Beauty’s Beast

by Black, Stasia

  Rose bushes. They’re freaking rose bushes. A hysterical laugh bubbles out of me. Of course they’re rose bushes. Sagging under the weight of the raindrops. Red and white and pink blossoms flash on the periphery of my vision as I continue to rush headlong deeper into the labyrinth, turning left and then right, right, choosing at random whenever I come to a fork in the path.

  “Daphne!” I hear the Beast’s shout somewhere behind me, barely audible above the storm. “Stop this. It’s not safe out here. Call out to me and we’ll go inside!”

  I scramble forwards at the sound of his voice, right into a rosebush. Thorns tear at my flesh and I yank back, only scratching myself worse as I try to disentangle myself from the brambles. The pain only adds to the sense of disorientation from the storm and the crazy adrenaline pumping through my veins. I stumble back and start running again. I thought adrenaline was supposed to make my mind think clearer. Where’s my fucking clarity?

  I don’t know how long I keep running and stumbling through the maze but I never come to the end of it. I’m probably going in circles without even knowing it.

  “Daphne! Stop this! It isn’t safe, let me—” Thunder drowns out the rest of whatever he says. But he sounded closer than before.

  I look over my shoulder…and my sweater catches on another rose bramble. Dammit! I rip my sweater to get away, again the thorns tear at my flesh. Lightning flashes right overhead and almost simultaneously, thunder booms.

  That means the storm’s right on top of us. I come to another fork in the path, sheets of rain coming down so hard that even if I hold my hand over my eyes, I still barely make anything out. The squelching mud beneath my feet tugged off my socks a long time back and my toes sink into the freezing mire.

  I blink, suddenly dizzy, and so, so cold. How long have I been out here? My chattering teeth are a rat-a-tat-a-tat snare drum in my head. Have I ever been warm in my life? With the rain lashing me from above, and the sinking mud from below, it’s suddenly hard to remember if I have.

  Maybe when my mother was alive. But she’s been gone a long time.

  Dead. She’s been dead a long time. Cold in the ground. She’s so cold and I did nothing to save her.

  I failed her. I’m still failing her. I’m failing everyone. I try so hard but it doesn’t matter. Every day I wake up and think, maybe this will be the day, but it never is and now— Now—

  I sink to my knees in the mud, and then lower. I drop my forehead to the mud, the forceful rain lashing my head from above forcing me even lower. Maybe I’ll just finally join her and give up all this struggling. I can only fight for so long.

  And suddenly all the fight’s gone out of me. I’m as weak as a kitten. Even the thought of trying to get back up again and take another step feels like trying to climb Mount Olympus.

  The cold creeps up my legs, from the outside in. I’m coming home, Mom. I’m sorry.

  I close my eyes and give in to the cold.

  “Daphne! Oh gods!”

  And then suddenly, I’m being lifted, I’m flying. Is this what it’s like when the gods pick you up to carry you to heaven? Will I wake in the Elysian Fields with my mother, finally at peace? A smile crosses my face.

  And then I pass out.

  Twelve

  Beast

  I sprint with her back into the house. She weighs nothing in my arms. Insubstantial. Beautiful and precious even covered in mud, more precious, because her shivering and clacking teeth mean she’s still with me.

  I run with her up the main staircase and straight to the bath. I cradle her in my arms as I start the shower in the corner. It’s custom made, big enough for two with double shower heads. I turn on both of them to full blast. As soon as the water is even moderately warm, I climb in with her. We’re both wearing clothes and filthy but I don’t care.

  Nothing matters except getting her warm.

  “Come on, baby,” I whisper, rubbing my hands up and down her arms. “Come on, warm up for me. Can you hear me? Give me a nod if you can hear me.”

  Her eyes open to mere slits but she nods as steam starts to fill the bathroom when the water finally heats. I run my hand under the jet of water.

  “Fuck,” I hiss. Too hot. I don’t want to send her into shock, either, so I turn down the temperature. We should go slow.

  I turn it to a moderately hot temperature and then arrange her under the spray. She jerks and tries to turn away from it but I hold her steady. “Shh, it’s alright. Everything’s gonna be alright now. I’ll take care of you. I swear it. Just give into the warmth. Let it seep into you.”

  And it’s like those are the magic words, or maybe it's just my voice she’s responding to, because she turns and curls into my arms like it's the most natural place in the world for her to be. My breath hitches but I don’t stop.

  I peel her soaked, filthy sweater off over her head and she lets me, then curls right back into my chest. And then she just nestles there. Like I’m her safe place in the storm.

  Ha. Right. She ran away from you into the storm.

  If she’d been out there even five more minutes… What the fuck was she thinking?

  But I know, don’t I? I remember the look of fear on her face before she turned and fled—and that after standing up so magnificently to me, with that fire I want to harness and flame even hotter, to show her all she can be—all they never let her be. Her father has stifled and straight-jacketed her for her entire life.

  And then to find her, curled up and nigh unto death in the garden, my beloved labyrinth where I’ve spent so many hours cultivating my precious roses…

  I want to rage. I want to throw things and roar and scream.

  But not while I have such precious cargo in my arms. I hold her to me and rub her back as the mud sluices out of her hair, the powerful water cleaning her.

  And that’s when I notice that it’s not just mud swirling down the drain. There’s blood, too. I pull back from her and she lets out a little whine of protest, but I have to see what she’s done to herself.

  “You’re hurt!” Long scratches wind up and down her arms.

  She looks down at herself impassively and shrugs. “The rose thorns. It’s fine.” And then she flashes her big, luminescent green eyes at me. “I don’t mind the pain sometimes. My mom used to say that feeling pain meant she was still alive. It’s why she loved roses. They always come with thorns. Beauty plus pain. They were her.”

  Then her eyes blink woozily and her forehead collides with my chest again. “I’ve never told anyone that before.”

  “That’s right, honey. That’s good. I’m going to know everything about you. But first, let’s get you clean and warm.”

  She nods into my chest, so much shorter than me that her head only comes up to the bottom of my chin.

  My chest squeezes, and not just because she’s wrapped her arms around me. I’ve never— I mean, this isn’t what I was— I’m supposed to be the one—

  “You’ll never be cold again,” I lean over and murmur into her hair, and she nods again, like she believes me.

  Thirteen

  Daphne

  When I wake up, it’s the middle of the night and I’m shivering in spite of the fact that there are blankets piled on top of me.

  “Daphne?”

  It’s him. The Beast. The same one I ran from earlier today. Gods, I’m so cold. My teeth are still chattering. I can’t remember why I ran. I think he yelled and it all seemed scary? Or maybe I was scared of myself? All the things he’s made me feel since coming here?

  “S-so c-cold,” I manage to get out through clattering teeth.

  The fire is blazing in the corner. Even without glasses or contacts, I can make out that much. And when he moves from the chair by the fire, I can see his dark, hulking form moving closer to the bed.

  But I’m not afraid. Not now and maybe not ever again. Not of him. Not of the man who brought me in from the cold and so tenderly held me and washed the mud out of my hair. Who tucked me in bed and murmured to m
e in that deep, rumbling voice of his the entire time. I don’t even remember the words he said, just the deep, reassuring bass of it.

  A giant, cool hand presses against my forehead and I wince. I’m trying to get warm here, and he touches me with his freezing hand. I pull away.

  “You’re burning up,” he rumbles. Of course I am. My immune system was depressed from stress and no sleep and the stint in the tower, and then a run in the freezing rain…

  I frown groggily and peek one eye open at him. Then I squint. I don’t even remember closing my eyes. Huh. Funny.

  He starts to pull away and walk out of the room.

  “No!” I sit up in bed and hold out a hand to stop him, then the room whirls dizzily. I grab my head and wince. Ugh, my head feels full of cotton and I’ve got a deep, thudding headache.

  “Don’t go,” I still manage to grind out. And then, more plaintively than I’d probably prefer if I were feeling one hundred percent, “Don’t leave me alone.”

  But I feel like crap, so even as I collapse back onto my pillow, I still hold out a wan hand. The scratches on my arm are looking better, the healing salve he rubbed on earlier doing its work. “Please. Stay.”

  And then I lose the fight to hold up my arm and it drops to the bed, too.

  He hesitates a moment in the doorway like he’s second-guessing himself but then he comes back to the bed and sits beside me. I nestle against his hip. He radiates warmth.

  “You’re so warm. Lay down beside me?” I murmur. “I just need to get warm.” A shiver wracks its way down my spine.

  “What we need is to get your fever down.”

  Then he does the last thing my feverish brain expects. He leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead. Every muscle in my body relaxes at the contact of his lips against my overheated skin. It feels so right.

  He moves to rise again and my hand shoots out, shackling his wrist. And then he kisses my hand. “I’ll be right back, beautiful rose. And if you’re a good girl and take your medicine, then I’ll stay with you through the night.”

  “In bed with me?” I’m using the last of my energy to hold onto his wrist, but it feels like the most important thing in the world to wrest this promise from him before he goes.

  “Maybe so.” Another whisper of a kiss to my forehead and then he’s gone, and the whole world seems like it's gone cold.

  It feels like an hour before he finally returns, but he does come back. With a tall glass of water and a couple of pills.

  I try to take the cup, but my strength almost immediately fails me and water sloshes out of the cup and onto my blanket. But he’s right there to grab the cup before I drop it completely.

  “Here,” I’ve got it, he says calmly. Then he helps me sit up, cradling my back to tilt me up, and he lifts the rim of the glass to my lips.

  “Take a sip first,” he murmurs, and I do. The water is cool, but it feels good slipping down my throat. When he holds out one pill, I obediently stick out my tongue without waiting for instruction. His lips curve up and I watch the edge of his mask thoughtfully as he places the pills on my tongue and then lifts the glass to my lips again.

  This might be the closest I’ve ever been to him, just able to observe. Everything’s still slightly fuzzy through the haze of my fever and with the room lit only by the flickering fire in the fireplace. But still, I can see the fine hairs of his short beard on the half of his face that’s exposed, and his lips are full and yet somehow still manly. The skin around his eyes is smooth, young-looking, even though there are shadows there that make me think he’s rarely at ease.

  I swallow but he doesn’t pull back and that’s when I realize he’s watching me just as carefully as I’m observing him. He lifts a hand and caresses it gently down the side of my face. “What am I going to do with you?” he whispers, but I have the feeling it’s more to himself than to me.

  “Keep up your end of the bargain,” I whisper.

  A smile crinkles his lips and he nods. That’s all the agreement I need as I slump against him. He’s so warm and I’m so cold. I’ve been so cold. I’ve been cold for so long. Longer than I even realized, I think.

  But that’s the last thing I manage to think because sitting up and drinking down the pills took more out of me than I expected, and I’m soon drifting back off into the warm cocoon of sleep. Feeling safer than I ever have before in the Beast’s arms.

  Fourteen

  Beast

  She fights a fever for days. I pace the floor, cursing myself. I forgot she was so weak, so fragile. Her beauty and brain are so strong, but their vessel is frail. Just like her mother.

  I remember her father pacing the floor like this, wearing a tread into the carpet. Finding him in the lab with his head in his hands. He worked night and day for a cure. He never lost hope.

  The second I saw her, I knew we were meant to be, he told me once of his wife, Isabella. With your success, son, you’ll have women throwing themselves at you. He placed a hand on my shoulder. Take my advice: wait. Wait for the one.

  True love? I’d asked with a jaded smile. He was right; women did throw themselves at me. But only if they couldn’t get Adam’s attention. He always outshone me. Don’t tell me you believe in soulmates?

  If by soulmates, you mean a woman made for you as you were for her, then yes. Dr. Laurel had been perfectly serious. A scientist who applied reason to everything but his relationship with the love of his life. True love does exist, son. And it’s worth the wait.

  I press my head to the freezing glass, gritting my teeth against the cold. Winter has come with a vengeance. Below, in my rose garden, even the hardiest varieties are bowed under the weight of ice.

  Daphne whimpers and I cross the room, kneeling by the bed to take her small hand. I check her forehead. The fever is breaking.

  “Stay with me,” she whispers through parched lips. “Don’t leave.”

  “I won’t, sweetheart.” I hold a glass of water to her lips until she drinks. When she’s done I ferret out a jar of salve from my lab to smear over her chapped lips. Caring for her feels natural. Like everything in my life led to this moment.

  For years I’ve burned with one purpose: revenge. It’s her father’s fault that I’m a Beast, too ugly and gruesome for anyone to love. Far from throwing themselves at me—if women ever saw me now, they’d run. Just like Daphne did.

  And yet, I forgive her. How can I do anything else when she clings to me so trustingly? My heart was frozen as the winter earth, and her touch melts the bitter frost.

  “I’m here, Daphne. I’m not going to leave you.”

  Fifteen

  Beauty

  “Open for me, sweetheart.”

  I glare at the masked man sitting across from me. He regards me steadily. He still hasn’t replaced my glasses but in the past few days, the slightly blurred angles and contours of his face, neck and hands have become familiar to me. For all the torment he’s dealt, he can be surprisingly gentle.

  Even when his patient is increasingly grouchy. And mouthy.

  “You know, I’m not a baby. I can feed myself.” I cross my arms over my chest.

  He says nothing and proffers the soup spoon until it’s a millimeter from my lips. I sigh and open my mouth as instructed. Ugh, broth.

  “Chicken soup? Again?” I settle back on the pillows as he scrapes the bowl for another tepid spoonful. “What I wouldn’t give for a cheeseburger.”

  “You need to replenish your fluids and electrolytes.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Obvious,” I mutter. His good brow raises. I curl my fingers into the blankets to keep from reaching up and touching his face. Not the first time I’ve had the urge.

  He spoon feeds me a few more mouthfuls. Ever since I grew strong enough to sit up, he’s insisted on feeding me. I give him a hard time but secretly I love it.

  “Don’t you have anything better to do than feed me? Tend your roses? Torment another prisoner? Play your giant organ?” I let my gaze flicker to his crotch. Like alway
s, he’s dressed impeccably, with well-tailored slacks and dress shirt, shoes and cufflinks polished and gleaming. A veneer of elegance that only draws attention to his powerful body. Always enclosed in such fine clothes, but lately, with nothing else to distract me, I can’t deny that sometimes my thoughts wander to wondering what he might look like underneath…

  Now both his brows are raised. “My giant organ?”

  I blush. “Um, yeah. The instrument, oh Masked One.” I flutter my fingers in the air and hum Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor. “Like, for composing an opera.”

  He studies me and I bite my lip, wondering if I’ve pushed him too far. I’ve let more of my joking personality out in the last few days, because, fuck it, what do I have to lose? It feels good. I usually keep this side of myself stuffed down. The only one who’s seen silly Daphne is Rachel.

  “No organ,” he says finally, scraping the spoon in the bowl to scoop up the dregs. “No other prisoners. Just you.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “Indeed.” He feeds me the final bit of soup.

  A smile cracks my face. He blinks at the sight of it. I’m as surprised as he is. Here I am, getting nursed back to health by a crazed man in a mask, and I’m almost…happy. I have a million questions swimming around my head—why do you have a lab? How long have you been studying Battleman’s disease? Are you close to a cure?—but I don’t want to break the moment, this temporary truce.

  And my instincts are right, because his stiff jaw loosens a moment and the Beast almost, almost smiles.

  “I’m feeling better. Stronger. Can’t I get out of bed?” I’ve already been up today. He helped me to the bathroom and gave me a bath. Not as torrid as our first bath together, but enough to make me blush.

  “Maybe tomorrow.” He sets the bowl down and heads over to the fireplace to add a few logs. He keeps the place toasty warm now. There are brocade curtains adorning the giant windows, and thick Persian rugs on the floor. Not that he lets my feet touch the ground. He treats me like a princess. And even though he used to despise me for my supposed addiction to luxury, each day he seems to resent me less and less.