Beauty in Spring

by Kati Wilde

  Just as Cora Walker owns mine. As she’s owned it for the longest time.

  The beast has always known of her, as if sensing her presence in the heart we share. He has always searched for her. Yet we’d kept her away, fearing the beast would find her.

  Because that is another part of the curse—if a promise of love and marriage has been made, then the woman only has to draw near and she will be bound by that promise. I didn’t know what form that binding would take, but it is the necklace I gave to her. Trapped by an innocent gift, given with the purest intentions.

  Now my vow to marry her will destroy either her or me. Because the beast has scented her now. He’s tasted her skin. She fills his heart as fully as she does mine.

  Now he will fight to possess her. Yet if she gives herself to us in love, if she consents to be ours, then he will be content, and lie tame beneath her hand, only emerging if she is in danger or needs protection.

  But if she leaves and shatters the heart we share, the beast will die.

  And I will die with him.

  If Cora ran from me, I would welcome death. Better than living with the scent of her always filling my lungs, better than living with the taste of her skin always upon my tongue, better than living without her. But I am not ready to die yet—and she will be safe here until the next full moon, when the beast within me will not give her any choice.

  And if he takes her through force, forever will I remain the beast, because he will always struggle to possess her and will never relinquish control to me again. For now, I can keep him leashed. Yet if I should change forever, a beast driven by desperation to possess her…

  Better for her that I will be dead.

  I can feel that death approaching, bitter and cold. For years, living here alone, I thought I’d known bitterness, coldness. But they were nothing compared to having her here, knowing she will never be mine. Knowing the end is coming.

  “So will you say yes to the other, then?” I ask of her. “Will you give yourself to me with love in your heart?”

  Her baleful gaze meets mine. Flatly she says, “So that you may use my cunt for your pleasure?”

  Her fragrant, juicy cunt. So wet and hot to the touch. Wetter and hotter than even in my fevered dreams. And the honeyed flavor of her juices that I licked from my bloodstained fingers was the sweetest heaven.

  I would rip apart mountains simply to have one more taste. I would drag a star from the sky just for the chance to sip directly from the well of her cunt, to tease her clit with my tongue.

  Cock aching with need, ravenous for another taste, I softly growl, “Yes.”

  Her response is silence, once again turning her beautiful face away from me.

  I battle the urge to reach for her, to make her look at me. But I do not know how much control I have—and could not bear if she flinched away from my touch. So I use my voice to reach her, instead.

  “Are you certain you wish to refuse?” When she still does not look at me but only takes another sip from her spoon, I tell her, “Your pussy wishes to be used for my pleasure. The moment I spoke of you giving yourself to me, the scent of your arousal bloomed like a flower. Even now, you are drowning in your own nectar.”

  Her wide, stunned gaze swings back to mine and she stares at me, pink embarrassment darkening her cheeks. “Why do you say such things?”

  “Because they are true.” Satisfied for the moment, now that her gaze is upon me, I lean back in my chair and reach for my wine. Its flavor is a poor, sour substitute for the sweet juices I’d rather taste upon my tongue. “I would ease that need for you. You do not have to get on your hands and knees tonight to take my cock. Instead sit upon this table and let me suck on your clit and feast from your cunt.”

  Between her full, parted lips, her breath comes in hot shallow pants. She stares at me, then looks away, then stares at me again. All the while her arousal fills the air with its rich, heady fragrance.

  All the while the beast fights to emerge, wild to have her.

  But the beast has not wanted Cora as long or as violently as I have, and his lust for her burns not nearly as hot as mine. The first time my fist ever wrapped around my cock, it was she who I pictured—at an age when I was still too young to truly understand what I wanted from her. By the time I was seventeen, I knew full well, and my desire for Cora was stronger than I ever let her know. Because she was still too young.

  Now she is not. And all of these years, picturing how she would look—no longer a girl but a woman—my imaginings were but pale imitations of the beauty she had become. I had thought she would be all softness and curves, from the thick waves in her ash blond hair to the gentle swell of her belly to the sweep of her calves into ankles. Yet although the curves are there in the softness of her breasts and fullness of her lips, she’s taut and lean, with an edge that sharpens her beauty to a painful degree.

  With a shuddering breath, she tears her gaze from mine. Her fingers shake as she lifts another spoonful to her luscious mouth, then she asks quietly, “What happened to this place? Why is no one else here?”

  “Because I sent the staff away.” Those who had not already fled.

  A little frown forms between her brows as she looks down at her soup. “Then who cooked this? And who brought the bread and cheese I ate for lunch?”

  “Twice a week, Mrs. Collins leaves a basket for me outside the gate.” Because I do not like to venture far outside the manor’s grounds. The beast is territorial—and so I am now, too. Everything within the walls surrounding the estate is mine.

  Everything outside those walls is none of my concern.

  “Mrs. Collins?” Her gaze lifts to mine. “Our Mrs. Collins?”

  The pleasure of hearing that word from her lips—our—is like a fierce, hot embrace around the hollow ache of my heart. “The same. She is still in my employ.”

  “But what of the others? Letting them go must have been a blow to the village economy.”

  So she will look at me while speaks of the manor and the people here. It is only when I speak of marrying her or of touching her that she turns her face.

  Then I will always speak of the manor and its former staff. “I am not a savage,” I tell her. “They all received severance packages large enough that they might retire, even if they were not of retiring age.”

  She laughs at that. “So? People don’t want to do nothing. They want to be busy and useful. Well, most people do, anyway.”

  I narrow my eyes, trying to interpret her tone. “Do you refer to me?”

  “I must. What do you do all day, Gideon? Because you are clearly not spending your time tending to your estate.”

  No, I do not. “I spend my days in the southeast tower. You are always welcome to come and see what I do there.”

  “I don’t care what you do there,” she abruptly snarls at me. “I only want you to release me.”

  Instantly the beast is right beneath my skin, urging me to take her, to make sure she can never leave. Struggling for control, I grit through clenched teeth, “Then agree to marry me.”

  She shoves her chair back. The chain trailing across the floor softly jingles against the marble tile and she freezes for the barest moment, despair tightening her lips—as if she had forgotten the chain was there until the sound reminded her.

  Agony lurches through my chest. In one lunging stride, I am at her side, cupping her face in my hands, the beast roaring for me to ease her pain.

  But we cannot let her go. Not yet.

  Bending my head, I capture her mouth. She stiffens against me, then softens on a trembling sigh. Her lips part and I claim her with a possessive stroke of my tongue, the earthy flavor of the soup combining with her own luscious taste and exploding through my senses. Ravenously I feed from her lips, until she’s clinging weakly to my arms and the scent of her arousal fills the air like the sweetest perfume.

  Her blue eyes are soft and unfocused when I lift my mouth from hers, her lips red and swollen from our kiss, her nipples standi
ng stiff beneath the thin fabric of her blouse. And although everything within me—man and beast—clamors to take her now, that is not what we need from her.

  “Tomorrow,” I growl against her lips, “your answer will be yes.”

  Her answer is the same, tossed carelessly at me over a meal of roast guinea hen. “Release me first.”

  Not yet. But I say nothing, cold bitterness digging into my throat with arid, icy claws—hot irritation prickling my skin. The beast does not like clothes, but I have taken to wearing them again now that Cora is here. Though I do not wear much. The beast would not tolerate shoes or underpants. But even a soft cotton shirt and my ancient jeans seem to chafe and constrict every movement.

  As if heading me off before I can ask her to get down on her hands and knees, she asks, “My luggage is out by the east access gate. Can you get it for me tomorrow?”

  “I already collected your suitcase.” Drawn there by her scent as I’d run a course through the grounds, because the open air pleases both me and the beast. “I took it to your bedchamber this afternoon.”

  A chamber in the northwest wing—as far from mine as she could get.

  “Thank you,” she says absently, poking at her meal. “What else did you do today?”

  “I watched you.”

  Her head jerks up and her widened gaze meets mine. “From where?”

  From a distance, because I wasn’t certain of my control. The beast has become more insistent since she arrived. “The northeast tower.”

  “You said you stayed all day in the southeast tower.”

  “That was before you risked choking yourself to death.”

  Because today she tested the length of the chain, walking across the great lawn. A few paces away from the main gates, the chain had gone taut, stopping her short. Yet still she’d pulled against it, futilely trying to break the links or make them stretch farther, until she crumpled to the ground in a sobbing heap.

  The beast’s claws dug gouges into the stone sill as we’d watched, knowing we could cross the distance quickly if she hurt herself, terrified she would. And it was I who had held us back, because I didn’t know whether I would be the one in control as we rushed to her side. If the beast emerged…he would not stop at easing the chain’s pull upon her neck. He would not stop until he made her his.

  Listlessly she pushes a carrot around her plate with a fork. “The chain won’t let me leave the grounds.”

  “No. It won’t.” Not until I rescind my vow to marry her.

  She raises accusing eyes to mine. “You won’t let me leave. You could free me.”

  “Yes,” I agree softly. “But I won’t.”

  Her jaw clenches and her lips tremble as she stares at me with hatred shining from the blue of her eyes. Abruptly she pushes away from the table, collecting her dishes to carry into the kitchen.

  “I will let you leave the room,” I tell her. “Does that please you?”

  She hurls her plate at my head.

  I have always loved that Cora is a fighter. I’ve always loved that she never gives up.

  But I cannot bear another day of watching this.

  The beast urges me to run as I cross the great lawn, and I give in to that urge, my focus tight on Cora’s figure ahead, never allowing him to break through my skin.

  Each of her sobbing, gasping breaths rips a gaping hole into my heart. The long golden chain is tense as a wire, stretching from her nape to the hall in the distance, yet she’s still straining against it. Fighting.

  Let her fight me, instead.

  Roughly I snag my arm around her waist and swing her up against my chest. “That’s enough!”

  “Let me go!” She screams as I begin carrying her back toward the manor house. Instantly the tension on the chain eases. “Damn you, Gideon. Go back!”

  Her voice is hoarse, from choking or sobbing or both. Bruises ring her neck, and her skin is raw and reddened. There’s not a chance in hell that I’ll let her go and I am not turning back.

  Her fists land solid blows against my shoulders. Wild kicks send sharp pains shooting through my shins.

  The beast loves it. My cock is a thick iron bar that grows hotter and harder with every blow she lands.

  I don’t love it. Not when her ragged sobs accompany every hit, not when her struggles rapidly weaken until she’s lying limp against my chest, weeping helplessly against my shoulder.

  “You will never do this again.” Forced through the raw ache of my throat, the command is harsh and thick. “If you do, I will lock the doors so that you cannot even leave the house.”

  “Then I will jump from a window!”

  Cold fear pierces my skin, the beast trying to claw through the holes her words ripped in me. “Do not even say such a thing!” I roar and when she flinches against me, burying her face against my throat, I have to fight for the calm before I speak again. “Would you?”

  In a quiet voice, she says, “No.”

  Yet it must have crossed her mind. Hoarsely I ask, “Do you want to escape me so badly?”

  “I want to be free!” Despair fills her cry and she pounds her fist against my chest. “Do you not understand the difference?”

  I do. But I can’t let her go yet.

  And at least she is fighting again. “Will you marry me, Cora?”

  “Fuck off,” she says.

  For days, Cora takes her meals to her chambers instead of joining me at the table. As the moon wanes and March becomes April, my time with her grows shorter—but she is not completely absent. I watch her from the tower as she spends each day working in the south garden, and although she rarely strays from the northwest wing, the entire house is filled with her scent. Each breath I take carries her into me, her sweet fragrance—tinged with the cold bitterness I know too well after years spent alone.

  With every step, that loneliness hangs around her like a shroud.

  Perhaps that is why she finally joins me again. This time I do not immediately ask her to marry me, but allow the tension to ease out of the silence between us—and allow her the first word.

  It comes near the end of the meal, when she quietly asks, “What happened to your dad and mum?”

  “They were killed.”

  She looks up, her eyes meeting mine. The soft reluctance in those blue depths grips my heart, her regret that she has asked and caused me pain. Yet determination shines there, too. “How?”

  I lean back in my chair, unflinchingly return her stare. “Do you think I did it?”

  Her gaze shifts away from mine—not in an admission of guilt, but as she pensively studies the walls, the faint bloodstains left on the rug, the shattered mirror, and the divan with its upholstery slashed in parallel stripes. “No,” she finally says. “I don’t know what to think of many things, beginning with the slaughtered deer I ran across in the grove, or the blood that was all over your face and hands. But never once has it occurred to me that you were the one who killed your parents. Though now I wonder if I should? Yet I still don’t. I don’t think you could have ever hurt them.”

  The shield I had slapped over my heart, preparing for the stabbing wounds of her accusation and doubt, crumbles into nothing as those knives never appear. Yet my chest still feels pierced through. She has no reason to still have faith in me, to believe in me. Yet she does, and it’s everything I can do not to reach for her, to draw her close.

  “I did not,” I tell her through a throat that feels hot and swollen. “They were attacked by the same monstrous bastard who chased us on your birthday.”

  A murderous fiend who’d claimed Blackwood Manor as part of his territory while my parents and I searched for answers regarding the curse. When we returned, he came to kill me. He ran across my parents first.

  Her lips part. “There was really someone out there that night? I told myself afterward that it only seemed so terrifying. And that it’d really been a wild boar or some feral dog.”

  That is what I needed her to believe—and could hardly believe the
truth myself. But I had seen the howling nightmare that lunged at me as I’d forced my way through the gap in the gate. I’d seen the gleaming fangs, and the claws that ripped into my leg. It had been past midnight, but the moon had been full and high and bright, and I’d recognized what had come after us.

  A myth. A legend. Something out of a horror film, not something real.

  Yet it had been.

  And I’d known what it was, but I could not bear her terror. So I’d laughed with her, teased her as we’d made our way back to the manor house, all the while feeling the beast’s curse winding its way through my blood.

  My parents believed my claim that a werewolf had attacked us, but I didn’t have to convince them—or Cora’s father. The security cameras mounted atop the estate wall had captured everything.

  “So he came back?” she whispers now.

  “He came back.”

  “And killed them?” Her eyes swim with tears.

  “Yes.”

  “Were you here?”

  Slowly I nod. Though it had been during the full moon, so it was not only me. My beast had been out hunting on the estate grounds and heard their screams.

  “What happened?”

  “This time I was stronger than he was,” I say simply.

  Her trembling lips press together as she looks tearfully around the room again. “Is that when all of this damage happened? And in the parlor…and the other rooms…and your bedchamber…”

  She trails off, as if recognizing even as she spoke how little sense that made.

  “They were outside,” I tell her. “This…was something else.”

  The beast, returning from his hunts bloodied and sated with raw meat, yet still searching for what he knew was missing. Because he had memories of her, too, my memories of her in every room. And he had torn each chamber apart in his frustration when he could never find her.

  But what the beast had done in this wing was nothing compared to the damage he’d done to the gatehouse. He’d torn apart the very floorboards in his search for the missing half of his soul.

  I still awaken in her garden after every full moon, naked and half-buried in the dirt, as if he’d tried to cover himself in the same soil he knew she’d once touched—or as if praying she might come and tend to him as she once had tended to everything that had ever been planted there.