“Do you play an instrument?” he asked, gesturing around the room. “The pianoforte, perhaps?”
Isabelle burst into laughter. “Oh, heavens, no! And you’d best hope I shan’t attempt to.”
A chuckle rustled in his throat.
“My father,” she continued, speaking more to herself, those intoxicating, hazel eyes dancing from one instrument to the next, “he used to play the fiddle while I’d dance. He was quite good.” The rush of sadness that washed over her face struck Adam like a knife. The reaction took him by surprise and left him momentarily void of speech. He knew that grief all too well. Guilt rippled through him as an image of her father surfaced.
Shaking away the thought, he paced over to the pianoforte, lifted the lid, and allowed his fingers to dance across the ivory keys. It was only a single chord—but it was clearly enough.
Isabelle paused in midstride and rotated toward the melody. Appreciation shone in her beautiful eyes, causing his fingers to still. They lingered above the keys; the final note floated in the air and swirled around them, sweeter than honey from the comb.
She joined him at the pianoforte and ran a slender hand over the keys. They tinkled beneath her light touch and fractured the silence. Adam stood on the opposite side of the instrument, unable to tear his gaze away.
How would those hands feel upon his skin? Could she ever caress him with the same delicacy, the same wonder and appreciation? Or would she only recoil in horror?
“I know you heard me playing... I know you saw me.” The words emerged before he could stop them. Her face jerked toward his own, and her brilliant eyes captured his from across the pianoforte.
“A part of me imagined that was a dream,” she said, her lush hood of lashes lowering over her eyes. Adam had thought the same thing when he’d first beheld her. “You play beautifully. I could hardly believe it. So much emotion. So much feeling. I admit—your music had frightened me a little. I’d never heard anything like it...” The words trailed off. Adam knew she hadn’t meant to speak them aloud.
“I shall consider that a compliment.”
“You should. Who taught you to play like that?”
“I had a tutor as a boy. A handful of governesses, too. Monsieur Beaumont, my music tutor, had trained some of the world’s finest composers.” Ancient memories swept over him, and Adam felt his mouth tick into a smile. “He used to say that the greats—Debussy, Ravel, Beethoven—never die. They simply become their music. They earn immortality.”
“You were a child prodigy.” It wasn’t a question. Just an acute observation she’d somehow unearthed. Adam gave a curt nod and felt a blush sear his cheeks.
A heartbeat later, he wheeled around the pianoforte, and his self-doubt slid away while he soaked up the power of his music room. Isabelle visibly stiffened as he towered above her. She shifted backward until her bottom bumped into the pianoforte. Then she stared up at him, clearly transfixed yet afraid, her red lips slightly parted. The warmth of her body and the sweet scent of her skin sailed toward him, whispering his name. Fire flowed through his veins and stirred the man to life. “My mother was gifted on the harp and violin. Is that such a revelation, mademoiselle?”
“No, not at all...” She ached to press him further—he could see the inquiry dancing in her eyes, could practically hear the questions tumbling from those rosebud lips. Yet only silence prevailed.
He gazed down at her, his eyes slowly tracking over the elegant column of her neck. “Once upon a time, I wasn’t a monster...” He reached out—hesitated in midair for a heartbeat—then pressed his gloved fingertips to her collarbone. She leaned against the pianoforte and gazed up at him. Her breaths grew shallower, and a distinct fear surfaced in her eyes.
Alas, it was no great wonder. She loathed him—and he clearly repulsed her. He repulsed even himself.
Holding her gaze with his own, his fingertips danced lazy circles along the fine architecture of her collarbone. He cursed the gloves that covered his hands as he ached to feel her creamy skin free from barriers. “Once upon a time, I was just a man.” He stepped behind her, aligning their bodies. Gliding his palms down and over her russet mane of curls, he watched in awe as the dark strands slipped through his fingers.
Much like everything else in my life.
She trembled against him; whether from revulsion or desire, he couldn’t say. Her gaze appeared to peer inward—as if she were watching something unfold inside her mind.
I ought to leave her, to back away now…
Instead, he stepped closer, if that was even possible, and inhaled the sweet incense of her curls. Adam felt strangely alive... as if he’d awoken from a twenty-five-year slumber. He saw the war on her face, heard it in the ragged sound of her breathing. Torn between fear and something else, she wanted to pull away yet was quite mesmerized. He waited, expecting her to flee in horror—to push past him and escape into the shadows.
But she did nothing of the sort.
Instead, her head tilted back in undeniable ecstasy. A shallow sigh escaped from those parted lips. Her breaths wafted against him in an erotic assault on the senses, causing his blood to burn and rush southward. She looked remarkably innocent, fragile, like a porcelain doll. He turned her body in a full circle and gently cupped the curve of her chin.
“What if I demanded that you fulfill our original terms? Right now, in this very room?”
Silence pressed between them and poisoned the air. He felt her swallow beneath his fingertips, saw as her eyes filled with a stark terror that overpowered all other emotions.
“It would break whatever is left of me.”
Adam captured her gaze for several weightless moments. Then he released her chin, a bit harsher than he intended, and swept back. Isabelle exhaled deeply, as if his distancing had allowed her to breathe again.
You are a monster.
“As I said nights ago, I won’t hold you to that part of our agreement. Now follow me, and I’ll show you to your private quarters.”
Heat and darkness seal my fate.
Inside, I am weeping, screaming, cursing—yet my cheeks remain bone-dry, as I have nothing left to give. Flames flash before me, consuming everything that once mattered. Smoke infects my lungs and singes my insides into ashes. I fight to cry out, to scream for help... but my throat can’t function. Even swallowing proves to be a monumental task as the walls of my throat swell and close. Hard coughs shake my body, rattling my brittle bones. Surely I’ll choke to death. Vainly I battle the binds that tie my wrists together as I feel myself slipping into blackness.
As the world rapidly fades away, my family’s ancient mantra echoes in my mind.
Nutrisco et extinguo. I nourish the good and extinguish the evil.
But I no longer find comfort in those words—only a painful despair.
Bone-chilling cries jarred Isabelle from her sleep. She awoke with a startled gasp, feeling disoriented and detached all over again. It took several moments to remember where she was and how she came to be there.
The candle on her nightstand had burned out hours ago, sentencing her private quarters to blackness. Moonlight trickled through the sole window and illuminated the hulking mahogany furniture; the towering bureau and armoire resembled crouching monsters. Mon Dieu, she felt ice-cold. Her breaths misted against the darkness and emerged in silver clouds. She massaged her arms and swept wayward curls from her eyes. Her skin seemed to physically crawl.
Those cries... They sounded guttural, heart-wrenching, almost inhuman in their despair. Her heart pounding, she caressed her silver pendant, then slipped out of bed and crossed herself in a clumsy movement. She relit her lantern as her feet sank into the Flemish carpet. Hesitantly she slipped into the winding corridor.
She followed Adam’s choked sobs without conscious thought. They beckoned her forward, pulled at her heartstrings with the force of a puppet master.
Caught in a disjointed reality, her feet seemed to bear a mind of their own as she wandered through the halls
. The lantern swayed unsteadily in her grip and caused the shadows to lengthen and deepen. Its light glimmered along the peeling walls and ragged tapestries; the faded designs depicted muted biblical scenes. In stark contrast, demon-like creatures stared down at her, their horned heads and winged bodies carved into the cracked walls.
On nights such as these, the castle transformed into a living entity with a will of its own. She felt it pulsate and cycle through a complex range of emotions: sadness, grief, despair, and anger. All around her, stone and wood shifted and emitted a low grumbling noise. She sensed the dust motes settling as they glided through the air like snowflakes; she felt the wooden beams aging below her heels. Meanwhile, the sounds of Adam’s sobs pulled her forward and punctuated the darkness.
Finally she reached the end of the corridor and stood outside his private bedchamber. The door was half-open, the room nearly pitch-black. She eased inside, knowing she’d curse her meddling and curiosity later, and lifted her lantern.
What she saw purged the air from her lungs. Adam was jerking in his bed like a wild beast, visibly fighting some unseen demon. She inhaled a breath for courage, then moved forward several meters. Stranger sat beside the huge four-poster bed, his tail tucked beneath trembling legs. Overhead, the canopy filled with a draft of air and billowed like a pair of wings. A strange restlessness stirred the atmosphere, and Isabelle knew they weren’t entirely alone. She trembled, feeling the whispers of ghosts on the back of her neck. Shivering, she swept her palm over the dog’s head, whispered words of comfort, then turned her disbelieving gaze back to Adam.
The center of her chest grew heavy. Her pulse thundered in her ears. The lantern’s illumination danced across his restless body and threw shadows along the dark-paneled walls. Isabelle couldn’t restrain her gasp; fearful of waking him, she slapped a palm over her mouth to stifle the sound.
Adam was dressed in undergarments and not a shred more. His body was impressively large, strong, well-muscled—and warped by grotesque scars. Twisted mounds of flesh, deep trenches, and ridges distorted most of his upper body. Isabelle fought the urge to reach out and track her fingers down his torso... to help calm his anguish in whatever way she could. His frantic sobs crawled under her skin, pulling her forward like a lasso. She took a tentative step toward the bed, watching as the light illuminated his scarred, sweat-lined skin.
Heat from the lantern, which she held at eye level, caused sweat to bead on her forehead. She knuckled it away—and discovered that her cheeks were damp with tears.
Tears not for her beloved papa. Not for her fate. They were tears for Adam.
Whoever he is.
Chapter Ten
Adam drove his axe in a precise arc, splitting an upright log down its middle. A shrill crack undulated across the frozen courtyard and vibrated through his gloved hands. His movements were smooth and calculated—a vast contradiction to his tangled mind. He readjusted the long wooden handle, then swung the axe with another savage crash. Nearby, the mare wandered the length of the snow-covered courtyard; she flinched at the deafening bang before continuing to search for whatever greenery she could find amid the frost. Her silver tail swatted at the cold air, waving like a banner.
He dealt two more deathblows. Sweat poured from his brows, every muscle ached and trembled—and still, he soldiered on. Another deafening crash resounded. A small flock of birds volleyed out of a hedge and soared into the bruised sky. Adam turned his gaze to the castle; the setting sun fringed the turrets and jutting towers in a blood-red cloak.
Wiping the sweat from his brow and eyes, he repeated the ritual again and again, urging it to sedate his tumultuous mind, stacking the woodpile so high until it appeared no number of logs could ever comfort or warm him. Even before Isabelle stumbled upon his doorstep and he’d lit fires, Adam had wasted countless hours butchering logs; it kept his body strong, his mind sharp, and helped soothe his storming emotions.
Finally, when the sun tucked itself in for the night, he repeatedly stalked the length of his East Tower like a manic, caged beast. This section of the castle was a vault into his childhood. A variety of items he and Sébastien had recovered from the Delacroix ruins were haphazardly stashed here, lost amid the cavernous shadows and hulking furniture that had come with this castle. Shortly after the siege, Sébastien had helped Adam recover his inheritance and purchase this decrepit castle (thanks to the aid of a shady banker or two) in the most desolate province of Hartville…
Away from everyone. Far from the memories. Yet the distance had never brought him peace of mind or contentment.
Ashamed of his monstrous appearance and overcome with despair, he’d hid himself away as the years crawled by and the shadows only deepened.
Adam inhaled the musty atmosphere and ran his gaze over the wreckage. The East Tower had once been a storage area, he supposed. Now, it served as a portal into another time and place—into a time when he’d been a different person and into a place he’d regarded as home.
Moonlight poured through the row of high, arched windows, which graced a lushly curved, domed ceiling. Precious keepsakes from his past life whirled by as he crossed the jumbled space again and again. Those remnants seemed to close in on him, to whisper things he’d refused to hear for over two decades. Expelling a breath, he stopped in front of a row of suspended cloths and jerked one down with a flick of his wrist.
His mind and body went quiet with cold agony. He could feel his mother’s portrait staring directly at him—probing the turbulent depths of his soul.
What have you become, mon fils? Is this truly all that’s left of you? A selfish beast who’s imprisoned a young woman and caused her papa’s death?
Adam didn’t want to believe that. Not yet. He glanced around the ruins of his East Tower and observed a musical box from his childhood. Edging forward, he rotated the golden turnkey; the hoarse melody swelled through the tower and carried him back to his fourth birthday. Non, he surrendered nothing without a fight—including what remained of his frayed soul.
His hands trembling, the signet ring drank in the moonlight as Adam tentatively traced his mother’s eternal profile.
You are better than that, my sweet son...
“But I don’t know how to be,” he replied, the tone of his voice floating in the air like a melancholy pianoforte refrain. The words twisted with the musical box’s melody, uniting them as one. “There are so many things you never were able to teach me. Maman... I’m starting to care for her—and I don’t know what to do, don’t know how to act. She loathes me—sees nothing but a beast, a monster. I am lost. Without you, I am lost. And I’ve been lost for years...”
Adam was met with the sound of silence. Heaving another sigh, he leaned against the stone wall as a riot of emotions battled within. Clashing memories poured through him: Maman teaching him the waltz, picnics in the rose garden, standing beside Rosemary’s bassinet—and the sight of flames consuming her...
Without warning, a vision of Isabelle materialized inside his mind, and he felt some of the agony trickle away.
An hour later, he eased inside Isabelle’s bedchamber and contented himself with watching her sleep. When he merely spoke to her, he felt a brief connection with the world again. It was one as simple yet as intimate as taking a person’s hand. Clasping it tight.
And how I ache to hold on a little longer…
Several nights had passed since their interlude in the music room. That connection he’d felt with the world had faded at the blatant repulsion and fear in her eyes. It reminded Adam of what he was, what he lost, and what he never could be.
He’d kept to himself since, sulking in the darkness, detaching himself from everything—including his own wretched longings. He’d stroke Stranger, butcher logs, tend to Isabelle’s mare, compose, or sit in his garden... thinking how this night was only one of thousands of nights.
Yet she made him dream of a different time when he was still young and handsome. When the world had laid at his feet, and everything was
beautiful. Pure. An ocean of possibilities as vast and endless as Lavoncourt’s glittering coastline.
Now, he lurked in Isabelle’s chamber against the farthest wall, just another shadow within the castle, until morning’s golden light fringed the draperies. Stranger slumbered at the foot of her bed, his enormous paws twitching in time with his dreams. “Traitor,” Adam muttered at the dog, who usually kept him company at night.
Damn him, he’d fought to stay away, to keep his distance—but Isabelle’s mere presence drew him forward like a moth to a flame. For ten minutes longer, he watched with admiration as sunrays blared through the pane and highlighted her wealth of curls.
Mon Dieu, she’s been here for a week and a half.
She stirred, as if the sun’s warmth had reached out and physically touched her brow, then grew still again. Hardly thinking, Adam edged forward and listened to the melodic sound of her breathing, observed the graceful rise and fall of her chest. Both his body and soul ached with a painful longing—one that extended far beyond the pleasures of the flesh. He yearned to simply lie beside her, to take her curves in his arms and hold her against his body.
Then a damning voice invaded his thoughts. It was a voice he recognized straight away—a voice that had haunted him for years.
You are living the life you have earned—one of solitude and darkness.
It was his own voice.
A moment later, a second voice chimed in and echoed his self-doubt.
Careful now, mon ami. I’m afraid you’ll make yourself heartsick with love for her...
Raphael dejectedly observed as Vivian’s heavy, pale breasts jiggled beneath his undulating body. Her long nails dug into his back, and she bit her bottom lip in pleasure.
Beauty of the Beast (Fairy Tale Retellings Book 1) Page 13
