BEAST (Twisted Ever After Book 1)

by A. Zavarelli

  “You’ve had too much to drink, Luke,” I tell him. “I think you should go to bed.”

  “I think you don’t tell me what to do,” he says.

  The room is quiet, and my body is rigid. I hate when he’s like this. I hate him more with every passing day.

  “I care about you, Isa.” He reaches out to touch me again. “I just want what’s best for you. Let me comfort you. Let me be there for you.”

  He wants to comfort me alright.

  With his cock.

  I shrug him off again, and he gets pissed. He grabs my arm and squeezes.

  “Don’t be a tease.”

  “Leave me the hell alone,” I tell him. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”

  He tries to climb on top of me. And this time, he’s taking it too far.

  I knee him in the balls, and he doubles over, coughing in pain when I shove him off of me. I bolt from the bed and out the door while he screams after me.

  But he’s too drunk to follow.

  I make it down to the lobby and manage to flag down a cab.

  I don’t know where I’m going. I’m supposed to attend a party tomorrow. I’m supposed to do a lot of things that I really just don’t give a fuck about anymore.

  The cabbie asks me where I want to go.

  “The bus station,” I tell him. “Just take me to the bus station.”

  Chapter Three

  The house that once seemed quaint and homey now sits stagnant. Brown patches of grass stain the formerly pristine green of our lawn. Dirt gathers in corners and crevices, and dust visibly lines the window sills from the outside.

  But on the front stairs, a flurry of crimson rose petals blows in with the breeze, settling against the door frame.

  Always the withered roses.

  I don’t know where they come from. I only know when they arrived. The day of my father’s disappearance, these rose petals greeted me at the door.

  There is solace in the dead beauty of the dark crimson. I collect them and keep them in a box above my closet.

  I don’t know why.

  I only know that somehow, they share in the pain of my grief. I hope they never stop coming. And I always wish they would.

  I check the mail.

  Three more letters wait for me there too. Always from a different city. Always anonymous.

  The first is a charcoal drawing of a raven perched on a windowsill. The moon is eclipsed in the photo, and dark, ominous thunderheads line the sky above. A sliver of lightning pierces the center of the image, so real it looks as though it’s split the paper in two.

  The eery scene sends a chill up the back of my neck.

  The photos are always somewhat abstract. A message that often leaves me bogged down in the onslaught of disordered emotions they evoke. The lines are exacted so precisely. The artistry is pleasing to my eye in a way I can’t explain, except to say that I am drawn to the darkness of these photos.

  I am drawn to everything he sends me, and I don’t know why.

  I open the next letter, and I am confronted with a recurring sense of déjà vu. It is the same beautiful scrawl, only this time, it is words.

  The same words he always sends me- this stalker of mine.

  * * *

  Sing me a song, beauty.

  With words only I can hear.

  * * *

  My fingers map over the lines while I try to understand. I haven’t told Luke of these letters. I haven’t told anyone.

  I’m not entirely sure why.

  Only that it feels private. And I have not yet decided whether they are dangerous or simply innocent flattery.

  The third and final letter contains the lyrics of my first song.

  I try to imagine the man behind these creations. The lost soul who wanders and listens to my music. He tells me to go back to my roots. He asks if my fingers miss the piano, or do I really prefer being a pop princess instead?

  I know what he prefers.

  His letters all surround my early works. Before Luke got his claws into me and decided it was better for me to appeal to a younger demographic with an ‘edgier’ sound.

  The ink had barely dried on my contract when he started changing the rules of the game.

  I was caught. Hook, line, and sinker. The only choice I had left was to adapt. It’s on constant replay inside my head.

  I’m a fraud.

  A phony.

  Everything about me is fake, right down to my smile and the new lyrics I sing.

  They aren’t my own. Those are private now. For my eyes only.

  And this man doesn’t need to remind me of the things I already know.

  I fold up the letters and put them out of sight.

  My phone won’t stop ringing.

  When I draw a bath and climb inside, I imagine a current sweeping me away. One that could pull me backward- when life was still real and possible.

  Luke texts me incessantly. Threatening to drop me in one message while apologizing in the next. When that doesn’t work, he reminds me that I’m under contract. He reminds me of the fines he knows I can’t pay if I decide to stop being his puppet.

  Inside of my chest, there is a gaping cavity where my heart used to be. And in the place of my lungs is lead.

  I have to go back.

  I know I have to go back.

  And I will.

  On Monday.

  Chapter Four

  She has come home.

  Crying.

  I replay the tape over and over. Observing carefully the way the droplets splash against her cheeks.

  I like her tears.

  My mouth waters when they spill down her throat and onto her naked breasts. She feels so sorry for herself, this little beauty.

  She doesn’t know the meaning of sorry yet.

  My cock is uncomfortably hard and swollen when I retrieve the knife from my pocket. The flat edge presses into my thigh, and I imagine her cheek beneath my blade. I will see her tears again.

  The tip of the blade digs into my flesh, and I twist until I am consumed by the pain. Crimson oozes from the wound, and I smear it over my bloody knuckles, shoving my hand into my briefs.

  On the live feed, Bella steps from the bath, naked and wet with blotchy red skin from water that is too hot.

  She does not reach for a towel. She does not move at all. Her eyes are on her reflection in the mirror.

  Lifeless.

  She does this often. Her lips are quiet, but I know her mind is loud.

  She is picking herself apart the way the papers do. Wondering if she is beautiful, or if it is all an illusion. The overnight success with mediocre talent.

  Some of the things they say about her are true.

  She is beautiful. With pure, pale skin and ice blue eyes. Long raven hair that kisses the curve of her lower back. She is the most delicate thing I have ever seen, and she sings like an angel.

  Mediocre, she could never be.

  So clean and innocent and tender. The thoughts I have of her are so dark. The fixation blooms inside of me every time I watch her this way. She is a witch, and she has me under her spell.

  This is not the way it should be.

  She should be in my possession already. Every day that I wait, I risk losing my chance. I risk losing her to a force outside of my control.

  An enemy of her father.

  Anyone that ever knew Ray is being eliminated. One by one, I have watched them disappear in a series of car crashes and freak accidents. It’s only a matter of time before they come for Bella too.

  I need to move soon. Before time and circumstance have the pleasure of taking what can only be mine.

  The light inside of her will be snuffed out, with certainty. But only by my hands. Mine alone.

  And yet, something holds me back.

  Something makes me question everything I have planned so meticulously. When I watch her this way, I have doubts. I need only to draw on my memories to vanquish those doubts.

  Visions of
torture fill my thoughts and my heart. The rage consumes everything good and leaves only bitterness in its wake.

  That bitterness coats my tongue when I watch Bella crawl into her bed and reach for a book on the nightstand. So soft and carefree.

  She has never known hardship. She has never known hate.

  But she will.

  Crossing her delicate ankles, she pulls her knees to her chest and tries to read. It doesn’t last.

  She is anxious. Fidgety. Distracted. And beneath her thin blue tee shirt, her nipples are hard. She discards her book and pulls the bed sheet up over her body. Frustration mounts when her hand slides down into her panties, into a place that I can’t see.

  She closes her eyes and breathes softly while she touches herself. My bloody fist chokes my cock while I watch. I punish myself for wanting her this way. For the thirst that breeds inside of me every time I see her pretty face.

  She touches herself uncertainly, never quite satisfied. I imagine tasting her, and then I hate myself for it. I imagine her bound beneath me, immobile and under my control. Squirming, crying. Hating me and wanting me.

  I want to hurt her. I want to mark her. I want to witness her blood contaminated with the blackness of mine.

  Her phone rings, and it is Luke. She doesn’t answer it.

  Contempt surges inside of me, equal only to my viciousness. I want to rip his beating heart from his chest and force him to choke on it.

  Isabella moans, soft and weak, and then releases herself with the tiniest of tremors in her body. Her eyes flicker open, and I zoom in on them.

  I imagine my come dripping down her face and her throat. Marking her. Claiming her. Smearing my seed all over her body, mixing with the blood from my fingers.

  The release is violent. My ears ring, and my lungs cease to function.

  I am bloody and spent. But I wait until she is tucked into bed and her breath grows still before I move on to my next obsession.

  I track his phone first. Luke is still at the hotel in the city. The bug planted in his phone allows me to hear everything he does. Every move he makes.

  I take note of his transgressions. I take note of each and every one. And I bide my time.

  He’s fucking Megan again. High, again. He fucks her for thirty minutes and can’t come. She asks if he wants another line and he tells her to piss off.

  “Is this about Isabella?” she snarls.

  There is a growl, followed by a soft whimpering noise. I envision him with his hand around her throat, threatening her.

  “What did I tell you?”

  “Don’t say her name,” she chokes out.

  There’s a sputtering cough, and then the sound of the door opening.

  “Do you love her?” she asks.

  There is a pause before he answers.

  “So what if I do, kitten?” he taunts.

  “Luke.” Her voice is desperate.

  “What does it matter?” he replies. “You’re the one I fuck every night. Aren’t you?”

  Chapter Five

  Art agrees to speak with me while I’m back in Virginia.

  The house that I grew up in is about an hour outside of Fairfax, which is where Art requests to meet. It’s at the same diner we’ve met at several times before, where the waitress knows him by name, and she doesn’t make a stink about us holding up the table for hours at a time.

  I spend the afternoon with him. He feeds me pieces of information from the investigation and tries to make them sound promising. They don’t sound promising at all.

  I still don’t believe what he’s telling me. Nevertheless, I continue to pursue my only hope. I plead with him to consider allowing me to contact Javi.

  In the end, the result is the same.

  I spend hours with him. Grilling him. Begging him. Wishing for any scrap of hope he could give me. It never comes. And eventually, he grows tired and unsympathetic.

  He leaves me with the same line he always does. They will continue working on it.

  The drive home is long and frustrating. I’m exhausted and I know I have to go back to Luke soon, but it’s the last thing I want to think about right now.

  When I turn the knob on the front door, it’s unlocked. My palm hesitates on the handle, and I don’t remember leaving it that way. I rationalize. I can barely remember what day of the week it is, let alone basic safety precautions.

  But when I step inside, I know. I know something isn’t right, even before I turn the corner and see the mess.

  Someone has been in here. Someone has completely trashed the house in search of something. What, I don’t know.

  My first instinct is to call the police. But then I think of Art.

  This could be important. This could have something to do with my father’s disappearance.

  I pull out the canister of pepper spray that I carry in my purse and walk through the house, checking to be sure whoever it is has gone.

  When I’m certain that they are, I dial Art again. He answers with a sigh.

  “Someone broke into the house,” I tell him. “I think they were looking for something.”

  The other line is quiet for a minute, and then, “are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. They aren’t here anymore.”

  “You need to pack your things and leave, Isa. I will take care of it.”

  “Do you think this could have something to do with…”

  “I don’t know,” he tells me. “I’m turning around now. I’ll be there soon, but don’t wait for me. Just pack your things and go back to the city.”

  “Okay.”

  “Let me know when you get there.”

  He hangs up, and I do what he says. I pack. But I can’t leave like this. I can’t leave without checking to be sure that some of my father’s possessions are still alright.

  There are things everywhere, strewn all over the floor. My books have been pulled from the shelves. The photos that remain on the wall are crooked, and the ones that aren’t have shattered to the floor.

  Even the photo of my father.

  My hands shake as I pick up the pieces and replace them one by one. It's a long process. I save the broken knick-knacks on the floor until last. But when I move to sweep them up, something odd catches my eye.

  And because of who my father was, I know exactly what it is before reality has time to sink in.

  A listening device.

  An icy draft crawls down my spine and settles into my shaking hands.

  Someone has been listening to me.

  Before I can even comprehend the full horror of my situation, I’m tearing the place apart. Searching the walls. Underneath the counters. The vents.

  Things my father used to do.

  By the time I have finished, it isn't only listening devices I have retrieved, but cameras too. The shockwaves have taken control of my entire body now. My heartbeat thrashes in my ears. My fingers tremble, and my lungs struggle to take in air.

  It isn't the agency.

  It can't be the agency.

  Right?

  But if not them, then who?

  The cameras were in my bedroom. In my fucking bedroom. Where I changed. Where I... touched myself.

  Oh god.

  I think I'm going to be sick.

  Chapter Six

  Luke bought a plane ticket for this evening, but when I get to the airport, they tell me that I’ve been rescheduled to an earlier flight. I assume that it’s also his doing. He probably thinks if I put it off any longer, I will lose the courage to go back. To smile for the cameras and pretend.

  The flight is short. The ride to the hotel is short. Everything is happening too fast, and I’m right where I don’t want to be again.

  I feel sick. So, so sick.

  I find myself wishing the power in the building would go out, and I’d get stuck in the elevator, just for the peace it would give me.

  I’d welcome the blackness. I’d welcome it with open arms. But I have no such luck.

  The elevator
goes up without a hiccup. The keycard I had from before works without a hiccup. And everything in the hotel suite is as it was two days ago.

  Only it’s not.

  Because this time I catch sight of Luke across the room, fucking Megan over the sofa.

  His eyes are squeezed shut, and he’s dripping with sweat. It isn’t until the door falls back against my foot that they hear me.

  Both of them freeze. Megan smiles. Luke looks horrified. And then angry.

  He shoves Megan away.

  He’s already zipping up his pants and preparing to give chase as I flee to the elevator bank. I press the button frantically, but there isn’t time. He’s coming down the hall. So I make a run for the stairwell, but I don’t reach it.

  Luke snags me by the arm and whirls me around.

  “It’s nothing,” he tells me. “Isabella, please. I don’t even think of her. I only think of you.”

  I feel like I’m going to throw up.

  “That doesn’t make it better, Luke,” I tell him. “I don’t want to know what you think of. And I never want to see that again. It’s disgusting.”

  “Disgusting?” he repeats. “Is someone jealous?”

  God, the man is so conceited that’s the only possible explanation that would make any sense to him. There is no arguing with him, so I get straight to the point.

  “I want my own room. One where I’m the only person who has a key.”

  He laughs, and it’s cold.

  “Yeah sure thing, baby. How do you plan to pay for that? An IOU? It’s a long wait until your check is cut.”

  “You’re a pig.”

  He tries to drag me back down the hall, but I pull away from him and stand my ground.

  “I’m not kidding, Luke. Either you give me my own room, or I go home. I don’t care about the money anymore. You want to sue me? Go ahead. I’m not as stupid as you’d like to believe. There are ways out of this contract.”

  His jaw works and his eyes narrow as they fix on my face. I’ve never called his bluff before. But I really don’t care anymore. He can bankrupt me. Ruin my life. Tell the media whatever he wants. I refuse to cave on this.