the back of her hand to her wounded lip and waited for the storm to strike.

His paw clamped down on her wrist, his claws digging deep. A sudden heat rushed through her. How dare he—

She swallowed the feeling down. But she was not fast enough. She had already yanked her arm away. She looked down at it in surprise, at the bloody streaks his claws had left.

“I’m sorry,” she said, too late.

He shoved her with both paws. For an instant, she was airborne, weightless. Her hands clutched at nothing.

Then her back struck the earth hard enough to knock the wind from her. As she gasped for breath, his claws dug into her back, her legs, her arms. No—not his claws. He stood several paces away, on the broken patio, watching her. And there were too many of them. They were everywhere, piercing her, tearing at her flesh, drawing blood.

She had landed in the roses.

The vines twined around her, trapping her arms, her legs. One thin vine wrapped itself around her neck. “No,” she tried to say, “I’m not trying to run. I’ll go back to him, if you’ll only let me go.”

But the roses only dug their thorns deeper.

“If you love me,” Valentin said, “they are yours. If you do not, you are theirs. The curse can do with you as it will.”

The thorns dug deeper. All across her body, blood welled up, staining her dress, staining her skin.

“If you love me, I am yours. If you do not…” Be bared his teeth. “If you do not, you are mine, and I will do with you as I will.”

The thorns dug deeper. Deeper. Like the vines were trying to burrow their way into her flesh.

Somehow, she found her voice—and her courage. “Pain can’t inspire love.”

But what did she know of this, she who had no understanding of love?

“More lies,” Valentin said. “What the witch’s daughter and I had was the purest of love, and the purest of pain.”

A thorn bit into Beauty’s neck, drawing a small cry of pain.

“Some say love is pain,” Valentin continued. “I say pain is love.”

The vines slid thin tendrils into her shoes. Thorns pierced the undersides of her feet. She thought about Wyn, about the needles piercing her feet, the blood. The unshed tears in Wyn’s hypnotizing eyes.

Beauty tried to reach for courage again. A sob left her lips instead. “Forgive me,” she pleaded, as an obedient captive would. “Please. I’ll try harder.”

“I hope you will,” Valentin said, “once you’ve had a chance to think about what I’ve said.”

With that, he turned and walked away.

---

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Beastly: Chapter 18

Chapter 18 of Beastly, a dark and very whumpy Beauty and the Beast retelling where the captive is as dangerous as the captor… and their cat-and-mouse game is as entertaining for them both as it is deadly.

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Beauty waited in her sitting room, in her velvet chair, staring into the fire and seeing Valentin’s eyes in it. She looked at the door, and waited for the knock. She waited. She waited.

He didn’t come for her.

At last, when she could no longer keep her eyes open, she took her hair down and dressed in her old nightgown from home. She put out the candles and the fire, and climbed into bed, and tried to sleep.

She didn’t think sleep would come. But somehow it did. Her eyes sank shut, and she drifted into dreams of blood and screaming. Of her hands sinking needles into flesh, her fingers peeling away strips of skin. In the dream, her hands were bloody, her eyes half-closed, her lips pulled back in a smile of lazy pleasure.

The creak of hinges woke her. She sat bolt upright in bed, grateful to let the shards of the dream fall away, forgotten.

The bedroom door was closed, just the way she had left it. As quietly as she could, she pushed the blankets aside and slipped out of bed. She eased the door open a crack.

Valentin stood in her sitting room, the door open behind him.

A chill spread down her arms as she remembered him knocking at her door. He hadn’t needed to. All along, he’d had a key.

She could barely make out the muddy shape of his silhouette in the darkness. His glowing red eyes were the only part of him clearly visible. He turned his head, and those eyes met hers. He smiled.

When she saw that smile, she suspected she understood why he hadn’t come to her earlier.

He had known she would be waiting. He hadn’t wanted to come to her while she was ready. He wanted her off balance, caught on the edge of sleep. He wanted her defenseless.

He seemed to have no trouble seeing her in the dark as he beckoned her with one claw. “You know what I’m here for,” he said.

She wanted to slam the bedroom door in his face, hide under the covers like a child—but then what? She would be trapped. No escape. Her bedroom didn’t even have any windows.

Wyn’s voice came back to her. I can grant you the only escape you cannot prevent. She shuddered. No, escape wasn’t an option. Not even that kind—especially not that. Her only option—her only real option—was to love him. And so that was simply what she would have to do.

She pushed the door open and stepped out to meet him. Despite her shabby nightgown, and her loose hair mussed from sleep, she held her head high and did not allow herself to shield her body with her arms. “Yes,” she said, “I know.”

The fireplace came to life with a crackling roar, and the room filled with blazing light. A servant, here and gone before Beauty could catch a glimpse of them? Or the work of the curse itself? Beauty couldn’t be sure. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was the creature in front of her, with his yearning eyes and his bloodstained paws.

The firelight glinted off his fur, making it look as if he himself were aflame. His fangs gleamed white as he pulled his lips back in a snarl or a smile. When he extended a paw to her, she couldn’t be sure if it was an invitation or a threat.

She tried to think about the way that soft fur had felt against her fingers. And the even softer fur of his muzzle brushing her lips. She thought about sunsets, the smell of roses, a wineglass held to her lips. She thought about the library, and the shyness in his eyes when he had offered it to her.

The library with its books describing pain and death in loving detail.

Soft fur matted with blood. Shy eyes shining with pleasure at Wyn’s screams.

“Do you love me?” he asked.

She took his offered paw. His fur, thick and luxurious, whispered against her skin.

She met his gaze and tried to think of Valentin as he had been at that first dinner, not with a pair of shears in his paw. “Yes,” she whispered.

His smile softened. “Ah, dear one,” he murmured. “I hope you’re telling me the truth.”

He drew her gently forward, and she let him guide her into his body. He met her lips with his muzzle—softness, sweetness, the smoky smell of the curse.

And underneath, the thick tang of blood.

He pulled back, his eyes alight with soft hope. Still holding her hand, he looked down at his beastly body.

When he looked up at her again, rage twisted his face. The same rage she had seen from him on the balcony.

“Liar,” he hissed through his fangs. Flecks of spittle leapt out to wet her face.

She tried instinctively to pull her hand away, but he tightened his grip. Soft fur brushed the delicate skin of her fingertips. Claws dug into her skin, not yet drawing blood.

“I’m not lying,” she protested, and tried to convince herself it was true. There was plenty to love about him, if only she ignored all the rest. And she was good at ignoring what her heart told her. There was none better.

If she told herself she was meek and dutiful and kind, then so she was.

If she told herself she loved Valentin, then so she did.

His lips stretched back to reveal more of his sharp teeth. “I know when you’re lying about love. I will always know.” He let go and shoved her backward. “Sit.”

She stumbled back and landed in the velvet chair. He took a step toward her, looming, blocking her path, so she wouldn’t have been able to get up even if her legs hadn’t turned to jelly.

“It’s time,” he said, “for me to tell you about the curse.”

She stared up at him attentively, hands folded in her lap. What else could she do? She laced her fingers together, then tightened her grip, trying to stop the trembling.

“I grew up as my parents’ only child, the heir to the throne,” he said. “I wanted for nothing… except someone to love. I wished on a star one night, and the next morning, I found my wish had been granted. I went for a long and rambling walk, as I was wont to do, and I met a young woman who lived by the creek with her mother. She was lonely, and so was I. We took pleasure in one another’s company. It was not long before we fell in love.”

His expression softened, the anger in his eyes dimming but not quite flickering out. “We had such fun together,” he murmured, staring past Beauty at a memory only he could see. “Ah, the games we played. But no games can last forever. My love died young—a tragic accident.”

An accident. Beauty knew about those.

Despite the warmth of the fire, a shiver came over her.

“An accident,” he repeated sharply, as if she had questioned him. “And yet her mother blamed me. I didn’t know her mother was a witch until she burst into the castle one day, with her wand of rowan aloft in one hand and a bag of magic herbs in the other. When my parents came to my defense, she killed them where they stood.” His paws clenched into fists, his claws gleaming white in the firelight.

After a moment, he began to speak again. “But what she did to me was worse,” he said quietly, lowering his head. “Although it did not seem so at the time. She laid a curse on me—me and all my servants, and my entire kingdom.”

“That was when you became…” Beauty’s voice trailed off.

Valentin nodded. “But crueler than the way she twisted my body was what she said as she did it. She claimed her daughter never truly loved me. Lies. As she cast the curse, this was what she said: that only with a kiss from a woman who loves the monster I am will the curse lift. My kingdom will be restored, as will my body.”

She did not expect what he did next. He knelt before her and took one of her hands in both his paws.

“And I have tried,” he said, bowing his head over her hand as if in prayer. “How I have tried. You, so dutiful and obedient, seemed the perfect choice.” His paws tightened around her hand. Still, his claws did not break the skin. “And yet even you failed.”

If she spoke, her words could spark his rage again and give him reason to draw blood. But so, too, could her silence. “I’m trying,” she said in a near-whisper. “I don’t intend to stop.”

After all, if she gave up, what did she have left to her but Wyn’s offer?

“I know,” he said, his voice terribly gentle. “Perhaps all you need is a different method of persuasion. A stronger method.”

One claw scraped slowly down her palm. She gasped, expecting blood, but when she he turned her hand so her palm was facing upward, the skin remained unbroken.

“The others could not withstand my persuasion,” he said. “I pray that you are different.” He gazed into her eyes, his fangs flashing, his red stare full of yearning. “You had best pray, too.”

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Beastly: Chapter 17

Chapter 17 of Beastly, a dark and very whumpy Beauty and the Beast retelling where the captive is as dangerous as the captor… and their cat-and-mouse game is as entertaining for them both as it is deadly.

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Once again, Beauty stood in front of the door to her rooms. Once again, she spoke to empty air. “Wyn,” she said, her quiet voice half apology, half plea. “Where are you? Are you all right?”

Her soft words echoed down the hallway. She looked from left to right, but found herself alone. There was no response.

“Can anyone hear me?” Beauty asked. “Please—where is she? I only want to check on her.” And apologize. Beg her forgiveness. Not that her apologies could change what had happened.

And still, no one answered. Did they blame Beauty for what had happened? If so, Beauty couldn’t help thinking they were right to do so.

But that didn’t mean she could give up. She could not abandon Wyn to her pain, pain Beauty had caused. Guilt churned in her belly as she remembered standing silent in that room, staring fascinated at the welling blood.

Well, if the servants wouldn’t come to her, she would have to go to them. She tried the kitchens first. But the cook must have heard her coming, because when Beauty opened the door, the room was empty. A pan sat sizzling on the stove, but no one watched over it.

It was the same with the sewing room up the set of narrow stairs. And the laundry, which took her a long time to find. Everywhere she looked was not only empty, but showed signs of recent abandonment. Did they fear the consequences for themselves if Valentin caught them talking to her? Did they, perhaps, fear the consequences for her?

Or were they simply too angry with her to face her?

At last, she returned to the hallway outside her room. “Please… let me speak with her. If she’s angry with me, if she wants nothing more to do with me, then let me hear it from her.”

This time, when she turned, Alistair—the servant who had scared her on her first arrival—stood before her, wearing a scowl. “Talking to you hasn’t been healthy for Wyn so far, has it?”

“I told her she didn’t have to do it. I told her it would be too much of a risk.”

“And you thought she would listen?” Alistair shook his head. “All you had to do was bat those eyes at her, and she would do anything said.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he said, “it would be better for her—better for all of us—if she were to no longer speak with you.”

“Then let me see her this once,” said Beauty, “and it will be the last time. But if you don’t let me see her, I’ll never stop looking.” She found a hint of boldness and drew herself to her full height. “And that would be likely to draw his attention, don’t you think?”

Alistair regarded her darkly for a moment. Then, with a grunt of irritation, he turned on his heel. “Follow me,” he said, and hurried down the hallway.

She scrambled after him. He led her into the servants’ quarters and down a narrow hallway to a small, bare room. It held nothing but a skinny bed, a rough-sawn dresser, and a few purple flowers—not roses—in a vase.

At first, Beauty thought the bed was empty. Then the figure stirred, and the blanket came down from over her head. Wyn stared up at her with wan eyes. She was pale, her face bathed in sweat. But when she saw Beauty, she offered a weak smile.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” Wyn assured her, “if that’s why you’ve come.” But the weakness in her voice belied her words. “My wounds are fully healed. You can check for yourself.” She thrust one foot out from under the blanket.

Sure enough, the foot bore no sign of anything Valentin had done. If Beauty hadn’t been there to see it for herself, she would never have believed any of it had happened. “But you’re in bed,” she said. “You don’t look well.”

Wyn gave a small nod. “Our wounds heal quickly, but the curse takes the energy for the healing from our own bodies. It will take several days to recover fully.” She kept her brave smile firmly in place. “But it’s all right. Really. The others will take care of me, and cover my workload while I rest.”

Beauty crossed the room to her bedside. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get him to believe me,” she said. “I’m sorry I gave up too soon. Your punishment should have been mine. It’s like Alistair said—I’m the one who talked you into this.”

Wyn shook her head. “Don’t listen to Alistair. He just hates seeing someone else in pain. And it was better for me to take the punishment. The wounds heal easily for me, but they wouldn’t for you. The curse doesn’t protect you like it protects us.”

She met Beauty’s eyes, and beauty struggled not to look away. “I don’t regret doing what I did,” she said. “Either trying to help you escape, or taking the blame afterward.”

“But why help me at all, knowing what you were risking?” Beauty asked.

“Because you don’t deserve this,” Wyn said simply. Her face was so open, full of an innocence Beauty was certain she herself had never possessed.

She sounded so certain of what she said.

“How do you know?” Beauty asked, her voice low. “How do you know I don’t deserve this?”

Her memory brought her back to her arrival at the castle with her father. To the silence that had hung between them. To the unspoken knowledge they had shared—the knowledge that she owed her family this. That this was, perhaps, exactly what she deserved.

“Who could deserve any of this?” Wyn asked, seeming bewildered by the question. “And even if someone did, it wouldn’t be you. I can see the good heart that lives inside you.”

You see duty, Beauty wanted to say. You see obedience. That is not the same as goodness.

“The beast got what he wanted,” she said, and saw Wyn flinch at the forbidden name. At least she had remembered not to use his true name with her. “I learned. I won’t ask for help escaping anymore. I’ll never put you or the others at risk again.”

“Don’t feel guilty,” Wyn urged. “Please. I’m glad I did it. I’ve been too afraid for too long. Too afraid to take chances. Too afraid to do what’s right. You reminded me there are things worth taking risks for.”

“Why did you take the risk for me?” Beauty asked, remembering Alistair’s cryptic statement.

“But you’re right that trying again won’t work,” said Wyn, instead of answering. “He’ll be watching even more carefully now. If the changes were slim before, now they’re next to none.”

“Then what next?” Beauty asked. Unexpectedly, she pictured the shears in her hand, could practically feel the weight of them. She could feel the resistance of his flesh as she plunged them into his heart. Would his spilled blood be as compelling, as beautiful, as Wyn’s had been?

Her stomach knotted again. Sweat welled up all over her body, making her suddenly cold.

“You’re imagining trying to kill him, aren’t you?”

Beauty looked away as if Wyn’s gray eyes could burn her. She didn’t answer.

“It’s a natural thought to have,” Wyn said. “Even I have considered the possibility once or twice, although I know I could never kill anybody.”

“Neither could I,” Beauty hastily assured her.

“But killing him won’t work,” said Wyn. “A couple of the other servants tried, early on, hoping to get free. But he’s stronger than any human, and all but impervious to wounds. Anyway, I don’t even know for sure whether killing him would end the curse.”

“But it probably would.”

“There’s no sense in wondering. He can’t be killed. The curse won’t be broken that way.”

Beauty knew better than to ask how the curse could be broken. “He told me he’ll command me to love him tonight,” she said instead. “If escape isn’t a possibility… I suppose I have to try.”

“You can’t command yourself to love someone,” Wyn said, “any more than you can command someone else to love you.”

“If there are no other options,” said Beauty, “I have to try.”

Wyn was silent for a long moment. Beauty thought she was simply overcome with horror at the task before Beauty, and was about to reassure her that cleaning up some of her family’s messes was surely almost as bad as this, when Wyn said, “There is another way.”

But there was no hope in her voice. Instead, quiet sorrow echoed through the small room.

A shiver of foreboding came over Beauty. “What is it?”

“We servants are protected by the curse,” she said. “But that protection is a curse of its own. You’ve seen what the healing makes possible. And immortality… we’ve been here so long. Hundreds of years, perhaps. I’m sure everyone I loved outside the castle is long dead.”

“I’m sorry,” said Beauty quietly.

“It’s all right,” she said. “It’s too late to change anything for me.” She hesitated. “But it’s not too late for you. That lack of protection could save you from the worst of what he is capable of… if you allow me to help you.”

“I don’t understand.” Beauty felt as if she might drown in the sadness that filled Wyn’s stormy eyes.

“I can grant you the only escape he cannot prevent,” said Wyn. “If you let me, I’ll make it quick. There will be no pain.”

It took Beauty a moment to understand what Wyn was suggesting. When she did, she recoiled. “You can’t possibly think that is a solution.”

“It may be the best solution you have,” said Wyn. “I only wish I’d had the courage to do it for the others. I found my courage too late for them, but it’s not too late for you.”

“No,” Beauty snapped. The sharp word resonated off the walls. “No, I won’t simply lie down and die. That’s worse than waiting for him to do it!”

“No,” Wyn assured her with a voice full of bleak certainty. “No, what he could do to you is much worse.”

“This is not my only option,” said Beauty. ”If loving a beast is my only way to survive, then I will love him.”

“How?” Wyn challenged her. “How do you intend to make yourself love a monster?”

Beauty straightened her shoulders. She stared off into the distance like she was preparing to face down an invading army. Or at least the wrath of her demanding sisters.

“I’ve been bending my heart to my will for most of my life,” she said, with only a hint of bitterness. “Why would this be any more difficult?”

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Whump Quote 8:

*gently holding whumpee’s face in hands, looking right at them*

You are nothing.

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Little whump detail that I love: at the beginning of a torture session when Whumpee is first chained or tied up, you see them wrap their hands around to hold the length of the rope or chain.

But afterwards when they’ve been through hours and hours of agony, you see their hands now listlessly hanging in their shackles. Bearing Whumpee’s weight, limp and weak.

It shows a Whumpee entering the ordeal being in control or defiant, but ending up losing all of that and having broken their composure. So much so that they don’t have the ability or the strength to posture anymore.

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Could u please do a tutorial on torture 👀

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Beastly: Chapter 16

Chapter 16 of Beastly, a dark and very whumpy Beauty and the Beast retelling where the captive is as dangerous as the captor… and their cat-and-mouse game is as entertaining for them both as it is deadly.

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The balcony looked exactly as it had the night before. If anything, the spread laid out on the cloth was larger and more lovingly arranged than last time, the cushions plusher, the wine richer—Beauty could smell its heady aroma from here.

Beauty imagined the servants laying this out knowing the failure of their plan, knowing what had happened to Wyn. Had they resented doing Valentin’s bidding? Had they felt sorry for Beauty? Or, perhaps, had they taken blamed Beauty for what had happened to Wyn, and taken some solace in knowing this would serve as a form of revenge?

Beauty wished the sky were full of thunder and lightning to mirror the danger that hung thick in the air. Instead, the roses smelled sweeter than last night, and the sun was putting on an even more spectacular show, the clouds streaked with a hundred delicate shades of pink. It was a night for romance. For small, hesitant glances and shy kisses.

It was not a night to sit across from a torturer and wonder how not to make him angry.

“Sit,” Valentin urged, gesturing her toward the cushions exactly as he had last night. “I know you must be hungry after today’s exertions.”

His voice gave no hint of the bite lurking underneath those words. His tone was soft, solicitous. His face, too, showed no anger, nor any vindictive triumph. His eyes looked human, red or no. They look like the eyes of a man eager to impress, and longing to be loved.

And yet, on the paw he used to wave her toward the cushions, she saw a dark streak of Wyn’s blood.

“Sit,” he repeated. He lowered himself to his haunches. “You did agree to dinner, after all.”

Again, his voice revealed nothing underneath his words. But she heard it nonetheless, the threat he did not speak aloud. She had agreed to this—in exchange for mercy for Wyn. If there was no dinner—if she did not sit where he wanted her to sit, and eat, and make polite conversation—there would be no mercy.

She sat.

“Eat,” he said, and spread his bloodstained paw over the array of food.

She gazed down at the juicy meat, the plump berries, the fresh vegetables drizzled in a light and fragrant sauce she didn’t recognize. Her stomach twisted. How could she eat after what she had seen today?

“You promised me dinner,” he reminded her, his voice deceptively soft. “What is dinner without food?”

Again, she heard the threat. She had made him voice it twice now. She did not know if he would give her a third chance.

She filled her plate with a little of everything, delaying the moment when she would actually have to take a bite.

But then her plate was full, and Valentin was watching her. She popped a berry into her mouth. The sweetness spread across her tongue like poison. She would have preferred the bitter bite of the wine—if she had dared to drink it with her stomach as unsteady it was, and in this turbulent mood. When her stomach didn’t reject the food out of hand, she took a bite of meat, a forkful of vegetables. Perhaps she could do this after all.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Valentin said after a few moments of silence.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I suppose I have a lot on my mind.”

“Tell me what you’re thinking, then,” he urged. “We had such a pleasant conversation last night. What is on your mind, dear one?”

Surely he already knew what she was thinking. And she was certain it wasn’t what he wanted to discuss. She searched her brain for something she could give him, something that had nothing to do with Wyn or what Valentin might have in store for Beauty herself in the future.

“The roses,” she blurted. “I was thinking about the roses. They smell so beautiful from up here.”

Valentin smiled. “I’ve noticed you’re quite enamored of them. What about them appeals to you so?”

With no time to invent a story, what came out was the truth. “They remind me of my mother.”

“Ah.” Valentin drew out the sound like a sigh. “A sweet reminder, or a bitter one?”

Now there was a question she could have taken all his cursed centuries to answer. “A little of both, I suppose. But mostly sweet.”

“Why the hint of bitterness?” he asked, landing on exactly the thing she had no wish to discuss.

“I miss her,” said Beauty. “That’s all.”

“Did you leave her behind to come here?”

Beauty shook her head. “She died when I was a child.”

“I am truly sorry to hear that,” said Valentin. Looking at the sympathy shining out from his red eyes, she could almost believe he meant it.

“But you do not believe I can understand your loss,” he said, his eyes suddenly piercing into hers. “You don’t think I’m capable of it, as the heartless beast I am.”

Beauty froze. Her gaze leapt to his claws, to the knife lying by his plate. “I didn’t—”

“You think me a monster,” he said. “And a monster, you believe, cannot understand grief. But I know grief, dear one. I have known too much of it in my life. Think about it—I have been cursed long enough to outlive everyone I ever loved.

“I have known enough grief to understand that the pain never really fades, despite what we are told. We only think of the ones we’ve lost less, as the years stretch on. We become… distracted, by the minutia of life. And that is a pain in itself, is it not? Being forced to confront the fact that no matter how great the love, eventually the mundanities of the present moment become more important than their precious memory?”

Beauty didn’t know how to respond. She popped another berry into her mouth so she wouldn’t have to answer. Why were they having this conversation now, mere moments after he had smiled with pleasure while peeling the skin from Wyn’s foot? How could he expect her to have this conversation now?

With no warning, Valentin’s paw swiped out toward her. She leapt back. Her elbow knocked into her wine, spilling it across the cloth. The red liquid soaked into the fabric, and she knew the stain would never come out.

She brought a hand to her mouth, imagining knives slicing into her flesh, claws tearing her chest open. “I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I… I didn’t mean to…”

Valentin’s paw hung suspended in front of her. He held a berry between two fingers. He had only been offering her a bit of fruit, like last night. It had never been an attack.

He dropped the berry back into the bowl, and returned his paw to his lap with a sigh. “You don’t need to be afraid,” he said sadly.

She wanted to laugh, might have done so if she hadn’t feared his reaction. She had no reason to be afraid? He himself had given her that reason—and been glad to do so. He had wanted her to watch. He had wanted her to understand the consequences of defiance.

“Is that why you’re so quiet tonight?” he asked. “Because you’re afraid?”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured again. “I’ll try to speak more.”

“It’s all right, dear one,” he said. “Tonight, you need only relax. Enjoy the dinner and the sunset. I can carry the conversation for both of us.”

She tried to heed his order disguised as solicitousness, stuffing herself with as much food as she could stand. As she did, he talked. “I regret that I cannot tell you more about my kingdom that was,” he said, “but I can tell you about the people I have lost. My mother and father—the king and queen. Perhaps sharing their memory will help keep them alive in my mind.”

“The king and queen?” she asked, curiosity overriding fear for a brief instant. “Does that mean you were a prince?” But of course he was. This was his castle, wasn’t it?

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. After a moment, he lowered his head and sighed.

“The curse again?” she asked.

“I am sorry. There is so much I wish I could tell you, but cannot. And more that I am free to share, and will, but not until the right time. The moment is not right—not yet.”

“Tell me about your parents,” she said, less because she wanted to hear, and more because sharing the memories would keep him distracted.

But he was an engaging storyteller, she found—skilled enough at spinning a tale that despite the thick stew of fear and darker feelings coursing through her veins, his stories made her gasp at times, and laugh at others. He told stories of his childhood, stories of his parents’ courtship, even a few tales of the pet dog he had loved as a little boy.

A dog. At that point in the telling, she nearly shook her head in confusion. How could a monster have once loved a dog?

When at last he stopped, she saw that all the trays of food were empty. He glanced toward his wineglass, then hers, and she remembered him holding the glass to her lips the previous night. But of course he couldn’t do that tonight—her wine, she remembered with relief, was gone. Spilled all over the expensive cloth.

“Thank you,” he said in a low voice, “for a lovely evening.”

Then he leaned across the cloth toward her.

Surely he wasn’t going to kiss her—not after this afternoon.

He kept leaning closer. His eyes drifted shut.

He wasn’t. He couldn’t.

He was.

She forced herself to hold perfectly still. He had not given her an order, and yet she knew that didn’t matter. She knew what was expected of her.

But with his muzzle inches from her lips, he stopped. His eyes opened.

“I know you still don’t love me,” he said. “Especially after what you saw tonight.”

She froze like a rabbit in the sight of a lion, and waited for him to pounce.

“It’s all right.” He drew back and rose to his feet. He offered her a paw—the one stained with Wyn’s blood. “Let me help you up.”

She forced herself to take it. The blood had not fully dried. It felt tacky against her skin. His touch was gentle, his fur still so soft.

“Tonight,” he said as she stood, “I will command you to love me.”

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Beastly: Chapter 15

Chapter 15 of Beastly, a dark and very whumpy Beauty and the Beast retelling where the captive is as dangerous as the captor… and their cat-and-mouse game is as entertaining for them both as it is deadly.

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Valentin did not lead them to a cold stone dungeon. That would have been less terrifying, because it would have made more sense. Instead, he brought them to a large and sumptuous room near the center of the casting—one that Beauty suspected had once been used to entertain distinguished guests. As soon as they stepped into the room, the fire in the fireplace crackled to life, bathing the room in an ominous orange glow. The quickly fading daylight shone anemically through the tall windows, which were framed by thick, luxurious velvet curtains.

The furniture was upholstered in the same rich velvet. But Valentin did not have them sit. He stood before the fireplace, facing away, letting the fire frame him like he was a devil escaped from hell. Wyn stood before him, still and silent, eyes locked on the floor.

Beauty, following her lead, did the same. Only she didn’t stare at her shoes. Her eyes wandered the room until they landed on the portrait that hung above the mantel. It was a portrait of the same man whose portrait she had seen in the hallway upon her arrival—the one who looked like he had a poet’s soul, but with those dark and dangerous eyes. The portrait was larger than life, looming over even Valentin. The figure’s face was not as serious as in the hallway portrait. Here, his lips curved upward in a half-smile, like he was thinking of some private joke.

Wyn was clearly trying to hold as still as possible, but she quivered like a leaf. Beauty reached for her hand, only for her to edge away with a warning look.

Valentin eyed Wyn for a long time in silence. Despite his earlier assurances that he had no desire to make a meal of any humans, right now he was looking at Wyn like she was a succulent roast.

“I told you,” Beauty said again, “this was my idea.” She had been trying to explain the truth since Valentin had found them on the path. “She told me not to try to run. I pushed her into helping me.”

“She’s just trying to protect me,” Wyn insisted. “She was happy here. I convinced her she was in danger. I told her to run.”

Valentin’s long tongue came out to wet his muzzle. “You know there will have to be consequences,” he said, still looking only at Wyn.

“It was me,” Beauty repeated, desperate now. “It was all my idea. I swear—I’m telling you the truth.”

Wyn shook her head in a sharp, furtive motion. “Don’t,” she said under her breath. “Just let it happen. I can endure it better than you can.”

“I’m not as weak as you think I am,” said Beauty.

“It’s not that,” said Wyn. “The curse—” But before she could say more, Valentin held up a paw and snapped it shut. Wyn obediently closed her mouth.

Finally, Valentin turned his terrible red gaze on Beauty. “You need not fear for yourself,” he said. “You are my treasured guest. And as such, I must protect you from those who would do you harm—such as sending you out in the woods alone and unprotected. People like this.” He extended one needle-sharp claw toward Wyn.

“But I—” Beauty protested.

“If you truly were responsible,” Valentin said, “it would mean you were not suited for the task before you after all. It would mean I would need to start over once again—and I have already had to start over so many times.” He sighed. “I don’t want that. And I don’t think you want that. Do you?”

Beauty pictured the row of chests in the hidden room. Had he already picked out an empty one for her?

He walked up to her and stretched his paw forward, claw still extended. She recoiled as he ran it softly down her face. It was smooth and strangely cool to the touch.

“You are my treasured guest, dear one,” he repeated. “Let this be a demonstration of why you should not do anything to jeopardize that.” He stepped back and made a sharp slicing gesture toward Wyn, claws whistling through the air. “Kneel before me.”

Wyn dropped to her knees instantly. Beauty’s teeth clenched. “Don’t,” she said to Wyn. “Tell him the truth.”

“Please.” Wyn’s whisper sounded close to tears. “Let me do this.”

Beauty took a step toward Valentin. He held out a paw in warning. “Do not interfere.”

“Don’t,” Wyn agreed. “He’s made up his mind. Don’t try to stop it—you’ll only make things worse. Don’t listen. Don’t watch.”

“Oh, she’ll watch,” Valentin purred. “And listen, too. She needs to understand.”

Beauty took a shaky step back, hating herself all the while. But what could she do against those teeth, those claws?

Valentin returned his gaze to Wyn. “So you convinced my Beauty to leave,” he said. “You used your soft words to awaken the urge for defiance in her and lure her away. That voice of yours is dangerous, quiet though it is. Let us make sure it can do no further harm.”

He turned and plucked something off the mantel—a rose. The blossom was blood-red, and as fresh as if he had picked it only moments before.

“Open your mouth,” Valentin said in a soft growl.

Wyn obeyed. As she parted her lips, Valentin placed the stem of the rose sideways between them with delicate precision.

“Close,” he ordered her. She did so without hesitation. The thorns pierced her lips, top and bottom. Blood welled up and ran down her chin.

Valentin watched the trickling blood for a moment in silence. His eyes were half-shut in an expression that put Beauty in mind of a lazy cat enjoying the sun. His lips pulled back in a soft smile of pleasure.

Above the mantel, the dark eyes of the portrait also seemed to watch. Now the half-smile on the subject’s face seemed almost sinister.

That lazy smile on Valentin’s inhuman face made Beauty’s stomach churn. It made her itch with the urge to turn and flee this place. She knew she couldn’t. She had nowhere to go. Nowhere the curse could not stop her, or Valentin’s watching eyes not see her.

But that didn’t stop her heart from racing. It didn’t stop the sweat from setting the collar of her threadbare dress. She couldn’t look at Wyn. Couldn’t look at the blood. If she did… if she did…

The precipice yawned open before her. She did not dare complete the thought. All she knew was that she could not, could not, witness another instant of this.

“You seem distressed, dear one,” Valentin said. The tenderness in his voice was almost as awful as the pleasure in his eyes.

Beauty looked away. But she could still feel his eyes on her, burning, slicing, peeling away her skin to see what was underneath. She hated being watched. She always had. She could not allow herself to be seen.

“You’re too gentle for these harsh necessities,” Valentin continued. “I’m sorry to have to do this in front of you. But it’s important for you to understand consequences.”

Beauty didn’t answer. If she, and not Wyn, had been the one holding a rose between her lips, she did not think she would have found it any less possible to speak than she did right now.

“It will be over soon,” Valentin assured her. “But not just yet.” Anticipation flared in his eyes as he turned again to Wyn. “Your words are not the only problem. It was your feet that led you away, down the forest path for my dear one to follow. You had mending to do today, if I remember correctly. Instead, you neglected your work in your attempts to steal my dear one from me.”

He clapped his hands. “Servants!” he ordered. “Bring me the sewing needles. All you have.”

A flurry of activity, and a sewing basket appeared at Valentin’s feet. The servants were gone before Beauty could see what they thought of the scene before them.

Valentin opened the basket, which was at least three times the size of Beauty’s at home. A rainbow array of thread greeted Beauty’s eyes, more colors than her sewing basket had ever held, more than she had ever suspected existed. But Valentin did not so much as glance at the thread. He traced the long line of needles with a single claw.

He pulled one needle free. “Hold still,” he ordered Wyn in a warning tone as he crouched next to Wyn’s feet.

Then he pierced the center of her foot through.

A strangled scream left Wyn’s throat. But she did not open her mouth to let the scream out, did not let the rose fall to the floor. Not even when Valentin added a second needle, and a third. Not even when he pierced her other foot.

Blood soaked into the rich carpet under her feet. The bloodstain grew as Valentin added more needles, and more, and more. Beauty’s stomach knotted as tightly as a tied-off piece of thread. She felt like she would vomit on the floor. She felt too small for her hot and itchy skin. She had to escape this room, the smell of blood, those strangled screams. She could not stay here, or… or…

Even now, she would not allow herself to finish the thought.

“Stand up,” Valentin finally ordered Wyn, once every needle in the sewing basket lay buried in her flesh.

Wyn had obeyed every other command instantly, with no hesitation. But now she only looked up at Valentin with wide eyes.

“Did you hear me?” Valentin’s voice was no less terrifying for being whisper-soft. “Stand. Walk.” He offered her an arm to help her up.

Beauty didn’t see how she could possibly stand to touch him. But she did, pulling herself to her feet with his help. She screamed again, but did not let the rose fall. Her scream became a drawn-out moan.

Valentin withdrew his arm. She wobbled on her pincushion feet, but did not fall.

“Now walk,” he ordered her. “It needn’t be far. To the hearth and back.”

Wyn took one halting step, then another. Each felt to Beauty like a million miles, and she was only watching, not enduring the pain herself. She tried to force her eyes away, but they remained locked on Wyn’s feet—on the way the muscles rippled in unnatural convulsions with each step, the way blood both beaded up over her skin and sank into the carpet.

Beauty would not have thought it possible, but Wyn did reach the fireplace. She let out another whimper as she turned, fresh blood dripping down her chin as she pressed her lips tightly together. She hobbled her way back to Valentin as Beauty watched, transfixed.

The colors all looked brighter, all of a sudden—the fire more orange, the blood more red. Even Wyn’s gray eyes seemed more luminous. Or maybe that was simply because of the tears Wyn was still somehow not letting fall.

“You did it,” said Valentin. “Well done. Do you know what that means?”

Beauty, trying and failing to tear her eyes away, prayed it meant this ordeal was over.

“It means I haven’t done enough,” Valentin said. “That looked almost easy. And you know that won’t do.” He gestured at the floor with one claw. “Kneel.”

Wyn tried, but stumbled on her wounded feet and landed sprawled on her belly. She let out a series of tiny whimpers as she dragged herself up to a kneeling position, hands clasped in front of her. Still, somehow, the rose remained in place.

“Even with needles through your feet, you can walk,” said Valentin. “Even with needles through your feet, you will be able to lead my treasured guest away from me. We shall see how well you can walk after this.”

He took the sewing shears from the basket and opened them as far as they would go. He held one side of the shears out like a blade and brought it to Wyn’s heel. In a slow, methodical motion, he began peeling the skin from Wyn’s feet.

The blood turned from a trickle to a flood. As Valentin tore away a strip of skin, Wyn opened her mouth and screamed. The portrait frame shook with the force of it.

The rose fell—unnaturally slowly, to Beauty’s eyes—and landed on the bloody carpet.

Valentin paused. He picked up the rose by its stem, careful to avoid the thorns. When he looked at Wyn again, his face promised dire consequences.

Beauty could not keep her gaze away from Wyn for long. Not even the danger on Valentin’s face was enough to shake her focus. That was how she noticed that something was wrong.

The place where Valentin had peeled the skin away… it wasn’t bleeding anymore. Where raw flesh had been a mere moment ago, now a fresh pink layer of skin covered the wound. As Beauty watched, the skin thickened, turning from baby-pink to indistinguishable from the rest of Wyn’s foot. It was a bit cleaner, maybe, but that was all.

Valentin followed Beauty’s gaze. “Yes,” he said. “The curse’s work. So long as I am cursed, my servants will survive any injury, and age will never touch them. It is… convenient. I can do whatever I need to them. I can do whatever I like.”

He snapped the shears shut. “Like cut out your traitorous tongue,” he said, holding up the shears, “since the rose’s thorns were not enough to silence you.”

For a moment, Beauty could see it as clearly as if it were already done. The blood filling Wyn’s mouth, running down the back of her throat, choking her. The horrible noises she would make. The thick scrap of flesh lying on the carpet in front of her.

The bloody shears clutched in Beauty’s own hand.

“No,” she said. Then, louder, “No. Don’t.”

Valentin gave a low growl. “I told you not to interfere.”

Then he peered closer at her face. His eyes softened. “You look so pale, dear one. Perhaps I underestimated the strength of your kind heart. I did not understand how deeply this would affect you.”

It was for the best that Beauty felt sick to her stomach. If she hadn’t, she might have laughed in his face—and what might he have done then?

“Very well,” Valentin said on a long sigh. “For the sake of your gentle heart, I will show mercy, just this once.”

“Thank you—” Beauty started to say.

But Valentin held up a paw to silence her. “There is a cost,” he said. “I will show mercy… if you come now and share another dinner with me. I’ll have it waiting for us on the balcony.”

He extended his paw to her.

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Beastly: Chapter 14

Chapter 14 of Beastly, a dark and very whumpy Beauty and the Beast retelling where the captive is as dangerous as the captor… and their cat-and-mouse game is as entertaining for them both as it is deadly.

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For someone who looked so gentle and quiet, Wyn quickly wrangled the other servants with a determination Beauty would never have expected from her. After their conversation, she left Beauty in the library with strict orders to relax and let her take care of everything. By early afternoon, a dozen castle servants were waiting for her on the broken patio, each of them looking to Wyn for orders. Most looked at least a little reluctant to be there, but although some cast longing glances toward the door, none so much as spoke a word of doubt.

Except for one, the round-faced cook, whose face was as pale as when Beauty had asked her about the others. “Are you sure about this?” she asked, looking around at the gathered servants. “Are any of us sure? We’ve been through this before. We know what will happen if we fail.”

A collective shiver ran through the assembled servants. Except for Wyn. She must have gotten all her doubts out in her earlier conversation with Beauty; now all her gray eyes showed was a quiet determination. “We also know what will happen if we do nothing.” Her soft voice nonetheless made everyone fall silent. “Wouldn’t you like to see one of them make it out for once?”

The rest of the assembled servants, minus the cook, nodded and murmured their quiet agreement. So, after a moment, did the cook.

“He’ll be wanting his dinner before long,” the cook said. “If we’re going to do this, it has to be now.”

“Then tell her the plan,” said Wyn. She added, with a small smile, “Tell her what you’ll be making for dinner.”

“I’m serving woodland mushroom stew,” the cook said. “It’s a specialty of mine. I invented it myself. Carrots, potato, and seven varieties of mushroom, all of which grow in these very woods. And I assure you, they’re all perfectly safe to eat.”

Beauty frowned. “It sounds delicious, but…”

“But you’re wondering why this has to do with your escape,” said Wyn.

With a nervous look toward the roses, Beauty nodded. The vines didn’t stir. Maybe a person had to actually try to escape to set them in motion, not merely talk about it.

There was a soft smugness to Wyn’s smile, like she knew a secret. “Woodland mushroom stew,” she said, “requires mushrooms. Fresh ones. On the days she makes it, she always sends someone out to pick them. Today, that will be you. We’ll dress you as one of us.”

“And then you simply… won’t come back,” finished the cook.

“I can see that fooling him,” said Beauty doubtfully. “Maybe. From a distance. But how could it fool the curse?”

“We don’t know that it will,” said a skinny, sallow-faced servant near the front.

Wyn shot him a brief frown. “It’s true,” she said, “we don’t know for sure. But the curse seems attuned to patterns. There’s a small sitting room in the servant’s wing, and I often read in there for an hour or two before bed. The candle next to my preferred reading chair lights by itself before I even enter the room now—because the curse has learned my habits. On the nights I don’t sit and read, I’m told the candle burns for two hours before going out on its own.”

“If we pick certain flowers for decoration,” another servant added, “to brighten up the castle a bit, more of those flowers grow, and they grow closer to the castle.”

“But the curse doesn’t seem very… bright,” said a shy-faced girl who Beauty remembered seeing in the kitchens—perhaps the cook’s assistant. I once…” A blush spread across her face. “I know it was foolish of me. But when the first woman came here, I once put on one of her gowns, just to see what it was like to wear such fine clothes. All through that day, the curse tried its best to keep me from doing the work of a servant.”

“I was without an extra pair of hands in the kitchen that day,” the cook confirmed sourly. “Every knife leapt away from her. Every pantry door slammed in her face.”

Wyn took a bundle of cloth from one of the other servants and passed it to Beauty. “Go back to your rooms and put this on,” she said. “And then return to us. Quickly.”

Once Beauty was back in her rooms, the bundle of fabric turned out to be a plain brown dress, rough but sturdy. Once the fabric of the borrowed dress had settled around her curves, she found she could breathe a little easier. This simple clothing suited her far better than the gowns Valentin had provided her.

This dress was finer, in its own way, than the clothes she had brought with her from home. Rough the fabric might be, not to mention drab, but it was clearly made to last. It would be a long time before it ever needed mending.

She strapped her bag to her back. It still had all her things from home. As the weight came down on her back, so did thoughts of home, and they weighed far more than her meager belongings. What would happen to her father, if this plan worked and she returned home? Would Valentin still consider the deal fulfilled, or…?

When she had come here, she had been determined to trade her life for her father’s, even if it meant her own death. What had changed?

The hidden room. The chests behind her, the beast ahead. Lightning in her veins.

She shook away the sudden visceral memory. She could take off the borrowed dress and put on her finery again. She could offer her apologies to Wyn. She could sit in the library like a doll and meekly wait to die.

But she already knew she wouldn’t.

In which case, she told herself, she had best get on with it.

When she returned to the patio, she still had her locket on under her dress. But in all other respects, she could have passed for any other castle servant. At least to anyone who didn’t look too closely.

She eyed the gap in the wall, and all the rose vines in between. Without meaning to, she rubbed the fresh scabs on her arms. “So I just… go? And hope the curse doesn’t stop me?”

“We go,” Wyn corrected. “I’m coming with you. Just far enough to make sure nothing goes wrong.”

“That puts you at even greater risk,” Beauty protested. “You’ve already risked enough for me. More than enough.”

“I need to make sure you’re all right.” Wyn averted her eyes. “Besides,” she said, trying for a smile, “someone has to gather those mushrooms, or we’ll have no dinner.”

She offered Beauty a small, delicate hand. After a slight hesitation, Beauty took it. Wyn’s hand was cold with fear, but none of that fear showed on her face.

They took the first step together. And the next, and the next, into the tangle of roses. Beauty waited for the bite of the thorns, but it didn’t come. In fact, the vines seemed to move aside as they passed, clearing a path for them.

“You see?” Wyn said shakily, clutching Beauty’s hand. “The curse understands habits. It knows we’re going out to gather mushrooms.”

The scent of roses grew thicker the deeper into the tangle they went. Then the fragrance faded as they passed beyond the crumbled wall. Beauty’s heart lifted with every step, despite the thick shadows of the trees. It had worked. She was free.

Almost.

The trees were clustered together like gossiping girls, with no sign of any path squeezing between their trunks. But Wyn’s feet never faltered. At last, she led Beauty to a gap in the trees, one that turned into a path that wound its way up a small hillside and disappeared.

Wyn stopped. “Before you go any further,” she said, “put on your old dress. The one from home. I’ll turn around.” True to her word, she immediately turned her back.

“I won’t run off with this borrowed dress,” Beauty assured her, although it seemed a strange request to make. She unstrapped her bag from her back.

“That’s not why,” said Wyn. She turned back to face Beauty. “You’ve come this far because the curse thought you were a servant. It’s not safe for it to think you’re a servant anymore. We’re not allowed to go too far from the castle.” For a second, sadness filled her big eyes. Then she lifted her chin and swallowed it down.

“I brought two dresses from home,” Beauty said. “You could—”

Wyn shook her head. “I won’t do anything that will lessen your chances. It’s all right—this was never about getting me out. Besides, the others are expecting me back. I won’t abandon them.”

Wyn turned her back again. Beauty hastily replaced the borrowed dress with her own. Funny—it had only been a couple of days, and yet the old familiar dress felt wrong on her body. Had it grown too tight? No, she couldn’t find any places where the fabric strained against her body. It simply made her skin itch wherever it touched.

“Are you sure you don’t want to at least try?” Beauty asked when she was done.

“I’ll be fine,” Wyn assured her. “I don’t mind going back.” She sounded like she truly meant it. She sounded like the picture of perfect obedience. That confusing resentment swelled in Beauty’s heart again.

“I won’t forget you,” Beauty promised. “After I get home, I’ll learn everything I can about this curse. I’ll see if there’s anything that can be done to free you.”

They stood together on the path, neither of them quite willing to turn away.

“You should go,” Wyn urged. “It will be getting dark soon. Follow the path—it will take you to the road.”

“Thank you,” said Beauty. “For taking this risk. For everything you’ve done for me.” She turned away from the castle—

And found herself staring into Valentin’s red eyes.

She gasped. Behind her, Wyn gave a faint squeak of fear.

“So you were trying to leave,” said Valentin in a soft but dangerous growl.

“I was only gathering mushrooms—” Beauty began.

“No.” Valentin’s sharp growl cut her off. “I heard you. When I saw you leave together, I was hoping it wasn’t what it looked like. But your conversation just now made it plain.”

Beauty lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said in her meekest voice. “I swear to you, it will never happen again. It’s just that I’ve been so scared… so confused…”

“That won’t work this time,” said Valentin. “This is far worse than a bit of snooping. Simply asking you to forget your brief defiance is not enough anymore. This will require punishment.”

Wyn stepped forward, between Beauty and the furious beast. “This wasn’t her doing,” she said before Beauty could stop her. “I insisted that she run. I forced her to come. If anyone should be punished, it should be me.”

“No,” Beauty gasped. “What are you—”

But Valentin’s growl sliced through her words. “So it shall be.”

---

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Beastly: Chapter 13

Chapter 13 of Beastly, a dark and very whumpy Beauty and the Beast retelling where the captive is as dangerous as the captor… and their cat-and-mouse game is as entertaining for them both as it is deadly.

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The next morning, Beauty waited impatiently for Wyn to deliver her breakfast tray. She had questions for her.

But when the knock came, she opened the door to find a different servant, who held out her tray without a word and wouldn’t answer when she asked about Wyn’s whereabouts. After hastily gobbling her breakfast and changing into one of the few simple dresses in the closet, she hunted the castle hallways for her. But the servants were well practiced at staying out of sight, Wyn included.

Finally, after it seemed she had searched every room and wandered every hallway with no luck, she stood before the door to her rooms and tried what she should have tried from the start: she called Wyn’s name.

After all, the servants might be out of sight, but they were always watching.

Sure enough, in seemingly no time at all, Wyn crept around a corner, shooting a nervous glance over her shoulder. “What is it?” she asked in a hushed voice. “If this is about what you found yesterday, I’m afraid I can’t tell you any—”

“The others,” Beauty interrupted. Wyn began to shake her head, but Beauty kept going. “Did they die because—”

A small, soft hand clamped down over Beauty’s lips. Beauty drew back, startled, but she shut her mouth.

“A few minutes,” Wyn said in a near-whisper. “No more. And we need to talk somewhere else. Somewhere we can be alone.”

Wyn led Beauty through the maze of hallways and out a small back door Beauty hadn’t noticed before. It led out onto a cracked rectangle of stone that had once been a patio. Now waist-high weeds jutted through deep cracks in the ruined stone.

Beyond the jagged chunks of stone, the rose vines grew freely in all directions. The smell was thick, intoxicating. When Beauty drew in a deep breath, it felt like having her mother’s arms around her.

The sky was overcast, and the air held a slight chill. The wind went right through Beauty’s dress—her clothes were clearly meant for the warmth of the castle. She wrapped her arms around herself. But Wyn seemed impervious to the weather. Beauty didn’t spot a single goosebumps on her creamy skin as she regarded Beauty with haunted eyes.

“Ask your question,” she said. “But do it quickly.”

Beauty had been holding the question in since she had woken up this morning. It wasn’t hard to let it out now. “Did the others die because they didn’t love him?”

Instead of looking surprised at the question, Wyn only looked sad. The liquid sorrow in her enormous eyes gave Beauty the brief and strange urge to wrap her arms around her and tell her everything was going to be all right. But it wasn’t going to be all right, was it? That was what those chests in the hidden room meant. That was why Wyn had tried to warn her.

“Has it started already?” Wyn’s voice was softly resigned.

“Answer the question,” Beauty said, although it seemed to her that Wyn’s reaction was answer enough.

Wyn didn’t answer in words. She only nodded.

Beauty wished she had any trouble believing it. She did not. She thought about those sharp teeth, the needle-thin tips of his claws. She thought about the fury in his eyes when he had discovered her in the hidden room. And how his mood had changed so suddenly up on the balcony, when he had broken the glass and stormed away.

She wished she could banish from her mind the earlier parts of their dinner on the balcony. Most especially, the moment when his muzzle had brushed her lips with surprising sweetness.

“Did he kill them?” she asked. Maybe the answer would be no. Maybe Wyn would blame it on the curse.

But with the memory of the torn dress fresh in her mind, it was no surprise when Wyn nodded again.

“He came to me last night.” Beauty spoke in a hushed voice to match Wyn’s. “He said he would command me to love him. Not yet—but soon.”

“Yes,” said Wyn. “That’s how it starts. And of course, obeying that command is impossible. As the others before you all discovered.” She dropped her gaze to the broken stone. “I’m sorry.”

Was that it? Was that all her hushed and urgent warnings had come to—an averted gaze, an apology? Was she giving up on Beauty so quickly? Beauty tamped down a sharp flare of anger.

“Why?” she demanded. “Why is it impossible?”

Wyn frowned in confusion. “Well, who could obey a command like that? It’s like… like asking someone to love the taste of something they can’t stand.”

“I never loved porridge until it was all we had on the table most mornings,” said Beauty. “When the choice was to eat it or go hungry, I learned to like it.”

“Porridge is one thing,” said Wyn. “But can you really see yourself loving him?”

Beauty remembered the softness of his fur against her chin, and for the briefest of instants, she almost said yes. Then she came to her senses, and had to admit that no, she could not.

But she didn’t voice her answer aloud. “What do I do now?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Wyn admitted. “I really am sorry.”

“Did you warn me only so I could lie down and die?” A brief spark of lightning flared in her. “No. He may have killed them, but he’s not going to kill me.”

“Some of the others tried to stop it,” said Wyn. “It never came to anything. And they were…” Her voice trailed off, but Beauty could hear the unspoken words. They were not like you. They were not so meek, so dutiful, so obedient.

“If my duty is to die,” Beauty said—half to Wyn, half to herself—”then I will not be dutiful.”

She felt suddenly unsteady, out of balance, as if she stood on the brink of a great precipice. But she did not take the words back.

“I’m going to leave,” she said. “I won’t stay here another moment.”

Wyn’s eyes went round. “You can’t just leave.”

“Why not? I have feet, don’t I?” She turned away, toward the roses, toward the gap in the crumbling wall beyond.

Wyn grabbed her arm with surprising strength. “Don’t,” she urged. “He can be sweet, when he wants to be—but he can also be terrible.”

“I’ve seen his dark side,” said Beauty. “To save my own life, I’m willing to risk seeing it again.”

“No,” said Wyn. “You haven’t. You haven’t begun to see what he can do.”

Beauty pulled away from Wyn’s grip. She strode into the tangle of roses, heedless of the way the thorns pulled at her dress and scratched her flesh. Until the thorns bit deeper, deep enough to draw a cry of pain from her. When she looked down, the vines had twined around her arms and legs, holding her immobile. They reached for her neck, then shied away, rearing back like snakes about to strike.

“I told you,” Wyn said, “others have tried. You can’t leave.”

The vines tightened. Blood welled up wherever the thorns bit into her flesh. “I’m going back to the castle,” she whispered to the curse. “I’m going.” The words tasted like defeat.

Slowly, the vines uncurled. Before the curse could change its mind, she hurried back to the broken patio, pressing her hands to her wounds. Blood smeared down her arms and coated her fingers.

“That was only one attempt,” she said, keeping her voice low even though there was probably no point—who knew what a magical curse was capable of overhearing? “I’ll keep trying. I’ll find a way.”

“If he discovers what you’re trying to do,” said Wyn, “what the curse did to you just now will seem like a kindness.”

“Then I’ll need to succeed before he finds out, won’t I?” Beauty met Wyn’s eyes. “It will go better with help.”

“You’ll fail,” said Wyn, as she had on the night she had delivered her warning.

“Maybe,” Beauty allowed. “But if I’m on my own, failure will be that much more likely.”

As fear filled Wyn’s eyes, guilt gnawed at Beauty. She softened her voice. “You don’t have to help me,” she assured Wyn. “I won’t hold it against you, if you would rather not put yourself at risk. You’ve risked enough already.”

Wyn seemed to think for a long moment. Then she set her jaw and gave a decisive nod. “I’ll talk to the others,” she said. “I’ll see what we can do.” She paused, placing a hesitant hand atop Beauty’s bloodstained one. “I… would like to see you succeed.”

---

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Beastly: Chapter 12

Chapter 12 of Beastly, a dark and very whumpy Beauty and the Beast retelling where the captive is as dangerous as the captor… and their cat-and-mouse game is as entertaining for them both as it is deadly.

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Beauty’s private sitting room included a fireplace of her own, but the fire wasn’t enough to chase away the chill that lingered in her bones. She shivered as she pulled on the nightclothes she had brought from home. Her sisters would have said she was crazy for choosing the old patched garment over any of the fine silk nightgowns in her closet, but she wanted something simple. She wanted something familiar.

She thought about climbing into bed, but she wasn’t ready to extinguish the fire and snuff out the candles just yet. She wanted to remain in the light a little longer. She looked at the book next to the bed, which she hadn’t touched. She reached for it, but then drew her hand back. Yes, she wanted to find out what happened, but she couldn’t look at that book without thinking of the curse.

And she couldn’t think of the curse without thinking of Valentin.

A sudden crack made her jump, tightening her hands around her belly. She looked around, wide-eyed, for the source of the sound. When she realized what she had heard, she laughed softly to herself. Only a log in the fireplace, splitting from the heat.

She curled up in a velvet chair with her legs tucked under her. She stroked the soft fabric as she stared into the flame. It felt like fur under her fingers. Impossibly soft fur. Like the hairs of Valentin’s muzzle. Hastily, she pulled her hand back to her lap.

In the flames, she saw sharp fangs and shattered glass. She saw burning red eyes. Inhuman.

A soft knock came at the door. Beauty forced herself to breathe. It was only one of the servants, she told herself—Wyn, perhaps, here to deliver another tray of food, even though she couldn’t eat another bite after that dinner. Up on the balcony, before Valentin had stormed away, she had felt pleasantly satisfied. Now her stomach was in knots, aching with the weight of the heavy meal.

The knock came again.

She rose from her chair. She pulled the door open—and froze.

Wyn wasn’t standing at the door. Instead, Valentin loomed in front of her.

“Breathe, dear one,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

She risked a look up at his eyes. They no longer burned with rage. Instead, they looked soft. Gentle. They looked human.

Beauty did not trust those eyes.

“I apologize for my earlier anger,” he said. “I did not wish to scare you. I should have shown more restraint.”

She summoned enough courage to speak, albeit in a small voice. “What happened up there?” She asked. “What did I do wrong?”

He answered with a long sigh. “Nothing, dear one. You did nothing wrong.” He looked past her, into the sitting room. “May I come in?”

When she nodded and stepped aside for him, she didn’t know whether it was because of her memory of the kiss they had shared, or because she feared his reaction if she said no. Or, perhaps, because although she still did not understand her duties here, she knew they did not include refusing her captor’s requests.

Her captor? Was that the proper way to think of him?

He closed the door behind him. She tried not to betray her tension. “Is that why you came? To apologize?”

“I came because I wish to ask you a question.” His red eyes stared intently into hers. “Will you give me an answer?”

She squirmed under the weight of his gaze. “I’ll do my best.”

“Do you love me?”

Beauty almost laughed. A second later, she was glad she hadn’t, because that reaction could well have sparked his rage again. She resisted the urge to look behind her for an escape route—there was nowhere to go. And Valentin was watching her carefully, waiting for her response.

“Love you?” she echoed. “We’ve only just met.” She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly and uncomfortably aware that she was standing here in nothing but her old patched nightgown, with her hair down, ready for bed.

“And yet we get along quite well, I think,” he said. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Except when she had gone snooping and found something he didn’t want her to find. Except when he had stormed from the balcony for reasons he still hadn’t explained.

“I enjoyed dinner,” she said. She dropped her gaze shyly. “And what came after.”

Because yes, it was true—she had enjoyed the kiss, despite what had come after that. The memory of it brought a faint heat to her cheeks. How was it that the memory could make her blush when she should have been running in fear? How was it that even now, a part of her wanted him to do it again?

“And there will be many more dinners like it in your future,” he said. “And more gifts. More fine clothes. Anything you like. I can fulfill your every dream, dear one. Your every desire.” His voice grew low and rough.

She took a small step back. “I’m afraid I only have simple dreams.”

“Maybe you simply haven’t learned to make your dreams less modest,” he said. “I can show you how. Would you like that?”

A voice inside her screamed no. Desire was a dangerous thing. Desire was deadly. “I… suppose I would?” At the last instant, she turned it into a question without meaning to.

“If you love me, you will never want for anything again,” he said. “So tell me, dear one—do you love me?”

She hesitated, unable to give him the answer he wanted, unable to risk his anger by saying anything else.

A little of the softness left his eyes. “What’s the trouble? It’s a straightforward question.”

“Love is never straightforward,” she said, “or so I’m given to understand. As for me and you… there hasn’t been time. I’ve barely had time to meet you, let alone love you.”

She shrank back, waiting for his wrath. But it never came. “What would it take,” he asked, leaning his muzzle down toward her, “for you to love me? Whatever your heart desires, I will provide it.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she said. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“Do you enjoy the library?” He leaned a little closer. “What about one ten times as large? I’ll have one built especially for you.”

She shook her head. “The one I have is already too much. Not that I don’t enjoy it,” she added hastily. “I do. Very much. It’s only… it’s such a large gift, and from someone I barely know.”

“But I want you to know me. And I want the one you know to be someone you feel you can love. Who must I be for you to love me?” His muzzle was close enough now for his breath to warm her scalp. This time, she felt not the slightest urge to close her eyes and lean in for a kiss.

“I only want you to be yourself,” she said. “Then I can get to know you—the real you—and we can see where things go from there. I very much enjoyed our conversation tonight.”

Something dark flashed in his eyes—something that brought back a dangerous memory, the memory of lightning in her veins. “Is that what you want? To know who I really am?” His lips pulled back, showing his fangs. “Are you sure you want that, dear one?”

She stared at those fangs. She pictured shattered glass, and a bloodstained dress.

She tore her gaze from him, instead staring beyond the closed door, and wondered how far she could make it if she ran.

Not far. Not with those wolflike legs of his. She didn’t stand a chance.

She took a deep breath and forced her gaze back to his. “I can’t know that until I try, can I?”

His brow furrowed, like that wasn’t the answer he had expected. He didn’t respond.

“I’m happy to spend more time getting to know you,” she said, “but I’d like to take things slow. And right now, I need a good night’s sleep—and so do you.”

He didn’t leave. He didn’t move. Inside, she quailed. His eyes flashed with dark fire, and she swallowed back the answering fire in herself.

At last, he straightened to his full height, no longer looming down over her. “I can give you time,” he said. “But not too much. One day soon, I will command you to love me.” His red eyes narrowed. “And when that day comes, I will have your obedience.”

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Beastly: Chapter 11

Chapter 11 of Beastly, a dark and very whumpy Beauty and the Beast retelling where the captive is as dangerous as the captor… and their cat-and-mouse game is as entertaining for them both as it is deadly.

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Beauty’s eyes snapped open.

The book tumbled to the floor, where it fell shut with a crack like thunder. Valentin, standing in the just inside the slim passage, followed it with his eyes. Beauty couldn’t tell whether he had seen the cover. Or suspected what had been in her mind.

Her cheeks burned. Her stomach boiled. She felt like she was going to be sick.

“Don’t be scared,” Valentin said in what was probably the gentlest voice he could manage.

Was that what he thought? That she was scared?

“I’ve put this morning’s… unpleasantness… behind me,” he continued. “I’m glad to see it looks like you have, too.”

“Hmm?” Beauty, confused, tried to drag herself thoughts away from the book enough to make sense of his words.

“Relaxing in the library,” Valentin said. “Making use of the gift I gave you.” Not snooping around where you don’t belong, was the clear implication.

“Of course,” Beauty murmured. She picked up the book and tucked it away on the shelf.

“How are you enjoying it?” Valentin asked.

Her eyes jerked back to him with a start. “The book? I barely got a look at it. I chose at random, you see—I had only just found this little room…” her words trailed off.

“Not the book. The library. Do you find it to your liking?”

There was that shy voice again, that hesitance, that hope. As if he truly cared about her answer. As if he truly wished to please her.

Who was this strange creature, with all his contradictions?

“Oh! I like it very much.” She thought it best not to mention her frustration at the organizational system. Not only would that be ungrateful of her, but then she would need to explain just what she had been looking for. “I found a pleasantly diverting novel near the front. I spent most of the day reading it.”

“Yes, the servants mentioned that you missed lunch.”

Lunch! In her single-minded search, she had forgotten about food. “The book was quite absorbing.”

“Good,” said Valentin. “I’m glad the gift suits you.” His eyes swept around the small alcove, but he didn’t ask what had brought her in here, or whether it, too, was to her liking. She kept her lips judiciously shut.

“I don’t wish to interrupt your reading,” he said, “but if you wouldn’t mind a break for something to eat, I would very much like to share your company for dinner.”

“Of course,” she said, and started toward him.

He held up one thick, furry plot to stop her. “This is not a command,” he assured her. “Merely an offer. I would like to get to know you. But if you would prefer to dine alone, that can be arranged. I want you to be happy here.”

But could she trust those words? She didn’t know. Not with his earlier growled warnings about obedience still echoing in her mind. The truth was, after this morning, there was little that appealed to her less than the prospect of sitting across a dinner table from a creature who might well have murdered at least one woman. But whether his invitation had been a command or not, would it offend him if she declined? She couldn’t be sure.

It was safer to give him what he wanted. It was always safer to give people what they wanted.

“I would love to join you for dinner.” She punctuated her words with the sweetest smile she could muster, even though twisting her lips into the expression made her feel sick.

Valentin’s face transformed at her words, seeming lit from within. His mouth hung open slightly in what she recognized, after a few confused seconds, as a doggy smile. And the raw relief in his red eyes made them look almost human.

Happiness made his face no less fearsome. His smile brought his impressive array of sharp teeth into full view. But she crossed the distance to him nonetheless.

She expected him to lead her into the dining room he had shown her yesterday, a long and echoing space with enough chairs to seat two hundred. Instead, he led her around to the back of the castle, and from there, to a staircase that spiraled up and up and up. Although she was no weakling, her legs soon began to burn. How high had they climbed? She would not have been surprised if, when they finally reached the end—if there was an end—they found themselves atop the clouds themselves.

But when the staircase did at last stop, the narrow door at the top didn’t lead onto a pillowy cloud, but a small stone balcony with a delicate wrought-iron railing shaped to look like rose vines. The ruined castle fell away below them, while the trees formed a canopy as far as her eyes could see. From this height, she found herself looking not up at the tops of the trees, but down at them.

“I only wish I had a better view to show you,” said Valentin sadly. “Something other than these crumbling ruins, this damned forest. I used to love to come up here, before the curse, and gaze out on my kingdom. Now there is nothing worth seeing.”

“That’s not true,” Beauty protested. “It’s beautiful up here.” She said it not because it was what he wanted to hear, but because it was true. Up here, the trees could not block the sight of the sun slowly sinking below mountains of clouds streaked with more shades of orange and pink than she had known existed. The colorful light shone off the leaves, lending them a borrowed glow. The scene looked like a painting, something she might have seen in one of the city museums as a child.

And when she looked down, she found she had a perfect view of the rose garden. Overgrown it was, to be sure, but the roses were no less stunning for that. From up here, she could see that they came in even more shades than she had spotted before. There was a pale orange, a perfect mirror of the clouds above. And a soft, creamy white accented with stripes of palest pink.

But always, her gaze came back to the blood-red roses, like the one her father had brought back for her.

“I’m glad you think so,” said Valentin. “But turn your attention, if you will, to what lies closer at hand.” He swept an arm out in front of him.

When Beauty followed the movement of his paw, she saw what she had missed: a miniature feast laid out in front of them. A finely woven purple cloth covered the stone of the balcony, and at least a dozen trays of food sat atop it. There were thick slices of roast beef, dripping with juices. There were small tarts stuffed with ham and melted cheese, and fresh garden vegetables arranged into a tower that didn’t look like it should have been able to balance on its own.

“I had the servants prepare a simple meal for us,” Valentin said. He gestured to one end of the cloth, where a small mountain of cushions lay. “Sit. Eat.”

She wanted to protest that they hadn’t needed to go to all this trouble for her. She could have made do with just one of these fine dishes and called it a feast, and she was not so delicate as to need cushions to protect her bottom from perfectly clean stone. But it seemed rude to criticize all the work he—well, his servants—had put in for her. She sat, and let herself sink into the soft cushions.

A full wineglass sat to one side of her plate. Valentin settled onto his haunches and took a sip of his own wine, his paw handling the glass with surprising dexterity. She eyed her glass with trepidation. She never drank—and when she did, she quickly wished she hadn’t. But would refusing a drink disappoint Valentin?

Was it safe to disappoint him?

But he didn’t even glance at her glass as he set his down. “Eat,” he urged. “Take your fill. We can’t have all this go to waste.”

She filled her plate with a bit of everything. As she ate, she watched the sunset slowly fade. The dinner was as fine as breakfast had been, if not better. The meat alone was cooked to perfection, falling apart in her mouth in a way she had never been able to manage in her own kitchen. And how luxurious it felt to eat a meal someone else had cooked, for once! Having been spared the work made even the plainest dishes taste all the sweeter—not that anything in this array was truly plain.

The scent of roses drifted up from below. As always, the smell reminded her of her mother, and she briefly touched her locket. And yet, for once, the reminder of the past did not make her sad. Despite her fearsome company, it seemed impossible to be sad in the face of this view, and with such a feast laid out before her.

But she could not forget Valentin forever. When, at last, she forced herself to look at him, he was watching her with the same look she had seen on his face when he had gifted her the library. That same hesitance. That same hope.

Her cheeks heated. She averted her eyes, suddenly conscious that he had been watching her all this time. The silence, which had felt peaceful a moment ago, now seemed strained.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

She expected him to say something about her. To offer a compliment, perhaps, or a warning. Instead, he spoke with a strange wistfulness. “I was thinking about memory.”

“So was I,” she said, as she took another deep draw of rose-scented air.

“My kingdom,” he said. “It was small, but grand. Certainly there was no one near its borders that did not know its name. Now…” He shook his furry head. “If no one remembers it, is it real? Was it ever real?”

“Of course it was real,” Beauty answered, even though she could still barely wrap her mind around the fact that an entire kingdom had existed that she knew nothing about. “No curse can change that. Whether people remember or not.”

“Why not?” he asked. “You’ve seen how much the curse has altered. It turned strong stone to ruins, and sprouted a forest overnight. And me… I don’t have to tell you what it did to me.” He looked down mournfully at his beastly form.

But her thoughts lingered on what he had said about the forest. “The people in my village say this forest has always been here,” she protested. “They all have stories about a great-uncle or a great-great-grandmother getting lost in these woods.”

“And some of those memories may well have happened as they said,” said Valentin. “Decades have passed since the curse took hold. Generations. Centuries, perhaps.”

“Centuries?” She stared, then realized she was staring and looked away. She wondered if there was a polite way to ask just how old he was.

“But surely,” she said instead, “someone from the village would have a story about some ancestor of theirs seeing an entire forest come into being overnight.”

“Yes,” said Valentin, “precisely. So which is real? The truth I remember? Or the truth everyone else knows?”

Beauty frowned. “The real truth, of course.”

“But who is to say,” said Valentin, “that my memories are the real ones?”

She opened her mouth, but realized she had no idea how to answer. But that didn’t bother her—this was the kind of conversation, it seemed to her, where the questions were more important than the answers.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a conversation like that back home. Had she ever?

Then she realized, with a start, that for a few moments she had forgotten to be afraid.

Valentin picked up a large red berry between the pads of two fingers and held it out to her. “You should have the last one,” he said.

She looked down at the spread and saw, to her surprise, that they had picked all the dishes clean. Her belly felt pleasantly heavy, her appetite satisfied.

She took the berry, blushing slightly as soft tufts of fur brushed the delicate skin of her fingers. She popped it into her mouth. It burst on her tongue, releasing its juices—sour at first, then surprisingly sweet, with just a hint of bitterness to follow.

“You haven’t touched your wine,” he reminded her.

“I rarely drink at home,” she said. “It makes me silly. You’d prefer it if I didn’t drink any, I’m sure.” She gave a nervous giggle, hoping to cover her sudden tension. It wasn’t true that wine made her silly. It was true that it made it harder to keep the vow she had held to since childhood. Harder to remember who she was supposed to be—who she must be. Meek. Dutiful. Obedient.

“Just a sip,” he urged. “But only if you want.” He held up her glass and held it to her lips, waiting, a silent question in his eyes.

Just a sip. One sip wouldn’t hurt. She parted her lips, and he tilted the glass just enough for a small trickle of the liquid to enter her mouth.

Her eyes went wide as bitter fire coated her tongue. This wine was stronger than anything they had in the village. For one horrible second, she thought she might retch and betray to him how sheltered she was, how uncultured. How ill-suited for this place.

But then, between one heartbeat and the next, something changed. Not in the wine itself, but in her mouth. That fiery bitterness no longer felt like an assault, but a challenge. A challenge she was suddenly eager to meet. The flavor felt like life surging through her veins. She no longer wanted to spit it on the ground; she wanted a deeper drink.

But she had said she only wanted a little, and he took her at her word. He straightened the glass and set it down before her once again. She started to reach for it, but pulled her hand back to her lap instead.

When she looked up, Valentin was still leaning across the blanket, even though he now had no glass to offer her. In fact… was he drawing even closer?

His red eyes drifted shut.

What was he… no. No, he couldn’t possibly. He couldn’t possibly be about to kiss her.

She didn’t know which was stranger: the thought that he might lean in for a kiss with that inhuman muzzle of his… or the realization that she didn’t want to pull away.

She stayed where she was, even when his head came close enough for his breath to ruffle her curls. Up close, she had expected him to smell like dog, or like the woods. Instead, he smelled like the castle, and like old books… with just a hint of something smoky underneath that she suspected was the scent of the magic itself.

Now was her last to chance pull back. And why wouldn’t she? Duty or no, fear or no, why would she allow herself to be kissed by a beast?

But in this moment, she was no longer afraid. And for once, duty had no hold over her.

His muzzle brushed her lips. His fur was soft as silk. Up close, that smoky scent filled her nose until she could smell nothing else. Involuntarily, her lips parted—

But he was already pulling back. His red eyes gazed into hers with a heartbreaking mix of yearning and hope.

Then he broke their gaze to look down at himself. Was he self-conscious about his beastly form? He must be. He must have been wondering what had come over him, why he had ever thought she would kiss a creature such as him. Her heart ached for him.

She opened her mouth to tell him he had nothing to fear.

She never got the chance.

He surged to his feet, knocking over his empty wineglass. It shattered with a sound like a tiny scream, shards of glass spilling across the cloth.

His eyes, so soft and hopeful a near instant ago, now burned with a fury to equal anything she had seen from him this morning.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice trembling. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer. With a low and terrible growl, he turned and ran from the balcony, slamming the door behind him.

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