Beauty and the Rose: a Beauty and the Rose Novel

by Black, Stasia

  Nope. Brain turned off. Brain turned off.

  I turn my eyes to the candle and train my eyes on the flame. But I’m greedy and I can only last a second before looking back to Logan. My Master.

  He’s watching the flame too. Or rather, he’s watching the small puddle of wax that’s slowly liquefying in the lip of the candle.

  He holds out his forearm and drips wax in a line along the inside of his wrist where it’s the most sensitive. I hold my breath, but when he doesn’t react one way or the other, I burst out, “What does it feel like?”

  His mouth quirks up on one side. “Curious, kitten?”

  I nod, not trusting myself with words. Is he really serious? Are we still allowed to do things like this? Then I shake my head. Who the hell do I think I’m asking? Logan’s a doctor and I’ve got my PhD and have spent my life studying this disease. If we don’t know, who will?

  Number one, there’s no reason we shouldn’t be able to, and number two, I’m not supposed to be thinking.

  I trust Logan. For twenty minutes can I not just shut my freaking brain off and trust?

  Even as I think it, my entire body relaxes. Logan and I watched the candle burn and liquefy more wax until there’s another little puddle.

  Logan’s eyes come to me. The hand not holding the candle massages my thigh, up and down, up and down.

  “You’ll have every experience this life has to offer,” he promises. “Together, we’ll explore every sensation, every feeling, every possible nerve ending of your entire body.”

  He leans in and breathes in my ear. “We’ll have a lifetime of exploration. In sickness and in health. Together. Now close your eyes, and feel. Feel me and what I do to you.”

  I nod but I know I might disobey. He doesn’t know how much I need this. I didn’t know how much I needed this. And I will give myself to him body and soul… But I might peek.

  I’ll never give up looking at him now that he’s unmasked himself. I need every line of connection possible between us and he’s not stealing one of my senses. Not tonight anyway.

  So I keep my body completely relaxed, but I watch. And he watches me watch, because he’s constantly checking my face to catch my reactions. I know if I exhibit even the slightest expression of discomfort, he’ll stop. But I don’t want that. I want this moment of intimacy between us to continue and continue and continue, forever.

  We’ve finally stripped down, and I don’t mean just our clothes.

  The first drop of the steaming wax on my right breast is a surprise. It stings for a moment but then just sinks into a lovely warmth that spreads across my entire breast. He avoided the nipple, maybe because it was also recently pierced, but he paints around the areola like a blood-red candle-wax crown.

  Wax drips down the mountainsides of my breasts and I’ve never felt more…more fucking alive.

  “There,” he says with satisfaction, blowing on the hardening wax as it cools. “I’ve crowned you my Queen.”

  I might laugh if he wasn’t simultaneously touching me and driving me absolutely crazy. He gave up on the PG zones of my body a while ago.

  The hand not pouring wax is on an exploratory journey of its own.

  “Ah ah ah,” he chastises when I clench around his fingers buried in my cunt. “Relax or I stop.”

  No stopping. No stopping. But I don’t beg out loud in case it makes him stop. Instead, I open my eyes and focus on Logan’s face. The deep blue of his eyes. The furrow in his eyebrows when he focuses, and gods, how hot it is when his entire being is focused on bringing me to climax—

  A warm wave washes outward with one strong, immense pulse. I don’t know how else to describe it. It’s unlike any orgasm I’ve had before. Usually it’s intense and I’m clenching and chasing it and fighting and—

  Oh shit here comes another one—

  I meet Logan’s eyes and see his wonder as he shares the moment with me, the second wash of bliss that has tears pouring out of my eyes.

  It’s so— So fucking beautiful—

  He bows over me, face an inch from mine, but he doesn’t kiss me.

  He just keeps sharing the moment, fostering a crazier, deeper intimacy than I ever knew was even possible between two human beings.

  “You,” I finally whisper through choked breath, the tears still coming so thick. “The big life is here. I already have it. Right now. As long as I’m with you.”

  Six

  Daphne

  Two weeks later, it’s a very different scene when Logan comes in the door. I’m already propped up in bed surrounded by pillows, scrolling through the day’s news on my tablet. No longer cut off or disconnected from the world.

  The curtains are thrown open wide and sunshine pours in through the glass, warming my face.

  It’s hard to describe the past two weeks. Physically, I feel like shit. But they’ve still been two of the happiest weeks of my life. Logan is doting but I call him out when he gets overbearing. I’m seeing a side of him I only had glimpses of before. He’s kind and nurturing. A gentle giant. And he respects me enough not to cut me out of my own treatment process.

  Like this morning, for example. He comes in carrying a stack of lab results, his brow furrowed.

  “Are those from the experiments that ran overnight?” I reach for the papers.

  Logan comes and sits beside me on the bed, not giving up the papers but holding them so that we can both look on.

  “Your numbers are holding but we aren’t getting the improvement that were looking for.” His voice is gruff and I know he’s trying to hide his frustration from me.

  “We knew this might take some time.” I interweave my fingers with his. “Cancer immunotherapy is still such a new field.”

  He frowns down at the papers. “Not that new. It’s past time somebody figured this out.”

  I look at him fondly. “And that somebody is going to be you?”

  He finally tears his eyes away from the numbers and he meets my gaze. “It’s going to be us.” Then he frowns when he sees my breakfast plate. “You didn’t finish your eggs. You know you need your protein.”

  I stick my tongue out but reach for the second half of a boiled egg. “I miss greasy bacon,” I moan.

  “Eat all your grapefruit slices and blueberries, too. The antioxidants are good for you.”

  “Yes, mother.” I pop a few blueberries into my mouth, just in time, too, because the next second I’m squealing as Logan jumps on top of me, knocking me backwards onto the bed. The papers go flying but Logan’s focus is only on me.

  “You’ve got a mouth on you this morning. Is somebody feeling frisky? Want to play?”

  He reaches around and gives me a swift, sharp smack on the ass and I yelp, then giggle. I squirm for a second to try to get away from him but I don’t have much energy and I don’t really want to get away from him anyway so I tap out with my palm and call, “Uncle, uncle! I give in.”

  But Logan doesn’t roll off of me immediately. Instead he clutches me tighter and buries his nose in the crook of my neck and inhales.

  “I love the way you smell,” he says in a low rumble.

  I giggle and try to push him away, to no avail. “You’re weird.”

  “You’re wonderful.”

  Full body happy sigh. Then I remember I’m sick and the shifting back and forth flood of emotions makes me feel a little tipsy. Blinding happiness. Followed by gut-clenching anxiety at the thought of losing it all and sadness at my day-to-day limitations. But then Logan touches me and all that fades away, and the joy is all I can see and feel.

  Sometimes I think I’d pay any price, even Battleman’s, if it means I get this time with him. And that makes me glad that life doesn’t work like that. That there are no cosmic bargains to be made, no matter how many hours our puny little human brains waste coming up with scenario after scenario we’d prefer to our own.

  “Okay, okay.” I try to slide out from under Logan, putting my hands on his chest to show him I mean business. “I reall
y do want to get some work done today.”

  His eyes are dark and hungry but like always, he accommodates my wishes and rolls off. Though not without one last lingering look and a growled promise of, “We’ll pick this up later.”

  He starts to pick up the scattered papers but I wave a hand.

  “What if we’re too mired down in our thinking? Let’s go back to basics. We’re trying to create a living drug, right?”

  Logan nods, sitting at the edge of the bed again while I scoot up into a sitting position. He helps arrange pillows behind my head so that I’m comfortable.

  “Okay, so let’s think it through. What are we trying to accomplish, at the core?”

  “We need to create a modified T cell that’s able to recognize the target,” Logan says. “To recognize the diseased cells.”

  “Yes. And second, our drug needs to modify that cell in such a way that it replicates the superhero cell into a clone army.”

  Logan nods and starts ticking them off on his fingers. “Recognize, replicate. Third, it and its clones need to actually work, so it can kill the sick cells and not just be duds once they’re actually injected in the body.”

  “And fourth and finally,” I breathe out, “these magical cells we’ve treated to become super cells have to live for the lifetime of the person, so that it’s a forever cure.”

  Logan waves a hand. “No big deal. We got this.”

  I laugh out loud, but there’s a heavy dose of despair in it. “You know we’ve always had trouble with steps three and four. Belladonna’s anti-aging cream work so well because we mastered the first two, targeting aged and diseased tissue and cloning regenerative cells.”

  “But we’ve yet to figure out a solution for delivering the super cells into the bloodstream in a way that allows them to live for the life of the patient, curing a disease like Battleman’s long-term. I know, I know.”

  “I’m just trying to establish the basics. I can’t help but think we need some new perspective. We need to think outside the box.”

  “Okaaaaaay,” Logan says slowly. “Like what?”

  I look towards the window in the sun and the bright sky. “I don’t know yet. But I’m going to read and research and think until I figure it out.”

  Because one thing I have already figured out, with Logan’s help?

  There are two choices when faced with a life disaster like this: give into anger and despair or take the express train to acceptance and start fighting the hell back.

  This is my life, dammit, and I will fight for every inch of ground I can get—and believe I deserve it.

  Seven

  Daphne

  “You’re sure you’re ready for this?” Logan asks.

  He’s hovering again, a hulking shape in a custom-made tuxedo. The gold cufflinks, paisley bow tie and emerald green cummerbund at his waist does nothing to civilize him. He looks seconds away from brandishing a sword and rushing out to single-handedly defend the castle from raiders.

  In a sense, the castle has been raided. By makeup artists and hairstylists, courtesy of Armand. He owns Metamorphoses, the top spa in New Olympus.

  “I’m ready.” I answer as soon as the eye makeup expert finishes my mascara. It’s been a month and a half since I first relapsed and tonight is the opening event for The Healing Garden. The finishing touches have just been put on it and I can’t wait to see. Adjacent to New Olympus General, and designed so hospital staff, patients, and guests can have a place to enjoy the fresh air and beauty of nature.

  I feel giddy at the thought of finally getting out of the castle, even if it’s still in a wheelchair.

  I didn’t know there were artists who specialized in just the eye area, but apparently there are. An hour with her and my thinning eyebrows are painted in. That was after she applied some sort of fast-acting growth serum to my lashes.

  The make up artist shows me a mirror and my mouth falls open. My eyelashes look twice as long.

  Logan isn’t impressed. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “You can’t hide me away in the castle forever.”

  “Yes, I can,” Logan growls.

  The makeup artist’s eyes grow round. I thank her and she nods and backs away.

  “Logan.” I hold out my hand.

  He’s at my side in an instant, his big hand swallowing mine.

  “You can’t keep me here,” I tell him. “It’s not healthy.”

  “As your doctor, I disagree.”

  “I know. You’ve made that quite clear.” I give a slight tug and he sinks into a chair beside me. I struggle with what I’m going to say next, but Logan waits patiently. “My father always wanted to hide my illness. It was important to him for me to hold up appearances, especially when investors started taking interest in Belladonna. He thought a sick daughter would tarnish Belladonna’s image.”

  “Fuck that,” Logan explodes. Rage ripples through his big body, but he keeps his grip gentle.

  “Fuck him,” he adds in a harsh whisper. “I’m not your father. I’m not hiding you away. I just want to keep you safe, make sure you don’t relapse and… Fuck!”

  He half turns away, his chest rising and falling so rapidly I fear for the seams of his bespoke suit.

  “I know, I know,” I soothe. I squeeze his hand, my grip fragile as a newborn’s. “I know you’re not my father. And I’m no longer following that old script.” The words are ashes on my tongue.

  Every day I wonder if I’m going to fall back into the patterns I’ve lived out my whole life. Can I fight the disease and keep my new identity? Only time will tell.

  I grab Logan’s hand with both of mine. “Tell me what you’re afraid of.”

  Logan brings my hands to his face, pressing his lips to my fingers. His answer is muffled. “I don’t want to lose you.”

  My heart squeezes at his vulnerable tone. “My numbers are better, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So much so that when Cora called, asking if I could help with the Healing Garden, you said it would be okay.”

  “Yes.” He’s still not raised his head to meet my gaze.

  “And I’ve been practicing. Going out to the greenhouse, going down to the gardens.” Not that I’ve done so much as lift a spade or a hand trowel.

  When Cora first called, she only wanted my advice on garden design. I poured over my mother’s journals and crafted a proposal, excited for the distraction. I even donated several of my mother’s hybrids to the cause. Planning a garden in my mother's memory gave my restless mind something to focus on.

  And my numbers steadily improved each week, otherwise Logan would’ve ordered me to stop.

  Tonight is the opening event.

  “It’s important for me to do this.” I free my left hand so I can stroke his dark hair. “It’s just a ribbon cutting. No heavy lifting required. I promise to let you know when I’m starting to get tired.” I slide my fingers around his freshly-shaven jaw and lift his head. “This is important to me,” I whisper.

  “You’re so brave.” He’s still not looking at me. “You amaze me.”

  “I amaze myself,” I joke.

  Despite my declarations, I fall asleep in the limo, waking only when the car stops. When I look out the tinted window at the crowds, I feel the first pang of dismay. Cora Ubeli knows how to attract free publicity. She’s probably invited a bunch of movie stars and famous billionaires to ensure the garden gets as much press as possible.

  Sure enough, there’s a red carpet lined with paparazzi. Logan and I will have to run that gauntlet. My stomach flips.

  Logan glowers at them. “Say the word, and we’ll go right back home.”

  “No. I want to do this.”

  If not for me, then for all the Battleman’s patients watching the news while waiting for their infusions. For the first time, they’ll watch all the VIPs gliding down the red carpet and see one of their own.

  Logan gets out first to assist the driver in getting my chair ready.

&n
bsp; I smooth my skirt and straighten my silk blouse. The neckline is a little lower than I’m comfortable with, but the stylist assured me it was in vogue. The outfit is elegant and classy.

  Even my wheelchair is fancy, a sleek, state of the art machine with heated seats, mecanum wheels and a rose gold finish. The control pad at my fingertips looks like it was designed by NASA. My wheelchair can’t hover or shoot rockets, but I’m sure those features will be in the next upgrade.

  It’s important to me to be seen in public. I may be sick, but I’m still alive and fighting.

  Logan parks my chair close by and opens my door. “Are you ready? We can still go back home.”

  “I’m doing this,” I reply firmly. A reluctant grin tugs at the corner of his mouth.

  “I thought you might say that.” He lifts me easily and sets me in the chair. I fuss with my skirt as he dismisses the driver. A few photographers turned to investigate when Logan appeared. Now that I’m in my wheelchair, they raise their cameras.

  I jerk up my chin. Logan’s hand settles on my shoulder for a second. A reassuring squeeze, and he starts pushing me up the red carpet. I almost protest that I can wheel myself, but my arms are weak and wobbly.

  I flinch at the first camera flash, but I don’t look away. The red carpet stretches on forever, a gauntlet of glaring lights and black lenses. I force myself to curve my red lips and pretend to preen in the attention. I raise my hand and wave like a queen.

  “Daphne Laurel—” a few reporters shout, waving for my attention. They shove microphones in my direction.

  “It’s Doctor Laurel. And no comment,” Logan rumbles, and pushes me faster.

  As soon as we get to the end of the red carpet and inside, my spine wilts. My forehead is sweaty from the heat of the lights. People are rushing to greet us. Above my head, Logan is rapping out orders, while I concentrate on staying upright and continuing to breathe.

  After a moment, Logan quickly wheels me to the right, where an aide in a black suit leads us down a side hall to a set of elevators. I don’t relax until Logan wheels me in and the doors shut. For a few seconds, we can hide.