Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning

by Mary Catherine Gebhard

  When we’d left the office, the assholes were gone and so were the statued henchmen. Walking through the warehouse, I worried how people would look at me, wondering why I wore only a coat. I remembered thinking they would know, but no one looked at me, and honestly, I was wearing more clothing than a lot of them.

  I examined Beast with his head down, his sculpted profile showcased by the light and shadow. In the dark of the town car, only the passing city lights illumined him, though they did not soften him in the least. They added depth to his already chiseled cheeks, intensity to his already sharp jaw. I examined him further, giving myself the okay to look at him, and I mean really look at him, for the first time. He had a small scar on his chin, subtle.

  I wondered if he had scars elsewhere, like Little O. He’d been shirtless around me, but I had never really looked. I did my best to sever the link between my vision and my brain whenever we were together.

  It was getting harder to do that.

  The lights flickered, blurred, bright dots sliding along the interior as we passed through the city. Memories came to the surface, thinking of how he had just touched me. Slowly, his head turned and his gaze caught mine, as if he knew. I quickly looked back into my lap.

  “I told you, Frankie.” When he spoke, I tried to focus on my fingers folded atop the dark coat. It was such a bigger size than what I wore, it fell just above my knees. His low, even voice was captivating and spellbinding. I found myself looking back up, trapped in his gaze. “I will know every inch of you, mapped out like I was the cartographer who drew it.”

  I sucked in a breath, looking away. Had I said my thoughts aloud?

  “But that is only for me to know.” I craned my head slightly to see him smile. “Still, I can be merciful sometimes. I saw how you liked them watching you. Who am I to deny that?” Even though I never saw the assholes, I couldn’t confirm they hadn’t seen me. It was a lump in my gut, twisting and curling, yet he made it sound like I wanted it.

  Because I did, a voice in my head whispered.

  “I did not,” I replied through clenched teeth. The images of the shadows watching me flashed in my head and my belly fluttered, my thighs clenched. The dark voice in my head started to whisper, but I shook my head. I had not liked it. I ripped the piece of skin I was playing with off completely.

  I pinched the raw flesh of my thumb between my nail, holding onto the pain so I could hold on to my courage while I whispered my question, “So they didn’t see anything?” The low rumble of the car filled the space like fog let loose on the night. The soundlessness was cloying, unnerving. Even the honks and yells—the melody of downtown life—were suffocated inside the car.

  Sucking in a breath of fortitude, I turned to stare directly at the Beast. His bluegreen gaze was all shadows, hard, unrelenting. Despite the fear creeping in my belly, I kept staring, hoping he would give me something, a small crack in the stone that was his face. More lights passed through the window, rippling across his rocky face. Still, his countenance didn’t change.

  I sighed and turned away.

  He was asleep next to me.

  For a moment I’d hoped he was going to leave me alone, because when we got back to the penthouse he’d dropped me off in the white bedroom and left, shutting the door behind him. I slipped out of his coat and changed into the most coverage I could possibly find, which wasn’t much. I compensated by climbing into the warm, fluffy white bed. I closed my eyes, hoping I’d get to sleep alone, and then the door burst open.

  The Beast stood in the doorway, chest bare and in some kind of silk sleep pants. I steeled my gut to prepare for his next round of torturous games.

  But he’d just fallen asleep.

  Watching his breaths rise and fall, I decided I had never felt such pure hatred for someone before. The loathing was corrupting me. It was making me think things I didn’t think were possible. I hated him for making me do things I didn’t want to do. I loathed him for making me question if I wanted them. I actually envisioned pouring boiling water on his face and liking it. It wasn’t a fair trade; because of him my soul was boiling.

  I hadn’t thought I was capable of such hate. In the past when people spat hate, I felt badly for them. Now I understood, and I understood because of the Beast.

  My papa was becoming a distant memory to me now, my love for him like the city lights disappearing in the distance from the town car. I could faintly see it, faintly remember why I’d agreed to this torture, but it was fading fast, replaced by darkness.

  It would be so easy to kill him right now, too. I could end all of this. His bare chest rose and fell, and all I’d have to do was take a knife and stab him there. I saw, too, that he did have scars; quite a few of them. They were somehow elegant looking. Whereas most scars were harsh and puckering, his looked like fine cursive.

  I curled my fist.

  That was so fucking unfair. I wished just one thing about him would be ugly.

  Why don’t I take a knife and stab him in his psychotic heart? Why don’t I?

  I’m going to.

  Before I could second-guess myself, I carefully slid out of the sheets. He stirred some, which gave me minor heart palpitations. I froze in place, my hand on the bed but my body ready to go, until I was certain he was sound asleep. When his breathing steadied, I opened the doors and walked down the hallway toward the kitchen. I started running as soon as I was out of earshot, ignoring the terrifying paintings and entirely skipping the room where I’d lost a piece of myself.

  Why was this house so big? It was like Pan’s Labyrinth.

  I reached the kitchen but a room beyond it caught my attention. A faint yellow poured into the house, almost pulsing with warmth. Taking a breath, I glanced over my shoulder. I couldn’t have much time before the Beast awoke, yet I found my feet carrying me toward the mystery room.

  My breath left me on a long, surprised exhale. It was a library, a true and real library. From the floor to the ceiling, books lined the shelves. There were more books than I’d ever seen in my life, even more than the community library.

  I glanced behind me at the immaculate kitchen, white countertops glowing eerily from the nightlight. I took another step inside the library. Plush red velvets, dark shiny woods, and thick rugs decorated the room. It was very at odds with the rest of the house.

  The room felt like a haven. If I could just steal one or two books, I could transport myself away from my hell. I tiptoed farther inside, running my fingers along the books. Most were paperback or plastic covered, but some were leather-bound. The room even had a spiral staircase. A freaking spiral staircase. I gazed up at the ceiling in awe.

  What kind of monster read this much? A second later the answer came to me: a dangerous one.

  I swallowed, trailing my fingers. I paused, my hand resting on buttery leather. The spine had no name. I pulled it out, hazarding a glance over my shoulder at the door. Still no sign of the Beast. I quickly opened up the book.

  This journal belongs to Sofia De Luca.

  A journal? I flipped the stiff, yellowing pages until I found words.

  I feel so very, very alone. My new husband Dario is uninteresting and mean. In the fashion of all the De Luca men, he has taken my last name so that the De Luca name does not die out. I believe he resents me, and the bruises on my body are testament. Mama says I cannot see Alessio anymore. She scolds me for even starting it in the first place, saying that if he does not know better then I must. Women have to be smarter, she says. The risks are too great if we were ever to be caught.

  She gave me this journal to write in. She said her mama gave her one when she was married and it will keep me sane. I have nothing to lose anyway. I was planning to kill myself. I might kill myself anyway, but we’ll see.

  I stopped reading, flipping quickly through the pages. Some were torn out and the journal was only halfway filled. I flipped to the back, and on the flap of the journal was scribbled Rules. My eyes widened and I read.

  The Pavoni Code
r />   The Pavonis have a strict code that we all must follow. Every child is taught it as soon as they can speak. It’s five-pronged to symbolize the original Don and Donna and their four children. Everyone is taught the code differently, though. Some are taught it as a religion while others, like me, are taught it for what it really is: a rule book.

  The first prong is Family. Those taught the code is a symbolic holy thing think the first prong means once you’re in the Family, you’re always going to have a family, and someone is always going to have your back no matter what. Mama says that the real truth is though technically any Italian can join, you’re never gonna find anyone but a De Luca in charge or a Pavoni at the top. It’s why the men don’t mind giving up their names when they marry us.

  The second prong is Blood. Those taught the code is a symbolic holy thing think the second prong means the blood in our veins is sacred therefore Family members cannot kill each other. In reality, Family members have been killing each other since the Night of the Bleeding Crowns, they just usually ask The Council first. If they don’t ask The Council, they’ll most likely die too—but I’ve heard of men getting away with it.

  The third prong is Gift. Those taught the holy version think the third prong means because we’re a family, because the blood is sacred, it’s right and good to tithe your earnings to the Boss—like a sacrifice to a god or something. The people who believe that usually stay soldiers their entire life. They believe that if they are loyal with their gifts, the Boss will gift in return, but those taught the code like me know the Boss never gives gifts.

  The fourth prong is Honor. The holy version states the Family is held to some higher moral code than the rest of the world. Every time I hear a soldier, or the rare high-ranking man who believes the code say that, I have to stifle my laughter. I mean, they’re criminals, not monks. All honor means is that the members have to keep it in their pants with other member's wives or they’ll end up without anything in their pants.

  The fifth and final prong is Brotherhood. Those taught that the code as holy think the final prong cannot be defined. It is the feeling one gets when they are about to fail and their brother lifts them up. It is the moment when they are about to die and their brother saves them.

  That’s all shit.

  Brotherhood is actually the De Luca rule. Yes, we get our own rule. If I had a nickel for every time I heard “though the De Lucas are the Pavonis’ greatest allies, the Pavonis and the De Lucas can never intermarry for there can be no question about who is the rightful heir”, I would be richer than Don Lucio. Even though on the Night of the Bleeding Crowns Grandpa Massimo willingly stepped aside to give Don Lucio the power, Don Lucio lived in fear. So he wrote up a rule under the guise of brotherhood.

  Once you know the true Pavoni Code, though, no other rule matters. The true code for the men is: “Don’t let the Boss find out”, and the true code for the women is: “Don’t let your husband know.”

  I closed the book, looking at it with newfound appreciation. I mean, holy shit. In less than five minutes the little book had given me more knowledge than my entire stay with the Beast. I may have just found the sharpest weapon in the house, but how to get it back to the room? And where to put it?

  I glanced around the room and then back down at what I was wearing. There weren’t exactly any hidden pockets or pouches I could stuff it in. That night I’d opted for a periwinkle babydoll because it at least covered my stomach, but the material was sheer. With reluctance, I stuck the book back in its place, vowing to return for it later.

  Tiptoeing back out, I was nearly back to the hallway when I was stopped by a glint in the corner of my eye. I backed up a bit until I was in the kitchen again. There were so many knives, all gleaming with the same glow as the countertops. I walked behind the island and touched one. With my finger lightly touching the blade, I looked down the hallway. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been gone, maybe fifteen minutes?

  How long did I have left? The burning hatred that had pulled me from bed had dulled to a low simmer. I wasn’t sure I could actually kill him. Obviously I’d never murdered anyone before. I’d never even hit someone. I’d read lots of books with fiery, tenacious heroines who slapped men. I’d read books about women whose nature was quiet and docile but were pulled into circumstances that required them to fight.

  My life didn’t really afford such opportunities. It hadn’t afforded me any opportunities. At home, I was like a seedling beneath soil, neither growing nor dying.

  Eyes still locked on the hallway, I pulled the knife out. When I was sure he wasn’t about to walk down it, I admired the weapon in my hand. This one was more obvious than the one in the library. It was almost sexy looking, with its hard edges and the sharp steel color.

  I turned it in my hand, my pulse rising. I could kill the Beast. I could shove this into his gut, blood running along the edges until it colored my hand. I balked at the newfound impulse in me, but didn’t put the knife away. The pad of my finger traced the edge lightly from top to bottom. Why bother reading a book when I could just walk back and end my problem so swiftly? I never thought I’d kill someone. I thought I’d go my entire life without having to make this decision.

  His life wouldn’t matter.

  I mean, the world wouldn’t mourn the loss. Maybe it would be better without him, even. It’s like killing Hitler—though people argue that if Hitler had been killed, it would have paved the way for even worse evils. So if I killed Beast, would something worse pop up?

  What’s worse than the Beast?

  I shivered, turning the knife slightly so the point pricked the middle of my palm. As the knife spun, my reflection caught in the steel, but there was something else there too—a shadow behind me much larger than my frame.

  I spun around with gasp, dropping the knife on the ground with a sickening clang.

  “Admiring my cutlery?” the Beast asked, gripping my waist. I pushed him but it did little to sway his oak of a body. He laughed as I pushed him again. I struggled to get by his massive frame. Whatever warmth had come with his laugh quickly turned cold. The Beast shoved me to my knees and my gasp turned to a whimper as my knees hit the floor, flesh and bone grinding against the hard tile.

  His erection was a massive tent in his sleep pants. Demanding. I could practically see it beneath the thin, silky material. It was almost a threat the way it jutted out.

  The lump in my gut, the bruising of my knees…it all told me what that threat was.

  What it would mean if he followed through.

  I struggled against the hand on my shoulder, trying to stand up, but all that did was bruise my knees further. I waited, feeling a sense of abject hopelessness. He was going to force me to do this whether I wanted to or not.

  I waited for him to make a move.

  And I waited.

  “Just do it!” I yelled. It was just like with the apple. I didn’t want him to do it, but this lingering threat was like watching the sky go black before a tornado and never feeling the storm. I was just staring at the darkness.

  Feeling the fear.

  Waiting.

  Minutes passed and nothing happened except the occasional caress of his thumb on my shoulder. I expected him to pull himself out and force me, but he did nothing. I was prepared for it even. An idea struck me as I entered what felt like the fifth minute of gut-wrenching silence. With my eyes closed I said, “If you put it in my mouth, I will bite it off.” I was sure there would be punishment for what I said, but I had to say it.

  I had to at least try.

  I heard shifting and then suddenly my bottom lip was being tugged on. I opened my eyes, surprised to see Beast on his knees, tugging at my lip. “I believe you,” he murmured. My shoulders dropped and I released an exhale I should have kept inside. I should have stayed coiled, should have steeled, but I thought he was releasing me of my punishment. I thought he wasn’t going to do anything more and I was so relieved.

  Then as soon as the breath left my body, the
Beast lifted me up. He threw me on the kitchen counter. I gripped the cold granite, eyes widening as he placed his arms on either side of my body, bracketing me.

  He moved closer, his erection pressing against my slit. The fabric separating us was so thin, like butterfly wings. It could tear effortlessly and it would be easy for him to enter me. His erection was steel hard against me. My eyes were locked with his, watching for any flicker of emotion. I was waiting for the tornado to burst through or the night to finally clear.

  His eyes flickered, but before I could decipher the emotion, thoughts flew out the window. His cock pushed aside the fabric of my panties and just the satin of his pants separated us.

  It was so unlike last time.

  It was torture, but of a different kind.

  I gripped the marble countertop and threw my head back. This time the Beast didn’t force me to look at him. I could feel myself clenching as he teased me. Rubbing against me, parting me slightly, but never entering me, not even letting me feel him. I knew it was on purpose that he stayed clothed. He was going so slowly. It was cruel. He was cruel, but not for the obvious reasons, the reasons that had robbed my sleep all the previous nights. All I could think about was the tip of him teasing me.

  And that it wasn’t enough.

  That I needed to feel more.

  Feel skin.

  In that single moment, a moment so small you could hardly measure it, the tables turned. The water had been leaking through, but because I was so busy trying to damn the flood, I hadn’t worried about the leak. I hadn’t noticed the trickle of excitement. Of passion. Of electricity. Throbbing and shocking my core and body with pleasure. By the time I noticed, I was like a frog in water left to boil.

  I hated myself so much. A hate that would eventually drown me.

  “I hate you,” I whispered, pulling myself up so I could see into his eyes, but all I saw were my own looking back at me.

  “That’s not what your cunt says.” The Beast laughed. I screamed, but I wasn’t sure if it was at what was happening or because he hadn’t entered me.