Beauty of the Beast (Fairy Tale Retellings Book 1)

by Rachel L. Demeter

  Here, within the muted darkness, he didn’t have to remember.

  Except for that woman. She was a reminder of what he’d become—the catalyst for his dream. And she was impossibly beautiful. Of course she would be immaculate, representing everything he was not.

  God has a cruel sense of humor in that way, he mused, a flash of her silver cross racing through his thoughts.

  He’d detected an admirable inner strength and compassion in her—one that had nearly stolen his breath away—one he’d believed no longer existed in the world.

  Indeed. She’d sacrificed everything for her old man.

  If only I could have done the same…

  This decrepit castle would surely crush her spirit under its dark heel. For the first time in memory, something moved within Adam, something thawed and stirred to life. A good man would free them both at first light. A good man would have never made such a twisted arrangement.

  Adam hadn’t been a good man for many years.

  She’d only ever see him as a monster—and her hatred would fester like an infection until it consumed both their souls. His deformity repulsed women, he knew well. Even the lowest base-born prostitutes fled in disgust at the sight of him. Adam had learned that truth during an especially lonely night. Over time, he’d taught himself not to care, to content himself with a solitary existence. A quiet life of reflection and the pursuit of simple pleasures.

  Such as his music.

  Then she’d arrived on his doorstep, armed with a willpower that rivaled his own.

  That beauty had awakened him. In truth, he didn’t know how much longer he could endure living in total seclusion. How long could he stand listening to the echo of loneliness and past ghosts? How many fortnights could he drown in this emptiness and the crush of memories?

  He’d checked on her throughout the night; when the cold winds rose, he’d pulled the sheepskin blankets from his own chamber, covered her shivering body, and ensured her father remained warm. And when the sconces flickered out, he’d relit each one.

  He’d stood and watched her sleep for nearly an hour. The gentle movements of her rising and falling chest held a strangely calming effect on him. Seconds had grown into minutes; a minute had blossomed into a full hour—and all the while, he’d observed her... completely taken away.

  Yes, Adam knew she saw him as a hideous monster—and he was precisely that. The countless years of solitude, of reliving the horrors of that night over and over, had eaten away at his soul, leaving an ugly shell in its wake. And his outburst toward her father hadn’t helped. Sighing, feeling a fission of regret, Adam brought a scarred hand to his face and ran his fingers over the distorted flesh.

  He’d offered the girl and her father shelter from the cold, a place by his fire... and the old man had repaid his mercy with thievery. Adam fiddled with his signet ring, observing how the hearth’s flames set the emblem afire. When he’d looked upon that shattered coat of arms, the very symbol of his family, he’d felt a fury unlike anything he’d known in years. Grief and anger had seized hold with iron manacles—and now, he found himself the captor of a sickly man and his stunning daughter.

  And she’d agreed to stay here with him. As his mistress. Despite Adam’s effort to combat the emotion, a touch of hope cut through his darkness. A dangerous thing, hope. Hope was a barb in his chest, a false horizon amid a sea of blackness. Surely its false light would lead him to destruction—much like a sailor lured by the siren’s call.

  He exhaled a deep sigh and lowered his head. The shattered teacup still sat at his heels, his family’s coat of arms lying in a million unidentifiable pieces. It was like it never had existed. As if they never had existed.

  Adam knelt to the ground, his heart pounding against his ribs, and caressed one of the fragmented pieces. The ache in his chest expanded while he felt himself slipping into the memories once more. Stranger’s hot tongue splashed against his disfigurement, and Adam couldn’t suppress his chuckle. The corner of the porcelain cut through his finger and shoved him back into the moment; his blood splattered onto the piece, blotting out a salamander. His family’s words were crushed, unreadable—yet Adam didn’t need them. He’d found his own words, his own personal mantra, long ago.

  Never trust. Never forget.

  And never forgive.

  Knocking jarred Adam from his thoughts. He bolted to his feet and flung the hood into place with a harsh movement. Then he yanked open the door and exhaled a sigh of relief.

  “Sébastien. You’re late.”

  Sébastien, now fifty years old, was the reason he still lived. Whether he wanted to thank the fool or throw him into the hearth for that, he couldn’t decide. He looked quite tired—not like his usual self. Sébastien had been handsome once, but now his hair was already more white than red. Strain and worry were embedded in his tan expression, and those pale eyes had witnessed far too much. Yet he wore his years with dignity, and he boasted a mischievous smile that never left his damn face.

  As expected, an overstuffed satchel hung from Sébastien’s shoulder. He thrust the door open and slid past Adam without apology. “Fine thing to see you, too, Adam.” Then, lifting his hat, “Ah, why bonsoir, Stranger.” Adam observed his old friend—for lack of a better word—with a mixture of annoyance and ill humor.

  The fool strolled in, right at home. Indeed. He strode the length of the hall as if he owned it. Cracking his fingers, he flopped the satchel on a table with an annoyed grunt. “Damn heavy thing. The carriage outside. What in God’s teeth—”

  Intrusive questions were the last thing he needed right now. Adam locked on to Sébastien’s gaze and threw him a warning glance. He tugged open the satchel and fished out a bottle of wine, some fresh vegetables and fruits, a jar of powdered soap, and a score of other goods. Stranger shoved his massive head inside the satchel; Adam gently pried him out, then broke off a chunk of bread and fed him a piece.

  “You’d best be grateful. Traveled all the way to the coast, to the very tip of Demrov. Paid a small fortune at that damn Merchants’ Fair. Le Florin was bustlin’ like I’ve never seen her. You would have hated it, mon ami.”

  Adam scowled, not in the mood for Sébastien’s silver tongue or clever japes. Usually they were the highlight of his month, but tonight, he held no such patience. His mind was on the two guests downstairs. And on how his entire world was about to change.

  Adam dug a hand inside his cloak and retrieved a princely sum of francs. He tossed them on the table, next to the overflowing satchel. Sébastien eyed the loose change, a glint in those pale, sea-green eyes.

  “Now, shall that keep you quiet?”

  “It’s a hell of a start, monsieur.” Sébastien nodded his appreciation, then journeyed into the central drawing room. His footsteps echoed as he moved toward the hearth. Eying the wavering flames, he blew hot air into his hands and shook his head. “Strange. You’ve never lit a fire. Not once in twenty-five years.” He outstretched both palms and warmed them above the fire. “Not since that night...” He turned back to Adam, a perplexed expression plastered to his face. Then he expelled a sigh and scratched the stubble on his chin. “Come now, Adam. Something’s up. That brougham outside... It says ‘Dumont.’ Tell me, do you have... houseguests... at present?”

  “I grow weary and tired.” Adam tightened the cloak about his body. “Take a bedchamber for a couple of nights. You can return home after the storm settles. I shall need a favor.”

  Sébastien nodded, clearly bothered, his stare focused on the shattered teacup and fallen top hat.

  An hour later, Adam lit a lantern, rearranged his hood, and began the long journey into the bowels of his castle.

  Carefully he moved down the twisting steps, which plunged into the dungeon, while Stranger hung back at the top of the stairwell. Old age and his left hind leg had gotten the better of him, making the journey an impossible feat. Most nights Adam was forced to carry Stranger up the stairs leading to his bedchamber. Not that he ever minded the burden.r />
  “Not today, old man, not today.” He rubbed his palm over the dog’s wiry ears, then raced into the dungeon, taking the steps two at a time. Cold air swelled his hood and rushed over his face like icy fingers.

  Adam’s heart gave an unexpected jerk at the sight of the woman. The beauty was curled up with the allure of a napping kitten, her head resting on her father’s thin shoulder. Adam shifted forward, careful not to disturb their slumber. Her long, luscious curls slathered across the dank ground, appearing as dark and as tempting as melted drinking chocolate. Everything in him stirred to life at that vision. He imagined them spilled across his chest, damp from their lovemaking. He’d run his fingers through those stunning strands, worshipping them like fresh-spun silk. He knelt to the ground, keeping several meters of air between them, and allowed his lantern to illuminate her sleeping expression and dark hair.

  Her mouth appeared full, red, the color of fresh rose petals. Erratic curls fluttered about her pale cheeks as deep and dreamy breaths manipulated them. He gazed down at her, filled with a startling awareness. She looked immaculate in her sedated state. Content. Almost childlike. A cluster of freckles dusted the bridge of her upturned nose. He balled his gnarled hands into fists while he fought the need to acquaint himself with each one.

  He scooted a touch closer, hungry to discern more details but almost frightened to get too near. He hadn’t been this close to another human being for over two decades. Not without being met with repulsion and disgust. He recalled the fear in her eyes when she’d beheld his deformity. She had tried to conceal it—but, all the same, he’d seen everything in her disbelieving gaze.

  He looked away, disgusted, as the anger inside him simmered into rage.

  Her nearness frustrated him while her beauty filled him with a bitter resentment. Indeed, this slip of a woman had trespassed, had invaded his solitude. Her very presence was a mockery to his fate.

  And per their arrangement, she belonged to him.

  Throwing his hood back, his eyes shot to her delicate features again. His brow scrunched and a frown twisted his mouth; dried tears tracked the woman’s cheeks, and the skin under her eyes looked puffy and irritated. A sheen of sweat also covered her forehead. Her body convulsed with slight tremors in spite of the heavy blankets. He shifted his gaze to her father—the thief who had dared to break one of the few keepsakes of his family...

  The man lay silent and still beside his daughter, their bodies melded together.

  It cannot be.

  The revelation hit Adam in a violent torrent.

  Adam knew the look of death—and alas, he was staring death straight in the face. His head bowed forward, and a rush of guilt consumed him. He whispered into the darkness, knowing no one was there to answer. “What have I done?”

  Chapter Six

  Isabelle was thrust into a world of coldness and pain. She’d laid awake shivering for the past hour—or at least what she perceived to be an hour. Cradling her papa’s stiffening body, she’d sobbed until she’d had nothing left to give. Her eyes felt raw, her heart ached, and her head pounded with the force of a war drum.

  She felt emotionally and physically broken. She reached out, forcing her hand to slide across the grimy stone floor, craving a drink of water from the nearby pitcher.

  That terrible man must have left it there during the night.

  Why does he even care if I drink or eat?

  Indeed, a basket of bread, fruit, and nuts sat beside the pitcher. Isabelle’s hand stilled while a wave of agony crashed in her gut. The mundane task proved too much to bear. She surrendered with a pained groan and closed her eyes once more. When she opened them again, she thought she was surely dead.

  As if in answer to her thoughts, Death arched above her, looming with a regal grace and darkness. Then she felt gentle hands prying her from the cold stones, felt herself being lifted in midair... and experienced the strange, surreal sensation of floating.

  Is this dying? Is my spirit ascending from my body and leaving this quiet earth?

  She glanced down and idly watched as the ground moved beneath her. Firm, warm arms carried her. Embraced her. Isabelle murmured another pained groan and lolled the side of her face against the man’s hard chest. The beat of his heart thundered in her ear, and for the first time, his humanity hit her at full force.

  He tensed, then briefly paused in mid-step, as if the subtle movement had knocked the air from his lungs. A strong, large hand grazed her forehead in a tentative caress; the gesture reminded Isabelle of her youth, when she’d caught whooping cough and Papa had tended to her fever. For over a fortnight, he never once abandoned her side. The memory summoned a cry from her throat.

  Non. Don’t think of such things.

  “Where... where are you taking me?” It hurt to breathe, to speak; the words felt hot, like molten lava, and each one seared her sore throat.

  “To my bedchamber.”

  The statement summoned another wave of panic. Isabelle tried to fight him, to somehow wriggle free of his hold, but the pain kept her manacled in place. Everything spun in nauseating circles. Dejectedly she observed as sconce lanterns slid by her. The sound of the man’s hollow footsteps echoed through the great rooms. Hulking furniture whirled past them and the shadows erratically wavered.

  They seemed to travel for an eternity.

  “Take me back. Please. I cannot... cannot leave Papa in the dungeon alone...” The ridiculous sentiment of her own words shook Isabelle back into reality. The tears came rushing to her eyes, and she buried her face in the folds of the man’s cloak, loath for him to see her cry.

  He momentarily paused. She felt as his arms gripped her a little tighter. Warmth blew across the top of her skull—his breath, she absently registered. “I... I’m so sorry.”

  Her papa was dead, and he was sorry.

  If she’d had the energy, she would’ve shattered into self-deprecating laughter.

  Anger pulsated through her body and set her heart aflame. Because of this man—this cruel beast—Papa had spent his final hours behind stone walls and cold bars. The sound of his cries and torn pleas would forever echo in her mind. Her hatred for the man burned like a fire.

  But most of all, she hated herself.

  I should have known. I shouldn’t have been so selfish, thinking only of freeing myself from Raphael...

  What have I done?

  The impossible weight of guilt threatened to crush her.

  “Let me go...” Her voice barely reached a whisper, and the words burned straight through her throat.

  “You are sick. You would die.”

  “At least I’d be with my father again.”

  A ragged, deep sigh. “This was never my intention,” he whispered, though Isabelle wasn’t sure if she’d imagined the words.

  “You are a monster.”

  He made a sound of amusement—a husky, dark chuckle. “If I’m a monster, mademoiselle, it’s because man’s cruelty has made me so.” His cryptic words washed over her, cavernous and steady, each one overflowing with a lifetime of resentment.

  Now they were ascending a winding stairwell. A blast of light assaulted her eyes. A chandelier blared overhead, its candles imbuing the room with a low, eerie hum. It sounded like the whisper of a thousand ghosts. Shuddering, Isabelle squinted against the illumination and glanced up—straight into the man’s pristine eyes.

  As much as she loathed to admit it, even in spite of the drugging haze, Isabelle knew those weren’t the eyes of a true monster. They held far too much emotion, too much heartache, as if they bore all the world’s sadness.

  Those eyes belonged to a man. Nothing more, nothing less.

  Isabelle was neither awake nor asleep. She fell through a cyclone of memories—emerging from the fabric of her dreams only for brief instances. Like before, there were also moments of great pain and coldness; she often felt dizzy, almost drunk with agony and fatigue.

  She muttered under her breath, fighting to anchor herself, to connect wit
h something... to connect with somebody.

  Alas, no one can hear me.

  “Where am I... Where is Papa... Please...”

  He’s gone. Forever. All because of my carelessness and stupidity...

  Blacker than pitch, the darkness enveloped her. And within this windowless prison, she found no hope.

  Then all was well again because Papa sat by her side. Their humble wagon lurched through the paved streets of Demrov. The despair and coldness lifted while the world passed by in a blur of bartering tradesmen, canopy-covered booths, and colorful frocks.

  Isabelle watched with a mixture of fascination and pride as citizens from across Europe huddled before Papa’s booth. Beautiful crystals and rare gems danced in the afternoon light, drawing people over with their lustrous shine.

  Isabelle leaned against the booth’s wooden table and stole a glance at Papa. How tall and confident he looked, standing before his immaculate wares, a flock of Demrov’s finest at his fingertips. Ladies donning white silk gloves and lace hats clung to the arms of their suitors as they admired the glittering jewels and porcelain treasures from the farthest reaches of the island. Isabelle’s heart swelled with pride again; on this afternoon, within this moment, the world belonged to her and Papa.

  A stall several meters away, which displayed rows of porcelain dolls, snagged her attention. She fought the temptation as best she could—but when the delectable scent of a roasting turkey leg reached her nose, the urge to wander the marketplace conquered her. Indeed, her affinity for adventure sparked to life.

  “Papa...” The overlapping chatter drowned her voice. Isabelle grasped the edge of his fine walking jacket and gave an insistent pull.

  “Pardon me, madame,” he said to a pretty lady. He dropped to his knee and smiled at Isabelle. “You’ve been so patient. Only another hour. Then we’ll snag one of those turkey legs. What do you say, ma petite?”