Beauty of the Beast (Fairy Tale Retellings Book 1)

by Rachel L. Demeter

  Focus, worthless fool.

  He tried to anchor his focus, to concentrate on fucking her—but thoughts of Isabelle wove in and out of his skull, hissing for his attention like some malicious serpent.

  She had played him for a fool. A quick correspondence with his acquaintances in Le Florin had confirmed his suspicions just that afternoon. No trace of his beloved fiancée or her decrepit old man had ever appeared at the Merchants’ Fair. More than a week had passed since their foolhardy and desperate expedition; Raphael held little hope they’d be returning soon as scheduled.

  Oh, no. Isabelle had made off with his funds, his brougham, and one of his exquisite Arabian mares. She’d stolen what was rightfully his. Disgraced his name in the worse way possible. And played him for a fucking fool.

  Except he would get the last laugh. Him and Vivian, to be sure.

  Father’s damning words twisted inside his mind: You are nothing but a stupid, sentimental fool, just like your whore of a mother. Even now, over a decade later, he felt the sting of the buckle and the smoldering burns from Father’s cigar butts. Mocking laughter rang in his head, drowning the world around him.

  Bastard.

  He gave a final, hard thrust, and spilled himself inside of Vivian’s tight sheath. Her nails raked at his back as she lost herself in the throes of a pulsating climax. Then he stumbled off her, snatched a bottle of hard liquor from the vanity, and downed a liberal swallow. Behind him, Vivian stretched across the crumpled sheets with a satisfied sigh.

  Raphael glanced at his bare arm, examining the welts and burns that would forever brand his skin. God’s teeth, anger sizzled through every sinew, every muscle, every vein. He’d supped with his father just last night; as always, Philippe Dumont had no shortage of insults or scorn—and Raphael had felt a measure of joy at his father’s disapproval.

  Still chasing after that peasant wench, I see, like a lovesick pup? Despite my disdain—despite the fact she’s sullied your name and made you a laughing stock? You’re more pathetic than I’d imagined. No matter, it appears she’s truly gone now, Raphael, I’m pleased to say.

  Now Father would get the last laugh, should he fail to track her down.

  Stupid chit. Raphael had intended to give her the world on a silver platter, to gift her with the happy ending his poor mother hadn’t known. Vicomtesse Isabelle Rose would have lived in the lap of luxury and refinement—a far cry from that shabby little cottage or the back of her father’s broken wagon. That was before she showed her treachery, her true colors—colors that were a different shade than his mother’s, mind you—and made a joke of his generosity.

  Like most women, she certainly lacked brains and the capacity for rational thought. Hunting was one of his most prized pastimes—and Isabelle Rose had simply set him up for the chase.

  Yes. He and Vivian would indeed get the last laugh...

  Raphael took another swig, then propped his palms on the vanity’s edge and stared down at the various trinkets littering the surface. A solitary candle glowed, encircling his mother’s keepsakes in a ring of light. Exotic perfumes from the far reaches of the world. Dazzling jewels of all shapes and sizes. Delicate combs carved from tortoiseshell and ivory. Raphael traced his finger over the comb’s brittle teeth while his thoughts crept inward again.

  Vivian sat up in bed and allowed the silk blanket to fall enticingly to her waist. Her breasts shone creamy and white, illuminated by the candle and shafts of moonlight that trickled through the oversized window. The lace curtains billowed within the dim chamber like the wings of a butterfly.

  “You keep brooding over that lowborn whore.” Vivian pouted—though the hurt in her voice sounded genuine. She fought to appear unaffected, but Raphael saw the flash of sorrow that entered her blazing eyes, heard the quaver in her husky voice, and noticed how a frown tugged at the corner of her wry smile. “Why, I’m beginning to think you may love her.”

  And there it was.

  Raphael released a harsh, bitter laugh and shook his head. “Madame, you worry your pretty head for naught. I’m afraid I’m incapable of such a petty thing.”

  He locked gazes with her reflection. She tensed at his words, as if he’d slapped her across the face. Then she swallowed and glanced away, visibly gathering her nerves—something contrary to her character.

  “Come now, Vivian, amour. Chin up—”

  “I have fucked my fair share of men,” she interrupted, her eyes betraying the harshness of her words. She slipped out of bed, every step executed with a lustful grace as she wandered toward him. “And when we fuck, my love, it’s more than fucking.” Slender arms wrapped his naked torso, ran over his chest, and then lower still. The beat of his heart thundered below her long fingers and betrayed his placid outward composure.

  Down her hands went, touching him in all the right places, her voice murmuring all the right things.

  Raphael groaned and tensed at her intimate caresses. His manhood stirred to life once more, and a searing heat pumped through his veins. He half-melted against her, cursing his weakness all the while. It was a remarkable talent—how she could unravel his composure at will, reducing him to a mound of clay in those fair hands.

  “You’re right. I misspoke. I’ve loved another woman, once. My mother.” Vivian’s hands stilled, and he heard her breath catch. “And my worthless father stole her from me. His beatings put her into the ground. He never even had the decency to hide his outbursts. Non, he rather boasted about them to me—like a hunter showcasing some prized buck. I would have followed Mother into the dirt, had he not be so desperate for an heir.” Damn him. Raphael hadn’t meant to spill his wretched soul, but years of bottled resentment suddenly poured out of him, like venom rushing from a snakebite. “He makes me sick, Vivian...” Gazing into the vanity’s mirror, Raphael cupped his own cheek and caressed the skin, hearing Isabelle’s words in his mind again and again. “His mere face makes me ill inside.”

  You could never face the mirror again without seeing your father.

  The little witch had cursed him. Every time he looked at his own reflection, Raphael saw his father’s cold, placid gaze glowering back. A rare, compassionate spark entered Vivian’s jade-colored eyes. Even her voice softened; a note of empathy laced her words together. She rested her hand on top of his and gently peeled his fingers from his cheek. “You’d best hope your father and I never cross paths. I may very well put him into that dirt myself.”

  “I would rather enjoy seeing that.” Raphael felt the corner of his mouth twitch. Then he sighed, propped his palms on the vanity, and stared at his reflection. “All of Demrov knows exactly what their noble comte is. My family has lived here for over a decade, yet we’re still regarded as fucking outsiders.” Raphael shook his downcast head. “Isabelle was supposed to change that. I’ve seen it myself in the villages—Demrov seems to be under her spell.”

  As am I, damn it all.

  Vivian disregarded his last statement, her soft voice reaching out to him like a mother’s embrace. “Except you’re not an outsider, Raphael. Not to me.” An answering emotion welled up inside him. He’d never known such gentleness and hardness all at once. Vivian’s hands returned to his bare chest, and he ceased to think any further. Locking gazes with his reflection, she ran her fingers over his torso in sensual, leisurely strokes. Hot breaths wafted against his skin as she pressed her mouth down his sweaty back. Damp, sultry lips tracked a wet line over his flesh and roused something deep inside him.

  “You’re insatiable, amour. Doesn’t your husband ever satisfy your desires?”

  “What a good laugh. Why, my husband can’t even satisfy himself with those gnarled old hands. Fuck the world, I say. Fuck your father. Fuck my husband and his ancient cock.” A deep moan vibrated through Raphael’s body as Vivian’s slender, strong hands worked their magic. She wrapped his manhood in an unyielding grip and slid her fingers up and down his turgid length. Up and down. Nursing him back into oblivion, she breathed against his nape, “Fuck your l
ittle Isabelle and her worthless, rotting papa. Fuck everyone who isn’t us. When I was little more than a girl, my father shipped me off to Comte Brazin like some package mule. I have no great love for this world. Only you. My noble husband will soon vanish into the dirt where he belongs—I promise you that—then it shall be just you and me. Together, we’ll find that little wide-eyed whore. And we’ll make sure she never disgraces our names again.”

  Isabelle lay awake within an infinite darkness, her thoughts and emotions swept up in a whirlwind. The window jostled against its pane, and a harsh draft volleyed through her private chamber.

  She shivered and clasped the silk coverlet tighter, listening to the clamor of the fierce storm. Her lantern had burned out hours ago, tossing her into a world of pitch-black.

  Nights like these proved to be the most difficult—and Adam’s constant avoidance caused her to feel more alone with a deeper sense of detachment and unreality. Each day, he delivered meals to her room, behaving like a servant in his own castle, before vanishing into the shadows once more. Isabelle hugged her pillow tighter; the blistering storm and Adam’s night terrors made her relive Papa’s death again and again. In the solitude of her massive chamber, with only the storm for company, she sunk into a black void.

  The darkness only served as a twisted canvas for her thoughts. Floating above her, she envisioned Papa’s lonely cairn in the courtyard. The pile of stones drifted within an inky sea of black, hanging in limbo, real enough to reach out and touch. Isabelle lifted her hand and groped at the imagery. She needed something tangible to hold, a way to anchor her grief and relieve her loneliness. The cold air nipped her skin and caused gooseflesh to rise on her extended arm.

  Dejectedly she lowered her arm and listened to the storm. Heavy drafts penetrated the castle’s ancient stones as the blizzard raged on, as fierce and unrelenting as a beast. The chill numbed her to the marrow of her bones, causing her insides to constrict and quiver. She clutched the coverlet firmly against her breast, watching as her breaths misted the air like smoke. Suddenly within the solitude of her bedchamber, alone and numb, terror crept up her spine.

  Who is Adam really? And what dark secrets does he hide?

  She had to know. She couldn’t survive while being kept in such darkness—both within these walls, and within its master’s mind.

  Not sparing another thought, Isabelle relit her lantern with unsteady hands. It sparked to life, illuminating the intricately molded ceiling, wainscoting, and pale, silk-hung walls. Her chamber was a beautiful room—filled with exquisite, outdated dresses, stale perfumes, and more trinkets than a lady could ever wish for. Yet those delicate pearl necklaces and aged gowns only expanded her unease.

  Who have they belonged to? What other woman has slept in these sheets and gazed out this window? A late wife or mistress?

  The entire chamber was a twisted glimpse into the past.

  Out. I need out.

  Escape.

  She set the lantern on her satinwood vanity, then rushed into the adjoining dressing room to change into a night rail, shoes, kidskin gloves, and a heavy robe; a large claw-foot bathing tub and chamber pot also occupied the space. She shut the armoire’s elegantly carved doors and rushed back inside the main chamber. Hugging both arms around her body, she paced to the window as the pane jostled, manipulated by a gust of wind. She exhaled a long breath and threw open the damask drapes.

  The sun was just making its descent over Hartville’s dense forest, fringing the trees in cloaks of gold. Wind rippled the skeletal branches, which were half-bare from the cold and assaulted by hammering snow. Her gaze passed over the castle’s jagged architecture until it settled on the eastern wing. A pediment graced the tower and pierced the sky like one great needle. Isabelle absently thought of a fairy tale she adored, The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood. The spinning wheel came to mind—how it had seduced the princess, drawing her forward and to her doom...

  Isabelle shook away her wayward thoughts. She often observed Adam standing on the tower’s stone balcony, deep in thought, his gaze fixed on the sweeping gardens that lurked below his East Tower.

  Gardens that appeared lush and in full bloom, as if removed from winter’s grasp... As if removed from reality, much like herself...

  She’d noticed them when she’d moved into her private quarters; at first, she’d blamed her fatigue and an overactive imagination. Yet there they lurked—sparkling amid a sea of untamed weeds and frozen earth.

  I’m going mad here, lost within these queer, suffocating walls..

  She recalled Adam’s warning—she could venture anywhere inside the castle except that tower.

  Why? What great secrets does it hold? What mystery could it unlock—what light could it bring to this darkness?

  Her hot breaths fogged the pane as she stared out the window, quite transfixed as she absently watched the snow flurry by. Snow that didn’t seem to affect the vibrant roses...

  The East Tower stood silent and still within the night, beckoning her with its mysteries, tempting her curious nature...

  She desperately needed to know what kind of man Adam truly was. In her mind, he’d become an enigma, a mystery, and the inability to grasp who he was as a human being numbed her with a deeper chill than the blizzard or unworldly rose garden.

  She needed to uncover the truth.

  Her mind decided, Isabelle relit the lantern beside her bed, tightened her robe’s sash, and paced down the winding corridors. The lantern swayed in her grasp and tossed shadows along the dark walls and ceiling. The illumination flitted across the wooden floors, morphing into different shapes. She charged down the spiral stairwell as her palm slid over the banister. Dust motes floated in midair, illuminated by the large stained glass window that touched the cathedral ceiling. The sun had almost fully descended now, sentencing the castle to a familiar and unsettling blackness.

  It took Isabelle well over an hour to find the tower’s stairwell, and when it finally revealed itself, she felt her nerves cool and dampen. Chewing on her bottom lip, Isabelle lurked at the landing and lowered her lantern. The stairwell sat against the far wall, curving upward into an impenetrable void.

  He’s likely asleep or elsewhere. Surely he must be—or else it wouldn’t be as dark as pitch up there.

  Isabelle inhaled a calming breath, then shifted toward the steep flight of stairs. They seemed to call her name, to beckon her forward with the promise of answers...

  Before she could change her mind again, she quickly ascended; her lantern’s light shattered the darkness before her and chased away the shadows. They fled with each of her steps, receding like monsters slipping into hiding.

  Even with the lantern, Isabelle could hardly see a meter in front of her. Her footsteps echoed despairingly as they slapped against the stone ground, each one amplified by the tall ceiling. How high it reached, she couldn’t say for certain—it was far too dark. But as she ascended, the sound of her footfalls grew shallower, telling her the space was shrinking. Alas, she felt the walls closing in on her... felt them fast approaching. The blizzard roared beyond the walls and infused the stairwell with a merciless draft. The lantern’s candle wavered, threatening to snuff out. In the back of her mind, Adam’s broken sobs echoed, and she recalled his restless body thrashing in the sheets.

  The key to Adam’s anguish and hostility lies in the East Tower. I can sense it...

  Up and up she climbed, listening as her footsteps became shallower still, watching as the top of the stairwell finally spiraled into view.

  The eastern tower was a ruin in every sense of the word. Broken furniture littered the ground, and threadbare tapestries hung from the arched ceiling. A pair of French doors claimed the farthest wall, which led to a large circular balcony. Moonlight shimmered through the frosted glass planes and danced over the wreckage. She eased inside, her breaths silver against the blackness, and set the lantern on a dusty table.

  The wind hissed and whipped through the castle’s cracks and crevices. Her s
kin prickled with gooseflesh, and an involuntary tremble shook her body.

  She staggered forward, moving farther inside, her curiosity mounting. Shadows shifted. The silence pressed against her eardrums in a deafening roar. She hummed beneath her breath, needing to shatter that damning quiet. It wasn’t until the lyrics graced her ears that she realized it was Adam’s lullaby. Emotion constricted her voice and added a note of despair to the words. Together, Adam’s genius and her own heartache wove a spell and brought tears to her eyes.

  “Sleep well, my little prince.

  Sleep true, my sweet prince.

  Roses love sunshine, violets love dew.

  All the angels in heaven wrap their wings over you...”

  She’d heard those words in her dreams for the past few nights. Should she live a thousand years, she’d never escape them. Humming the forlorn melody, she searched the tower, knowing well she was trespassing, yet unable to tear herself away.

  I’ve come too far—and now too close—to turn back.

  Despair and the remnants of a broken soul engulfed her. Troubled by the sight, an unexpected weight descended upon her heart. She blinked back her burning tears, slipping through the torrent of memories and broken dreams. Shards of Adam’s soul seemed to resurrect and whisper to her from the shadows. And within the wreckage, signs of beauty and life flurried by. Pull toys and strewn wooden blocks. An elegantly carved rocking horse, whose paint was peeling and whose black eyes tracked her every breath. Musical compositions. Pocket watches frozen in time. Fine silk coats from a past era. Glittering necklaces and enough jewels to satiate a king.

  An ornate musical box in the shape of an oval birdcage.

  She found herself paralyzed in front of the stunning, rusted trinket. Her fingertip caressed the wired bars as she examined the small porcelain figurine inside the metal prison. Inhaling a rigid breath, she carefully rotated the golden turnkey and felt her body respond to the soft, sorrowful melody that swelled the darkness. The porcelain bird fluttered his dusty wings and emitted a hypnotic whistle. It sounded hoarse from disuse—something that only enhanced the haunting quality. The little bird tinkled sad refrains, a morose and despairing song, which could only be compared to the weeping of a violin. The tone was different, yes, but the emotion felt one and the same.