Her Beast: A Dark Romance (Beauty and the Captor Book 1)

by Nicole Casey

  Her Beast

  Beauty and the Captor Book 1

  Nicole Casey

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Scarlett

  2. Scarlett

  3. Derek

  4. Scarlett

  5. Derek

  6. Scarlett

  7. Derek

  8. Scarlett

  Acknowledgments

  More Information

  Also by Nicole Casey

  Dominating Vyolet

  Protecting Maya

  Pursuing Yvette

  A Weekend with the Mountain Man

  The Billionaire’s Desires

  Free Book Giveaway

  Prologue

  Derek

  I’d done a good job. I acknowledged to myself as Senor Ruiz came to retrieve his latest acquisition. But I wasn’t proud. Marcos was proud; it was clear by the way his eyes glowed with approval. He patted me on the back as the other man took hold of the lead and led the product of weeks of mind-bending work out of the room. My work. Countless hours of work.

  “This one was important, and I knew you wouldn’t let me down, son,” Marcos congratulated me as he motioned for a servant from across the room. “You never fail to impress me.”

  The servant appeared at his side seconds later, holding open a box of Cuban cigars. Marcos selected two from the box and handed me one before striking a match to light mine and then his own. I inhaled deeply, savoring the familiar taste of a victory cigar. The earthy, tobacco flavor slid across my tongue as the pungent smoke perfumed the air.

  As I’d grown into the life that had been laid out for me, I’d come to view Marcos in some shady area between friend and father. I remembered waiting for moments like these, anxious for my hard work to amount to something in his eyes. Years later, there was none of that eagerness now, but a quiet hum of satisfaction nonetheless.

  As Senor Ruiz made his way down the long hall, I couldn’t help but watch the symbol of my success. Her hips swayed as she crawled gracefully down the hall, her head down and her body naked except for the leather collar around her slim neck. She hesitated for just a moment as she reached the door, and I felt the familiar tightening in my gut. She’d performed flawlessly for the past two weeks, and I hoped she wasn’t reverting to old habits. But with a swift tug on the leash attached to her collar, she crawled out the door, and I lost sight of her.

  Yes, I’d done a good job. The girl had been stubborn and prideful the day she’d been brought to me, but not anymore. Now, she would make an ideal slave for her new master. I breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t only the embarrassment of her slipping up that had worried me, but rather, after so long working with this one, I’d long since tired of her. I was ready for a new challenge, something that would send more than an innate sizzle of arousal through my veins.

  It wouldn’t last long. It never did. One slave was no different from the next, even in the early days before they were conditioned for sale. They fought and they pleaded, but quickly they gave up the fight, allowing me to mold them into precisely what they needed to be.

  “You were built to command, my son,” Marcos said, drawing my attention back.

  I wasn’t built for this, some part of me wanted to shout. But the truth of the matter was…I was. I’d watched the other men working with the slaves for years, and not even the most experienced of them had acquired complete domination over a spineless, young girl in the time it had taken me to turn the obstinate daughter of Marcos’ biggest rival into an adept slave.

  “And in celebration of your success, I have a surprise for you,” he continued, draping his arm around my shoulder and leading me down the hall to his office.

  I didn’t like surprises. Surprises meant unexpected, and I liked to know what to expect. Still, I confess I was mildly curious. Marcos’ body seemed to be thrumming with anticipation.

  Once inside his office, he placed a file folder down on the desk and motioned for me to take it. Another job? Another slave? This wasn’t my idea of a surprise, but I opened up the folder to see what was inside. And then I saw the photo lying on top of a neat stack of papers. My stomach clenched and my rusted heart thudded heavily in my chest. It was him—the man who had taken everything from me. James Donovan.

  “Where is he, Marcos?” I was no longer tired. I was primed, ready. An old rage pulsed through my veins and my fingers shook with impatience. I could feel the cold steel of the Glock in my hand, hear the grind of steel against steel as I cocked it. I could even envision Donovan’s face in that split second before the bullet tore through his body. I’d longed for this moment and I’d waited for so long.

  “No, Derek.”

  “No? What do you mean no?” Why the hell was he dangling the man in front of me just to deprive me of the vengeance that was, by right, mine?

  “I mean, I am not going to let you rush into this hastily. It will be over too quick, and you’ll be left with nothing but the bitter taste of disappointment. Your revenge cannot be swift.”

  I wanted to argue with him. I’d wanted Donovan dead for so long, the idea of postponing the kill even a minute longer felt almost unbearable. But Marcos was right. I wanted him dead, yes, but I also wanted him to suffer. I’d regret acting on impulse, no matter how strong that impulse was.

  I took a deep breath, hoping the smoke-tinged air would somehow infuse my body with even a modicum of the calm I’d felt just moments ago. “What did you have in mind, Marcos?”

  “James Donovan’s wife is dead, but he has a daughter. And you, Derek, have a very unique set of skills.”

  Hmm. Well, it wasn’t the most original plan—since it was the exact same method of revenge Marcos had used on his own rival, but it was effective. Take the thing of most importance to a man and make him watch as you broke it and transformed it into a shell of what it once was.

  I’d already known Donovan had a daughter. Even twelve years later, I could vaguely remember the feisty little redhead with eyes that were too big for her face and a chip on her shoulder. If there was any of that girl left in her now, she’d pose an even bigger challenge than the last slave. But there were few things in life better than a good challenge.

  “You know where she is?” I asked though I was already certain he did.

  Marcos nodded.

  “I want to get a look at her, and then I’ll send Vito and Alejandro to pick her up.”

  “I think you’re making a wise decision, my friend,” he said, patting me on the back once again.

  A short flight, and an even shorter drive later, I sat in a nondescript Lexus across from a dilapidated looking park. The girl would be turning the corner onto the street any minute—like she did every day at precisely 8:45 in the morning on her way to work—according to Marcos’ carefully gathered intel.

  Fuck me, I breathed, as she turned onto the street. The hair was the same—a fiery auburn that put copper redheads to shame—but everything else about her had changed. She was tall, and though the shapeless coat and clothing she wore did nothing to accentuate it, it was obvious she was slim. She moved with a kind of grace I hadn’t seen before, and the gentle sway of her hips beneath her bulky clothing had me following her every movement, like the hypnotizing swing of a pendulum.

  As she came closer, I could see that her oval face had lost all traces of its childhood pudginess, and her eyes, though larger than the typical woman’s, fit into the delicate features of her face perfectly. Something about the look in her eyes though told me she was lost, not geographically, but as if part of herself was missing. She looked in-need, though nothing about her made her appear needy.
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  I fought the sudden urge to get out of the car. I wanted to take her back with me now. I wanted to bend her. Shape her. Make her needy for nothing but the will of her master. But I stayed where I was. The plan had been set, and I wouldn’t deviate from it in my haste to have this beauty.

  She would come soon enough.

  1

  Scarlett

  I skimmed through the photos as they came out of the film-developing-machine. I was supposed to flip through them quickly and then shove them in an envelope for our customers, but I never did that. I liked the pictures because no one ever took snapshots of the sad moments in their life. It was always the happy memories caught on camera.

  I look at the photos, and I imagine what life has in store for them next. It’s silly, of course, but I’ve been told I’m a natural born storyteller. And so, I fill in the missing pieces between snapshots. Like what had happened after the Robinson’s returned from their honeymoon in Aruba—a trip that had used up nearly a dozen rolls of film? Did she quickly realize the man couldn’t screw the cap back on the toothpaste to save his life? Did he wonder how the hell the woman could possibly need three dozen pairs of shoes? I imagine their first fight came quickly—because they’re both passionate and stubborn people. In the end, though, they’ll always work it out. They aren’t perfect, and they’ll spend a lot of time-fighting, but they love each other. And so long as they never forget that, they’ll be OK.

  And what about Lindsay Miller’s graduation photos? I think she’ll meet her first serious boyfriend in college. He’ll be a great guy, but after a year or two, they’ll realize they just aren’t right for each other. But they won’t part on angry terms, and they’ll even get together for coffee a couple of times after a nasty breakup or particularly bad exam. Five years later when she’s finished college and found Mr. Right, she’ll even invite her first love to her wedding, and just for a minute, both of them will wonder if they’d made a mistake breaking up.

  Hey, it’s not picture-perfect all the time—I said I was a good storyteller, not a fabricator of fairy tales.

  Why did I do it? It all came down to the same thing, really: to create a life that existed beyond this moment, because if it existed for them, it could exist for me, too, right?

  The bell above the door to the shop jingled, and I shoved the stack of photos in my hand into the waiting envelope as nonchalantly as I could. It was all well and good to daydream about customers’ lives; it was another thing entirely to get caught doing it. Aside from looking like a nosy snoop, I was fairly certain there were laws against this sort of thing—or at least company policies that discouraged peeping-tom employees.

  Fortunately, the customer who had just walked in and caught me unaware was Mrs. Jenkins, and while the woman had a heart of gold, she had the eyesight of a potato. I’d developed her film a half hour ago, and it was obvious she had taken the pictures herself since half the prints were of the inside of the lens cap.

  It was rather strange for the woman to be out so late, but the reason became clear a moment later when her son walked in with a half-crazed gleam in his eyes. His hands were full of bags from every store on the strip—they’d been Christmas shopping. She couldn’t get around on her own, and her son stepped up to help her out as often as he could. There were limits to just how many tea cozies, handmade quilts and lace doilies a person could peruse before they went a little screwy. And it looked like Mr. Jenkins Jr. had passed that mark about an hour ago.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Jenkins, Mr. Jenkins. Enjoying the weather?”—the usual small talk through which two or more people completely ignored what they would really like to say in favor of the same pleasant, but meaningless banter ad nauseam. I was very good at small talk. I’d spent most of my life engaged in nothing but small talk. My father wasn’t the meaningful conversation-type.

  “It’s lovely, dear,” she replied while her son nodded and ran his fingers through the sparse hair on the top of his head, making it stick straight up. I didn’t think he cared. Since he looked about two minutes away from ripping it out from the roots, what difference did it make if it stood on end?

  Something else registered in his eyes a moment later though, as his gaze darted back and forth between the envelope of photos in my hand and my chest. I turned away and took as much time as I could retrieving and opening a bag for Mrs. Jenkins photos. I didn’t want him to look at me that way. I didn’t want any of them to look at me that way.

  I slipped the envelope into the bag and turned around to hand it to Mrs. Jenkins while I kept my eyes carefully averted from her son. A few more mundane pleasantries and the pair bustled out the door, hoping to squeeze in a little more shopping before the stores closed up for the night. I checked the clock—five more minutes and I was done for the day, too. And since it was unlikely anyone would come dashing in at the last minute, I shut down the developer machine and started to close out the cash register.

  Six minutes later, I closed and locked the door behind me. The busy street was still filled with people making away with their last-minute purchases. I watched them for a moment. What had they been shopping for? Christmas presents for parents and children, nieces and nephews? Who were they in a hurry to get home to?

  A young woman darted across the street to her car, bags flapping at her side. I imagined she’d just found the perfect present for her impossible mother-in-law. She was hurrying home to show off her find to her husband, and he’d pretend to be vexed that she’d found the better present. Really though, he was happy that his wife put so much effort into the woman who could be more than difficult to get along with sometimes.

  OK, that was a little fairy-tale-ish, but it was Christmastime. I was allowed to be a bit fanciful. Reality could kiss my ass.

  The woman dropped her bags in her trunk and slipped into the car, and as if that was my cue, I turned away and started down the street in the opposite direction. I stayed on the main street for a block and a half, but then veered off through the parking lot of the Cash n’ Carry—it took four minutes off the walk home. During the warm, summer months I didn’t mind the extra time to get home, but it was winter now, and the wind had picked up. It billowed up my calf-length skirt and snuck up the sleeves of my long, puffy coat. I could even feel it testing the edges of my knitted hat as it tried to find a way in. I pulled my hat down further, so low that my eyelashes brushed against the brim when I blinked.

  Three more blocks and I’d be home, though that prospect was always met with conflicting emotions. The temperature was warm there, but the company was ice cold. It was home though. Right now, with the chilly evening air biting my skin, I’d be content to hide away in my room all night if it meant escaping the bitter wind’s persistent assault. I picked up my pace, ignoring the way my cold muscles objected. And the speed helped. It warmed the core of my body and spread some of that heat to my shoulders and thighs.

  Suddenly, a loud screech sounded behind me. It made me skitter forward several steps. It was so close I thought whatever made the sound was going to plow right into me.

  I spun around to find the front bumper of a van less than a foot from my calves. The wind had been blowing so hard I hadn’t heard it approach. Nothing but that piercing screech. The driver must have lost control of the vehicle on a patch of ice, and I breathed a grateful sigh, realizing that a few more inches and it could have splattered me like a bug on a windshield. Yes, maybe that was a bit melodramatic, but could you blame me after such a close call?

  The driver got out of the vehicle, and I waved to him, letting him know I was fine. While I appreciated his concern, it was still just as cold out now as it had been thirty seconds ago. Since there was no harm done, I didn’t want to hang around to see if I could get frostbite.

  “I’m fine, really,” I called above the wind when he continued to approach.

  The passenger door opened at the same time, and another man stepped out. He looked unassuming; tall, but lanky. He was probably just concerned I’d been hurt.
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  Their approach was casual enough that I couldn’t pinpoint any particular reason to be frightened, but an icy shiver tremored down my spine that had nothing to do with the cold wind whipping my long braid against my face.

  I hadn’t had a whole lot of run-ins with creepy freaks, but I wasn’t about to stick around to find out if this was one such occasion. So, I turned on my heels and took off like a sprinter. I’d wanted to try out for the track and field team in my last year of high school, but my father had never let me. Right then though, I bet I put the school’s best runner—Julie Wells—to shame. The ground was a blur beneath my feet and the trees that lined the street whipped by.

  I heard footsteps behind me, heavy and fast. They were following me, running after me. But I was fast. I could beat Julie Wells around the school’s track course with both hands tied behind my back. So, I fought against the panic that welled in my chest and willed my legs to go faster.

  Faster.

  But their footsteps grew louder. And louder.

  Oh god, they were close.

  Within seconds, they were right behind me. Their heavy footfalls sounded against the pavement in cadence with my own. I tried to speed up, to stretch my legs out farther, but I was losing ground fast.

  A hand gripped my arm from behind, and I screamed, silently cursing Julie Wells for making me think I was fast. The hand yanked me back so hard my feet came out from under me.

  I kicked and flailed, but the vice-like grip on my arm didn’t relent. I felt like a marionette hanging awkwardly on one string.