BEAST (Twisted Ever After Book 1)

by A. Zavarelli

  He can't go to a hospital. He won't. Not after his mother. Not after the sanitarium.

  "I'll do my best," I whisper.

  River nods and gestures to the chair beside the bed. It’s stacked with first aid supplies.

  "I don't like to watch," he says. "Be careful of him when he wakes up. He won't be pleasant."

  "You're leaving?"

  "I'll just be in the kitchen.”

  I nod because I guess it's better this way. I don't need him here, questioning me. Watching my every move and second guessing me when I'll be doing enough of that myself.

  He moves to go. And then pauses.

  "Bella?"

  "Yes?"

  "Hurt him, and I'll kill you."

  I’m never supposed to see him. He would never allow me to see him.

  But right now, he is powerless. And it feels wrong, as I cut away his clothing, knowing he would not like this. But it also feels right.

  I am at war with my own thoughts.

  Part of me feels guilty for wanting this. For finally feeding the monster inside of me who craves this. The one who has wondered for so long what that dark figure looks like when he doesn’t have a shadow to hide behind. What this killer is hiding beneath the hoods he wears.

  My mind has conjured up so many different things. But my imagination never could have prepared me for the reality.

  He is massive. Imposing, even in a dead sleep. And he is completely naked now except for the black jocks stretched across his hips.

  His body is a mural of muscle and ink. Muscles that have been well built and well-utilized stretch over the canvas of his frame. An array of colorful ink kisses almost every visible inch of his arms and chest. He is beautiful and utterly terrifying.

  I knew this all along. But confronting it in such a visually violent way is a horse of a different color.

  I finally have the chance to study his face. The long, jagged scar that cuts across his forehead and all the way down to his cheek. My fingers hover over that scar. Wanting to touch. Wanting to heal.

  I’ve always known his scars existed, but the extent of them is shocking. There are so many. Angry and red. Deep and thick. Some are small and round, others stretched and jagged. They litter his chest and abdomen, biceps and even his neck. But the most notable is the scar intersecting the crest of his dark eyebrow.

  It makes him look like a warrior. And he is. Javi has been through so much. There is no denying it now. He was only a child when he was marked by these horrors.

  My father never spoke of Javi’s scars. There was only one time when I caught him watching the news of the events that unfolded that night. He said that it was the perfect storm of circumstances.

  Those words have haunted me for so long. They have instilled within me so many questions. Doubts about the things I read in Javi’s file. And perhaps justification for my baffling response to him.

  My father knew Javi was dangerous, but he trusted him. He never came to harm while in his presence.

  The few times my father did speak of Javi, it was with reverence. My dad was the smartest man I ever knew. And yet, he would say that Javi’s mind was the most incredible thing he’d ever beheld.

  At this particular moment, faced with the beast himself, I would have to disagree.

  It is his body.

  Though scarred and hardened, he is a work of art. One so twisted, Poe could write infinite sonnets about the darkness he carries around with him. A beautiful monster.

  I can’t look away from him. And I have never stared at anyone this way. He is bloodied and battered, and utterly gory. And still, he is the most captivating sight I have ever beheld.

  I need to get a grip. I need to help him. Fix him. But I don't even know where to begin.

  There is gravel lodged deep into the skin of his knees. His elbows. Fresh cuts litter his body. I take note of them all, categorizing them into order of severity. I decide to start with his face first. While he is still asleep.

  I know that River is right. When he wakes up, he won't be happy. So, I need to work fast.

  The cut on his cheek is the worst by far, and this is the one I start with. Little by little, I cleanse the blood from his face with a wet cloth. Seeing him in a different light.

  He is still rigid. So rough around the edges. His beard is wild, and so is his long dark hair, pulled back into an untidy bun. It's an odd thing. I had no idea his hair was so long.

  I wonder when it was last cut. And then I realize, he has nobody to cut it for him. But when I smooth it away from his face, I also realize it doesn’t need to be cut. Not really.

  He’s a Neanderthal. But it works for him. For his masculine bone structure. His oversized frame. Even with all of his hardness, there is still something soft about him too. At least like this. When he’s asleep. His face is relaxed. At peace.

  His lips soft and full, and his nose strong. His skin is softer than I expected. Naturally olive in complexion. His hair and his beard are dark. But even those are soft.

  I drink in his features while I can. Pausing my work every so often just to stare at him. To try to make sense of this beast of a man before me. But he is a puzzle I still haven't figured out.

  And there isn't time now.

  I feel him beginning to stir. When I go to work on the gravel, drawing it from his skin, he wakes completely. There isn't time to prepare myself for his reaction. It is instinctive.

  A wounded predator, cornered.

  He launches his hand upright and seizes me by the throat. His breathing is harsh. Labored. And his eyes are vulnerable. So vulnerable. The wildest eyes I have ever seen.

  "Javi."

  My hand covers his, but I don't struggle with him. I don't resist. He needs reassurance right now. And that's what I intend to give him.

  "Javi, it's okay. I'm trying to help. You are injured. I'm just trying to help."

  His brow furrows when he glances down at his body. His almost naked body. Shame washes over his features, and his grip on me loosens if only a little.

  "Leave me," he roars.

  He is trying to intimidate me. But he can't. Not this time.

  "No."

  His eyes meet mine. Fiery. Confused.

  Frightened.

  "I'm going to tend to your wounds, Javi. Whether you like it or not. So please don't fight me."

  His hand trembles around my neck, and then slowly his fingers fall away. He is quiet. Still. And now I am the one shaking as I go back to work, pulling the gravel from his wounds.

  He hisses when I hit a tender spot, and I apologize. I am gentle with him. As gentle as I can be. But I know it still hurts. He doesn't like me seeing him this way. He is ashamed. Embarrassed. But he has no reason to be.

  He did not cause these scars on his body.

  I want to tell him that he shouldn't care what anyone thinks. But it is easier to say than to know how he must feel, living with such scars.

  "Why are you doing this?" he asks. "Why are you helping me?"

  The words are on the tip of my tongue. The words I should say, to protect myself. I should remain stubborn and indignant. Rebellious to my situation.

  I could tell him that River threatened to kill me. That I had no choice. But those aren't the words that leave my lips.

  "I can't just leave you here like this, Javi. Someone needs to take care of you too."

  "I don't need anyone to take care of me," he growls.

  And now he is the one who is stubborn and indignant.

  I smile up at him. But it is not mocking. It is just that I never thought I could relate to him. But at this moment, I can.

  "Everybody needs some help sometimes, Javi. Even men like you."

  “You mean monsters like me.”

  I shake my head.

  “I don’t think you are nearly as monstrous as you make yourself out to be.”

  His eyes move over me, but he does not reply. He does not say another word. Until I am finished. When he asks me for something else. He as
ks me for some clothes.

  It is a softly spoken request. A difficult one for him to make. I don't fight him on it. But when I return from his room, he is not happy with the selection I brought him.

  A pair of black sweats and a tee shirt.

  "A hoodie," he demands, his polite demeanor gone.

  "No."

  I cross my arms and hold my ground.

  "I have seen you now. River has seen you. There is no reason for you to hide."

  He glares at me.

  "You would choose to look at me this way?" he sneers.

  "Yes," I answer without hesitation. "I would prefer to see your face when I speak to you, Javi."

  He does not believe me. He thinks it is a trick. And my heart hurts that he feels this way. I don't want to feel bad for him. I don't want to sympathize with him. But I do.

  I know better than anyone what it’s like to be so critical of yourself. To believe the nasty things people say about you. I know what it’s like to feel ugly inside and out.

  I know what it’s like to be a monster too.

  Javi might not know it, but there is still humanity left inside of him. There is still good. And I don’t know if he deserves it, but I want to fight his demons with him. I want to prove to him once and for all that these scars don’t matter to me. That the things I say and do are not a trick as he would like to believe.

  I’m not even certain what his reaction will be. Or how far I am willing to go. But I only know that it feels right when I kneel beside him on the bed and straddle his hips.

  He is hard beneath me, already. His breath still and silent when he looks up at me.

  I slide the strap of my tank top over my shoulder until it falls, repeating on the other side. The material pools around my waist, revealing my bra.

  Javi watches me, growing in size and hardness beneath me.

  I unbuckle the clasp, and it falls away. I am naked from the waist up. My breasts are heavy and tender and cold. I reach for his hands, and he lets me guide them to me. He touches me, groaning when I rock against him with my hips. There is still a barrier between us. His jocks and my panties. It feels safer this way.

  And also more forbidden.

  We are so close, but not quite skin to skin. It doesn’t matter to Javi. He fondles me roughly in his calloused hands. Groping my breasts and then wrenching me forward to kiss him.

  His mouth is hungry, and so is mine. I drink him in. I taste him. And I move against him. It becomes frenzied. Both of us forgetting the extent of his injuries until one of his wounds reopens, and he starts to bleed again.

  I move to stop. To apologize. Javi clutches my hip and forces me to keep going.

  “I like it,” he tells me.

  The pain. He likes the pain. It concerns me. It excites me. It makes me want to hurt him and please him all at once. But Javi is in control now. Even from the bottom. He grasps my hips and forces my movements. Using me as the warmth and friction he so badly needs.

  I am a prisoner in his arms again. But I am free. Free to my sordid desires.I lean back and press my hand against his cut, applying pressure.

  Too much pressure.

  I give him the pain he needs. And then I pull away. His eyes darken when he sees the way his blood stains my skin.

  He is feral again. Seizing my bloody palm to smear it down between my breasts, marking me with his blood. I whimper, and he comes. For what feels like forever. His body purging itself of the pain inside of him.

  He kisses me again. And then releases me.

  For a moment, I don’t move. I don’t want to. I want to stay here with him, like this. I don’t understand it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me or why I want him this way. But I can’t control it, and I can no longer deny it.

  Javi is tired. His eyes are heavy and relaxed. But the longer we sit here, staring at one another, the more the tension creeps back into his body all over again. So I move from him. Slowly.

  I clean his wound again and then reach for his jocks. He grabs my wrist.

  “I’ll do it.”

  He doesn’t want me to touch him again. Because he’s exhausted and afraid he won’t be able to control himself if I do. It’s there in his eyes. And I had no idea how open his eyes could be until now.

  "You should get some rest," I tell him. "I will make something for dinner."

  I turn to go, and he stops me again with his hand.

  "Bella?"

  He looks up at me, anxious.

  "Thank you."

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I make Spaghetti for dinner. River digs in as soon as he smells it. Javi is a different story.

  When I take the tray to the conservatory, he is still sleeping. I hover, unsure whether to wake him or not. He senses me before I can make a decision and his eyes open slowly.

  He is defensive again. Wearing the sweats I brought him earlier along with a hoodie that I didn’t bring him. It is obvious he has made his own way to the closet, and I make a mental note to take care of that problem as soon as I leave him tonight.

  "Are you hungry?" I ask.

  He tries to sit up, wincing as he props himself against the headboard.

  "What is it?"

  "Spaghetti."

  "I don't eat spaghetti," he says.

  "Have you ever tried it?"

  He doesn't reply.

  I sit down beside him, and he reaches for the tray. I pull it back.

  "Let me help you."

  "I don't need your help."

  "Then you don't eat."

  He growls, and I ignore him. I couldn't imagine him attempting to eat this himself after the way I saw him eat before.

  I twirl some pasta on the fork and bring it to his lips. He's still staring at me. Being stubborn.

  "Open."

  He opens, reluctantly. I feed him and tell him to chew slowly. He listens this time, watching me carefully. When he swallows, I ask him how he likes it.

  “It's... fine.”

  I'm relieved. It's silly. But I want him to like it. I want him to experience something else besides peanut butter and jelly or macaroni and cheese. He eats the entire plate I brought him and then relaxes back against the bed.

  "Will you tell me what happened to you?"

  He stares at me. Guarded.

  "It was nothing."

  "It's not nothing," I argue. "Is this because of the agency?"

  I can't hide the worry in my voice. The worry that he will end up like my father too.

  “I can't tell you that.”

  It's the same generic response my father used to give and I know I'm right. I hate that I'm right. And I miss my father so much my heart feels like it's splintered.

  I hate the agency. I hate them for taking him away from me. For lying to me. And I am angry at Javi too, right now. For not having the consideration to think that he might do the same one day.

  That he might just disappear, and then...

  Then I would be free.

  It hurts to think about. I look at him, uncertain. He is confused too, by my response. By my emotions.

  "I am sorry, Bella," he says.

  And he is sorry, but for what I don’t know.

  "How can you work for them?" I ask. "Knowing that they don't care. That you might meet the same fate. How can you do it?"

  He raises his brows, reaches for me, but stops himself.

  "I am not going anywhere."

  "That's funny," I tell him. "Because it's the same thing my father always used to say."

  "Your father did not want to leave you," he says. "He did not do it by choice."

  "I understand that," I snap. "But the very agency that he has risked his life for refuses to tell me anything. For all I know, they want him to stay gone."

  "Bella," Javi says, and this time he does touch me. "Your father was not the man that you imagine in your head. He has many secrets. And many enemies too."

  His words are not meant to hurt me this time. I can tell by the way he says them. But he believ
es them wholeheartedly. And I still can’t accept this when I know how much my father cared for him. I can’t comprehend what happened between them to make Javi hate him so much.

  But I’m tired of guessing. Avoiding. And I know he won’t be this agreeable forever. So if Javi wants to tell me some truths about my father, perhaps it’s time for me to listen.

  My fingers fall into my lap, and I lean back in my chair.

  "Will you tell me about him?" I whisper. "Will you tell me about your relationship?"

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Her eyes are soft. Hopeful. I can't deny her.

  It would be better that she did not know. It would be better if she did not ask these things of me. But she has seen me. Touched me. And I want her to do it again.

  I want to give her the answers she seeks. The only thing I can ever really give her after the things I have done.

  "What would you care to know, my sweet?"

  "How did you meet?" she asks.

  It is an innocent question. And because my Bella is so innocent, she could never know the depths of her father’s depravity. She could never know the injustices he served to not only me but countless others. And she could never know the deepness of the despair this memory invokes in me.

  I will forever remember the day that I met Ray Rossi.

  He found his way into my room at the sanitarium, and I assumed he was another doctor. Someone else sent to pry the secrets from my mind. But he was different. Both in dress and decorum.

  He was powerful.

  He told the nurse to go, and she listened, hesitating only briefly at the door. She informed him that I was dangerous. He met my eyes and smiled.

  “He is a child.”

  The nurse left, and Ray sat down with me. He wasn't like the others. He did not ask me questions. He did not ask me to talk.

  Instead, he handed me a workbook. It had puzzles and math equations. Things that I liked. I wondered how he knew.

  I had done some of my own, on the paper they sometimes let me have. The doctor would stare at my scribbles strangely. He tried to make sense of them, I think, but he never could.

  This man, though, he understood. And this is exactly what I tell my Bella.

  "He brought me puzzles."