Curse of the Wolf King: A Beauty and the Beast Retelling (Entangled with Fae)

by Tessonja Odette

  She gasps, her face going pale. For a few seconds, she simply stares at me in disbelief. When she speaks, her voice is strained, quiet. “This can’t be. The Unseelie King of Winter? I mean, I’ve never seen him in person, but…but…his name isn’t Elliot Rochester. It’s…it’s…”

  She blinks a few times, then shakes her head.

  Now it’s time to spin a thread of lies to mingle with the truth. “Elliot Rochester is his seelie name. His unseelie name—his fae name—is lost.”

  “Lost?”

  I nod gravely. “Lost inside a treacherous curse.”

  She brings a hand to her lips. “He’s…cursed?”

  “A wicked fae cursed the king so that all would forget his name.”

  Imogen lowers her hand. “How cruel.”

  “It gets worse.” I pluck another strand of lie from my mind and weave it with the ammunition of truth. It feels treacherous, but I can’t think of that right now. This is what I’ve been working toward for weeks. “Mr. Rochester recently learned that his curse is coming to claim his life. As far as he can tell, he has barely more than a week left to live, if even that.”

  A sharp cry escapes her lips, and she clutches her heart. “Mr. Rochester is going to die? What about me? What about…what about this courtship I’ve been swept up in? Was he never going to tell me?”

  I place a comforting hand on her shoulder. “It was so recent that he discovered this was going to happen, and by then, his feelings for you had been set. He doesn’t know how to tell you himself.”

  Tears glaze her eyes, and she pulls her shoulders from under my grasp. However, it isn’t sorrow she responds with but rage. “What a waste! Have you any idea how much favor I’ve spent on him? How much attention I gave him when I could have given it elsewhere? I wouldn’t have looked at him twice if I didn’t think he’d live long enough to marry me.”

  A surge of alarm runs through me. I thought she’d be more moved by this news, heartbroken. Instead, I’m losing her. Obviously, her love for Elliot isn’t as deep as she first let on. I should have known better. I should have known it isn’t him she’s in love with, but the money and prestige he offers as a husband. At least that will make her final demise even sweeter when Elliot does away with her. Now it’s time to throw my final hook and reel her in.

  “I know you must be devastated,” I say, forcing far more pity into my voice than I feel. “If only it wasn’t so hard to break his curse. Then perhaps the two of you could be together like you wish.”

  Her expression goes blank as she calculates my words. In the span of a second, her anger subsides. “You mean his curse can be broken?”

  “It can, but it’s so, so hard.”

  She snaps her fingers. “Well, come out with it. What must be done?”

  I infuse my words with a romantic wistfulness as I say, “A human must care so deeply for him that they are willing to sacrifice that which they treasure most.”

  Her eyes bulge. “That’s it? Someone must sacrifice something they treasure?”

  “Their greatest treasure.”

  She turns around, arms hugged to her chest, and paces a few steps before stopping with her back facing me. After a few silent moments, she says, “It makes sense that his future wife should make this sacrifice.”

  I feign surprise, taking a few steps closer. “You can’t possibly…are you saying you would break his curse?”

  She turns to face me, expression resolute. “Yes, I shall do it. As soon as Mr. Rochester and I are married, I’ll make this sacrifice.”

  The blood leaves my face. As soon as they’re…married? But they aren’t getting married. Ever. That was never part of the plan. “Imogen, I don’t think you understand. Did you not hear me? He only has perhaps a week before the curse kills him.”

  “I’ve always wanted a quick wedding,” she says with a shrug.

  There won’t be a wedding, you fool! I want to shout. Instead, I keep my voice level and say, “Wouldn’t it make more sense to break the curse first? Then you could spend all the time you want planning the wedding of your dreams.”

  She rolls her eyes, jaw shifting side to side. “Look, Gemma. Let’s not act like we don’t know the truth.”

  Panic seizes me. “What truth?”

  “We both know I’m not getting any younger. Do you know how many seasons I’ve been out? It’s a miracle I’ve found anyone at all, much less a fae royal—a fae king. More than that, I need the wealth. My family needs the wealth. We’re running through my former stepfather’s fortune, and it will be gone by the end of another year. If you didn’t already know this, then you do now. I don’t have the luxury of time, and clearly neither does Mr. Rochester. We will marry at once and I will break his curse.” She lowers her voice, a flicker of sorrow clouding her face. “Besides, considering what I must sacrifice, it will suit me to marry before he can back out.”

  Her words combined with the desperation in her tone has the hair rising on the back of my neck. “What exactly are you preparing to sacrifice?”

  Her lower lip quivers, and a tear rolls down her cheek. She wipes it away with a furious swipe. “My greatest treasure,” she says. “Beauty.”

  I always knew she’d never value anything too deep, and beauty is certainly not something I’d consider of grave importance. But hearing her say it, seeing what it means to her, makes my blood go cold.

  “How does the sacrifice work?” she asks, voice small. “Will I never be beautiful, or will what little beauty I do have be stripped away? Will it happen right away or take time?”

  Her question drains all remnants of vindictive pride I’ve felt about scheming against her. Not even moments ago, I would have sworn she deserved what was coming. But hearing the fear in her voice, thinking about her actually making the sacrifice…

  Several times, I’ve wondered how the sacrifice works. I’ve entertained what it would be like if I were the one to break the curse. Not because I considered doing so, but more out of morbid curiosity. Knowing I’d be giving up my freedom and independence, I’ve imagined I’d find myself locked in a cage, or perhaps trapped in my father’s care for life. Or perhaps I’d be married to a controlling man. But would the change be instant? Would I find myself in one place one second, then chained to a stranger in the next? Or would this fate simply haunt me until it caught me in its grip?

  I shudder and tell her the truth. “I don’t know.”

  She sniffles. “I suppose it doesn’t matter either way. I’m prepared to do it. Since he’s fae, I’ll require wedding vows that force him to love me and keep me for all of my days. He will not be allowed to abandon me. So long as our marriage vows keep him from casting me aside, even after I’ve made the sacrifice, then it will be done.”

  Revulsion sends my stomach churning. Marriage vows. That’s what it will take to save Elliot’s life. In all my scheming and plotting, never had it occurred to me that marriage would become a factor. I was supposed to trick her into falling in love with Elliot, not marry him.

  Once again, I should have known better. I should have seen this coming. Imogen may be petty but she’s desperate too. She isn’t the sappy lovelorn fool I first took her for. No, she isn’t like that at all. She’s more like…like me. A desperate survivor. Hardened by her own experiences, determined to get what she wants at any cost. I may despise her and the way she treats others, including myself, but for the first time since I’ve known her, we see eye to eye.

  She’ll fight to get what she wants. Scheme, connive, and bargain her way to a better future. Even one where she loses a piece of herself to get there.

  Unfortunately, so must I.

  34

  I feel empty as I walk Imogen back inside, and not another word is said between us, not even as we part ways at the ballroom doors.

  We both carry the weight we must bear from this point on. She with the understanding of her impending sacrifice, and me with the news I must break to Elliot. News that makes my shoulders feel heavier with every step
.

  I’m grateful to find the ballroom has emptied out significantly since I was last here, telling me the festivities are coming to their much-needed end. What I don’t find, however, is Elliot, not even as the final song plays. He isn’t in the parlor, either, where a small group of guests recline and chat. Impatience flashes within me, bringing with it the sudden urge to shout at everyone to leave. I’m too exhausted, too drained to contemplate enduring this night even a moment longer.

  Come to think of it, why should I? What reason do I have to continue this ruse, play the doting steward to these wretched people for one minute more? The ball has served its purpose—the trap has been set, the bait has been claimed, and there is but one way to go forward from here. A way that heats my blood and makes me want to scream.

  I channel that rage into my outer persona and stroll into the parlor. “Our host, Mr. Rochester, thanks you all for coming, but the night has come to a close. The footman will see you out. Good evening.” I don’t wait to hear their complaints, to take in their bulging eyes and indignant protests. Instead, I make my way to the ballroom and relay the same message to every group of chatting stragglers. I’m relieved that Foxglove, Amelie, and Mr. Cordell seem to have already taken their leave, because I doubt I could find the grace within me to give them the kind goodbyes they deserve. Not with my vision blurring with red.

  Lastly, I make my way to Imogen’s party. Mrs. Coleman taps her foot impatiently while my father pretends not to see me. Ember offers a kind smile while Clara slouches, mouth open in a bored yawn. Nina is nowhere to be seen, so she must have been escorted home by her fiancé.

  Imogen scans the now-empty room, arms crossed. “I suppose this is goodnight, then.”

  Father smirks. “What, no goodbye from your benevolent employer?”

  I burn him with a glare, letting my anger seep into every word. “Mr. Rochester has retired early.”

  “Here I thought he was a gentleman,” Mrs. Coleman says with a scoff. “He should at least have the decency to bid farewell to my daughter—”

  Imogen tosses her mother a scowl almost as dark as mine. “Never mind that, Mother. He’ll have plenty to say to me when I next come to call.”

  Mrs. Coleman’s mouth falls open. “You’re coming to call on him? Should it not be the other way around?”

  “Perhaps it should, but not all things go perfectly to plan, do they?” Imogen’s tone is sharp, bitter. “Worry not, though, Mother. Things will all work out in the end.” Her eyes meet mine for a moment, lids slitted as she purses her lips over things she cannot say. I told her the curse prevents Elliot from straying too far from the manor, and made her promise to keep everything I’ve told her tonight to herself. If she wants his proposal, she’ll have to come here to get it.

  Another wave of rage burns inside me.

  “Unconventional man indeed,” Mrs. Coleman mutters.

  “I wouldn’t expect more from the fae,” Father says with a cold laugh.

  Mrs. Coleman turns up her nose. “Come along then. No need to dawdle.”

  They start off, but Ember lingers a moment longer. “Thank you for allowing me to play tonight. That was probably the most fun I’ve had in years.”

  I smile but know it doesn’t reach my eyes. “I appreciate you providing music. You did my employer a great service tonight.”

  She furrows her brow. “Are you all right?”

  The concern in her eyes nearly undoes me, sends all my rage flooding to my toes and leaving sorrow in its place. All I can do is nod.

  “Ember!” Imogen hisses, snapping her fingers for the girl to follow.

  She looks like she wants to say more, but I’m glad she doesn’t. I can’t take another second of her sympathy. Not when tears are already forming behind my eyes. She reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Thank you again,” she whispers, then jogs to catch up with the rest of her party.

  I remain in place, listening as the final guests are ushered outside.

  With the manor quiet, its residents asleep, and all our hired staff either on their way home or settling in the guest rooms we’ve offered for the night, I’m finally able to seek out Elliot. It proves harder than I expect, finding no sign of him in the gardens, the parlor, or the kitchen. I make my way upstairs, wondering where he’s gone off to hide. With very little else to work with, I head toward the library. I don’t dare seek out his private quarters, even though I know they’re nearby, but I’m hoping he’s yet to retire for the night. There’s no way I can bottle in what I must say for even an hour more.

  I make it to the library, finding the sconces alight with a soft glow, but the room is empty. My heart sinks. Where do I go from here? Did Elliot truly abandon me to finish the night on my own? A hint of irritation turns in my stomach, which helps burn away some of the residual rage and sorrow that continues to drag my steps.

  With a sigh, I turn to the comfort of my silent companions, brushing my fingers along the spines of books as I slowly pace the perimeter of the room.

  “Ah, I should have known I’d find you here eventually.”

  I round on Elliot with a scowl. “Where the hell have you been?”

  He smirks, as if amused by my reaction. “Looking for you. That and hiding.” Still wearing his prosthetic, he’s dressed down to his shirt and trousers, his cravat hanging loose around his neck, the top buttons of his shirt undone to reveal his upper chest.

  I avert my gaze, fixating instead on the selection of titles on the shelf before me. “I take it you’ve done more hiding than searching for me, because I’ve been looking for you for the better part of an hour.”

  He walks into the room and makes his way slowly toward me. “I’m sorry,” he says, tone genuine. “I couldn’t take any more pretending tonight. My lips were going to split in half if I had to feign one more smile. Besides, I didn’t see you even once after our dance. I was getting worried.”

  I cast him a quick glance. “I was around. And when I saw you, it seemed you were doing just fine pretending.” I hate the bitter edge to my tone, unsure how it got there.

  “Was Imogen convinced?”

  I swallow hard, dread sinking my stomach. “She was. Which brings me to the reason I came to find you.”

  “Not yet,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Give me some peace from Imogen Coleman.”

  I shrug. “You’re the one who brought her up. And it’s important we talk about—”

  “Please.” He meets my eyes, looking worn and empty. An echo of what I feel inside. “Let it just be us for a minute.”

  I don’t know what he means by that, but I force myself to hold my tongue.

  He tilts his head back and closes his eyes, as if relishing the silence between us. When he straightens, a small smile lifts the corners of his lips. Then, slowly, he extends his hand. “May I have this dance?”

  My pulse quickens, but I convince my traitorous heart not to join it. “The dance is over, Mr. Rochester.”

  “Humor me,” he says, voice deep and rumbling. But there’s another quality to it, one that’s somehow tired and playful at the same time. “You forced me to dance and talk to people we both hate. It’s the least you can do.”

  I fold my arms over my chest. “I thought the least I could do was dance with you the first time.”

  He says nothing, keeping his arm outstretched as his smile folds into a devious smirk.

  It’s a smirk that has my mouth fluttering in response, and I can’t bring myself to ignore him. With a grumble, I put my hand in his and allow him to pull me closer. Right away, we close the space that we kept in public, his chest brushing against mine, his arm circling my waist to rest low on my back. Where our two hands meet, our palms press firmly together and his fingers lace between mine, something we never could have gotten away with when others were watching. In fact, we shouldn’t be doing this now, but I’m too tired to care, too drained to argue or analyze what any of this means. All I know is it feels right to be this close to him, t
o rest my head on his shoulder while he takes us in a slow circle to the music of our beating hearts. We neither waltz nor polka, but sway to a natural rhythm, something I’m sure only fae do when dancing.

  I find my free hand moving from the top of his shoulder to behind it, until it rests softly on the back of his neck. He gently nestles the side of his face into my hair, his breath warm against my ear. He pulls me closer, his hand roving up my back until his fingertips meet bare skin. There they rest, sending my pulse racing at the warmth of his flesh on mine. I can’t help wondering how much warmer it would feel if his whole hand were pressed against my skin, not just his fingertips. And not just on my back, either…but everywhere.

  He breathes in deeply, and when he speaks, his low voice echoes through my blood and bones. “Why do you always smell like mountain air and snow? Like everything I love?”

  Love. The word sends my heart fluttering, and my fingers tighten on the back of his neck. I pull back slightly and meet his eyes. The tenderness in his gaze sends my heart skittering yet again, but with it comes a sudden self-consciousness. I’m painfully aware now—of him, of how close we are, of what I’m doing. Of what I wish we were doing, of how badly I want more of him. It’s enough to make every inch of my body stiffen. He pauses, holding my gaze, eyes swimming with concern. His mouth moves as if he’s about to speak. Before he can, I break away, taking a step back and gathering my composure. “I’ve humored you enough,” I say, forcing my words to come out even. “It’s time to talk about what comes next.”

  He looks like he wants to argue, but then closes his eyes. With a nod, he releases a resigned sigh and makes his way to one of the seating areas. Lowering into one of the chairs, he motions for me to sit.

  I don’t. Instead, I fold my hands at my waist and keep several steps away from him. The distance feels cold, but it’s necessary. I clearly can’t trust myself when he’s so physically near.

  This seems to concern him, trepidation filling his eyes, face going pale. “What is it?”