Beauty of the Beast (Fairy Tale Retellings Book 1)

by Rachel L. Demeter

  A little too late for that.

  Reality and the imagery from her nightmares melded together. They thundered through her mind and body in a violent storm. She felt herself drowning, gasping for air again. Her breaths grew shorter still, and the bedchamber appeared to physically spin and undulate.

  How long have I been here?

  Dieu, is this the beast’s private quarters?

  Isabelle clutched her chest as she caught herself slipping into darkness. Then a gentle hand grazed her shoulder, and an equally gentle voice murmured in her ear. “Take deep breaths.” His fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles. Isabelle felt some of the agony ebb away. “Slowly breathe. Slowly. That’s it. In. Out. In. Out. Good.” She did as commanded. Unexpected relief swelled her mind and body. She turned to him and took in his hovering features. He wasn’t wearing the hood, and his entire deformity was in sight. The sight of those puckered welts hit her hard; she lowered her lashes over her eyes and looked away.

  His intimate proximity summoned a flash of that night. A flash of Raphael.

  Vicomte Dumont’s granite expression blazed through her mind, and her flight or fight instinct seized hold. She shoved the man’s scarred hand away. Then she recalled the bargain they’d struck—the arrangement she’d halfheartedly agreed to when she thought Papa could still be saved. Her thoughts returned to Raphael’s pungent breaths and painful caresses; she couldn’t bear such an existence.

  “Don’t—don’t you dare touch me. My father died at your hands!” she said, straightening her back against the headboard, capturing the man’s gaze with her own. Tears threatened to resurface; she inhaled a calming breath to harness them. “Any ‘agreement’ we might have made is undone now.”

  Mutely he stared at her. Some of her resolve slipped away at the penetrating glint in those eyes. Then he exhaled, releasing a long-suffering sigh, and thrust scarred fingers through his hairline. “I’ve played nurse to you for several days and nights,” he said, his voice a waterfall of dark wine. “You can hardly carry your own body weight—not to mention, you have insufficient funds on your person. I—”

  “You—you searched through my belongings?”

  “Yes,” he said without apology. “And I’ve fed and watered your horse. Setting off into the snowstorm may be noble indeed—but it’s also madness, suicide. You wouldn’t last the night, ma belle. Give this place a chance,” he whispered, his voice almost inaudible. The words weren’t spoken, yet she heard them all the same: Give me a chance. “This castle shall be your home, just as it’s mine. You may venture wherever you like, except the eastern tower. It’s forbidden to you and any other person who steps foot inside this castle.” Her curiosity piqued, she began to question this eastern tower—but Adam sufficiently cut her sentence short. “I won’t hold you to... the other parts of our arrangement.”

  Isabelle couldn’t argue with his logic—she was sick and in no shape to travel. The storm would kill her within hours. But she questioned his intentions.

  “Why... why do you even want me here?”

  Silence. Then he reached forward and tentatively brushed the side of her face with a featherlight touch. She instinctively recoiled.

  Her head banged against hard wood, preventing her from moving back any farther. When he spoke again, that deep, mesmerizing voice—the voice from her dreams—fell across her ears like black velvet.

  Another heartfelt sigh resonated. Even his sighs sounded beautiful and expressive—almost like music. “I know you’re confused and in pain. And I know you’re hurting. But you don’t have to fear me.”

  Isabelle finally found her voice. Inhaling deeply, she locked on to the man’s wavering, blue gaze. Those eyes were deep. Penetrating. Dare she think even a bit thrilling. His was a face that impaled; his were eyes that burned. “How—how can you say such things? After what you did to my father? Throwing him inside—”

  “He was ill,” he cut in, the tone of his voice smooth and controlled. “Deathly ill. And he stole from me while he stayed beneath my roof as a guest.”

  “Tell me, monsieur. What kind of monster imprisons a blind, ill man?”

  The word monster rattled something inside him. He visibly tightened, and the mangled half of his face drew taut. Then his long, slender fingers coiled into tight fists. “What kind of daughter journeys into a snowstorm with their dying father?”

  Isabelle couldn’t find a reply. She’d been seeking the same answer ever since she and Papa had set off. Reality had found her within her nightmares, in that bottomless darkness, and now it spread through her heart like a poison.

  “Are you always so polite to your ‘guests’?”

  Adam shrugged, then gestured toward his monstrous companion. Her gaze snapped to the huge dog, and she wondered how she hadn’t noticed him until that moment. “Stranger and I aren’t accustomed to guests, I’m afraid.” He paused, adjusted his body, then ran his fingers through his dark hair. The raven waves glistened in the lantern’s light, drinking in the illumination. Likewise, his eyes glittered like a pair of twin sapphires as they coolly fixed on her. “And besides... you are no longer a guest.”

  “You may soften the blow of your words with logic, but I hear what you’re saying all the same. You intend to fully hold me to our agreement—despite everything that’s happened since?”

  Isabelle’s eyes shifted from the beast and ran over Adam’s seated form. The breadth of the man’s shoulders was impossibly wide. The dark cloak dripped over his long body like water from an icicle. From this angle, the deformed, left side of his face was out of sight. Jet-black hair fell to his nape in thick waves. The right-side portion of his face, which did not suffer from ruin, was truly magnificent to behold. The jut of his chin was regal, chiseled, commanding. A strong, dark brow accented his right eye, and several days’ worth of stubble shadowed his austere cheekbone. The overall effect was valiant and rugged, softened only by dark, sweeping lashes. But most arresting was that gaze. Soul-deep. Cutting. Then he turned his head—and Isabelle’s throat plummeted into her stomach.

  Jarred by the warped flesh and raised wells, she emitted a startled sound and looked away. She felt him physically tense beside her.

  “What I said before, about the... terms... of our arrangement,” he whispered, “you can trust me.”

  “I thought you said I can’t trust you.”

  Silence seized hold. Only the flickering lantern breached the quiet.

  “My name is Adam,” he finally said in a low, cautious tone, as if he wasn’t used to sharing something as simple as his name.

  “Adam...” He further stiffened as she tested the feel of his name on her lips. “You live here alone? Without any family or servants?”

  He said nothing, though his eyes whispered a thousand unspoken words. A rush of sadness washed over her, shocking her to the very core. She battled the response—fought to perceive Adam as nothing more than a beast—but when he dipped a piece of linen into a basin and offered it to her, some of her fear and hatred melted.

  She stared at him, dumbly, with a blend of mute horror and awe. When she failed to take the linen from his hands, he slid forward, his eyes never leaving hers, and carefully laid it across her brow. Relief came to her in a sweet, swift rush. Her eyes fell shut as the damp material absorbed some of the pain and allowed her thoughts to refocus.

  Adam scooted backward, though they remained less than a meter apart. The warmth of his body wafted toward her, carrying with it the enticing scents of sandalwood, pine, and winter. “I believe your fever’s almost broken.”

  Isabelle swallowed deeply before attempting a reply. “How long was I unconscious?” Silence weighed heavily in the air, a palpable current of tension. She adjusted her body with a pained groan while her head suffered a splintering migraine. “How... how long has it been?” Since Papa was stolen from me, she inwardly added.

  Adam shifted on the bed, causing the mattress to dip inward. He appeared to be as wary and unsure as she was. “Tonight m
akes three nights.”

  Three nights. She had been under his care—completely vulnerable and unconscious—for three whole nights. The thought left her feeling violated but also strangely relieved. In spite of his unforgivable cruelty nights ago, she was in no immediate danger. He’d watched over her, tended to her illness with great tenderness and care…

  Don’t worry. I am here with you, ma belle. And I shan’t let you go.

  Indeed, for three nights, he’d never abandoned her. He’d kept her calm and anchored during those hours of darkness. Amid the nightmares and disorientation, she’d been aware of Adam caring for her with astonishing tenderness. Warring emotions clashed inside, draining her energy and focus.

  I just want to rest. I want to rest and be with Papa again.

  “How do you feel?”

  The deep lull of his voice jerked Isabelle from her thoughts. The pain from her illness felt quite horrible—though the greatest discomfort lay in her heart, invisible and radiating where no one could see.

  And something warned Isabelle that Adam’s external scars weren’t the worse of his pains; likewise, his true torment lay deep inside, seared across his soul. Yet she couldn’t escape the echo of Papa’s cries or the haunting image of Adam dragging him through the dark corridors.

  “Let us see... my throat and ears feel like they’re on fire, and my head resembles a godforsaken war drum... but I shall manage quite well. Merci.” Her voice sounded tense, an unstoppable anger fortifying the words.

  Adam nodded, then absently fiddled with his ring. Isabelle strained forward and battled to decipher the emblem. AFD engraved the smooth, golden surface and glinted in the candlelight.

  A signet ring?

  “I admire your strength. Most would have broken in such circumstances.” Another lingering silence infected the air. Adam drummed his fingers and brought them together in the form of a steeple. The signet ring ensnared her gaze, shimmering like a beacon. “I understand how you feel. And I am so sorry.”

  Isabelle bit her bottom lip to stop the retort. She straightened against the headboard and met Adam’s leveled stare. “Where is he? Where?” She battled to keep the emotion from her voice, but the quaver betrayed her.

  “I laid him to rest. In the courtyard beneath a black ash tree.”

  The thought of Papa alone in the eternal dirt caused a wave of nausea to rise in her throat. It didn’t matter that his spirit had gone to rest. He was still very much alive in her mind and heart.

  “I suppose I shall let you sleep, then.” Clearly uncomfortable with the turn of their conversation, Adam climbed to his feet and patted his strong, muscled thigh. Stranger limped to his side. They both strode toward the door, Adam moving with an impressive grace for a man his size. The chandelier flickered above him like a diva’s spotlight, causing the black of his hair to shine with bluish highlights. She studied his face in its entirety—the deformed, mangled half and the handsome side. How exquisite he’d once been. All darkness and torn emotion, he glided through the chamber like a shadow.

  Suddenly she recalled the faint sound of another person’s voice. A second man had been here. She was certain of it.

  “You live here all alone. This castle—it belongs to you?”

  Adam turned to her in a slow, hauntingly elegant motion. “Everything inside these walls is mine.” A not so idle threat—a sensual innuendo—laced those words together.

  “‘Everything is mine.’” She released a small, cynical laugh in spite of her better judgment. “Spoken like any other man. You disappoint me, monsieur.” The faintest ghost of a smile appeared on the handsome side of his face. A gleam also entered his eyes—and she saw her tart retort had sparked something to life.

  “Does anything else here disappoint you?” He gestured to his face with self-deprecating humor, his movements slick and suave. She stared at the distorted features and found she couldn’t bring herself to reply. Isabelle had always prided herself on not being judgmental about outward appearances—unlike her stepsisters and late stepmother—yet the warped, leather-like skin sent a shiver down her backbone. When she offered no response, he dipped his head and swept closer to the door.

  “Isabelle,” she blurted out, stopping him in his tracks again. Rearranging the hood, he turned to her and stared down. She returned his gaze, breathless, overpowered by his very presence. “You never asked for my name. It’s Isabelle. Isabelle Rose.”

  He paused in the doorway and released a long, rigid sigh. “You are safe here with me. I shall never harm you, Isabelle. You have my word.”

  Silence circulated between them. Pulsated through the air. That silence ate away at Isabelle and served as a grim reminder. Within the quiet, she remembered why she was here. She remembered what she had lost. And she remembered how and why.

  Because of you.

  And because of myself.

  “You already have harmed me.”

  Chapter Eight

  A melody seduced Isabelle from her sleep. Enchanting music, unlike anything she’d ever heard, caressed her skin with the sensual pull of a thousand fingers. She’d only attended the opera once in her lifetime, so she had little to compare the music against—but the range of emotion it possessed sounded like genius. It stroked her, ignited her imagination, brought a splash of color to the darkness she’d known for several nights.

  Has it been nights? Or weeks?

  Her heart grew heavy as those chords sensually washed over her. The center of her body felt weak, hot, vulnerable; surely she’d collapse in on herself. The music pulsated through her veins and lit a fire inside her soul.

  Shaken, she sat up in her bed—as if the spellbinding music had physically lifted her—and followed those passionate refrains with her lantern. Half sleepwalking, caught between dreams and reality, her insides turned hotter and heavier as she slipped on her boots and wandered down the spiral stairwell. The wooden railing slid under her palm—the one thing anchoring her mind and body in place. Only a few sconces lit her path and ruptured the endless darkness. She expelled a sigh of relief when she reached the landing. Then the music grew louder and more commanding with each step. It beckoned her forward, closer, those chords sinking below her tingling skin...

  Isabelle stopped outside a half-open door. Inside, a candle lightly flickered and cast a ring of light. Leaning against the doorway, her eyes focused on the tall figure hovering over the pianoforte.

  Adam. Elegantly long and limber fingers flew across the keys as he caressed them like a lover’s body. He swayed along with the soulful music, lost in his own melody; his mind and soul visibly transported to another time and place.

  Much like when I read. Adam may be secluded within these decrepit walls... yet he is an escape artist, just like me.

  Music was his freedom, Isabelle realized—his way of connecting to the world and finding peace and contentment. Only the handsome portion of his face was visible; candlelight flickered across the striking arch of his brow, the austere jut of his chin, and the strong column of his neck. In this light, he looked breathtakingly handsome. Powerful. Captivating. His hair’s thick black waves brushed his collar—just barely. Isabelle ached to run her fingers through those shining locks, to feel their weight beneath her palms. A flowing linen shirt framed his muscular body, the deep V-neck granting a peek at his scarred torso.

  He hummed low, seducing the decadent lull of his voice to mate with the music. It was a beautiful marriage of darkness and light, of melody and passion. Isabelle’s breathing grew a little shallower, and she suddenly felt lightheaded all over again. Her eyes closed of their own accord while her heart beat an uneven tempo against her ribs. Then his humming melted into song; liquid heat flowed through her veins and carried her away. She felt suspended. Free. Much like when she lost herself within the pages of her books.

  It was a lullaby, the somber whispers of a past life; he sang the words with such depth, such soul and agony. Beautiful. Terrible. Gut-wrenching. A crush of emotions stirred in each word, each c
hord, every breath. In spite of herself, Isabelle felt her heart shatter for him a little bit.

  “Sleep well, my little prince.

  Sleep true, my sweet prince.

  Roses love sunshine, violets love dew.

  All the angels in heaven wrap their wings over you.

  Sleep well, my little prince.

  Sleep true, my sweet prince.

  The world lays at your feet.

  Now let my love make you complete.”

  The music stopped without warning, and the final note rang despairingly in the air. Isabelle felt like she’d been released from a hook... like she’d been flung out of a dream, only to wake into cold reality. She shifted her body weight and attempted to discreetly edge away. The subtle sound echoed in the large, acoustical room and drew Adam’s attention. His head jerked toward her, fast as lightning, and she felt his stare fix on her face.

  Their gazes slammed together. For several weightless moments, those blue eyes held her spellbound. Immobile. Utterly breathless. An entire conversation seemed to explode between them—and the lamentations hummed inside her aching chest.

  “I... Forgive me.”

  And without another word, she vanished down the dark hall.

  She had been watching him.

  Adam peeled his fingers away from the pianoforte’s slick keys and swiped an unsteady hand through his hairline. He felt vulnerable, exposed—as if a window to his soul had been thrust opened and was now in danger of forever shattering. Every nerve and tendon resembled a violin string pulled too tight and on the verge of snapping.

  How long had she stood there, silently observing him from the shadows? Unable to find rest, he’d come to his music room, searching for a reprieve from his tumultuous thoughts. It was no wonder she’d heard him; he’d played loudly, soulfully, pouring his whole self into the music, willing it to absorb his tangled mind.