Beauty of the Beast (Fairy Tale Retellings Book 1)

by Rachel L. Demeter

  “I do not know how to hold it; I do not know what it is.

  I sigh and moan without meaning to,

  Throb and tremble without knowing,

  I find no peace both night or day...”

  Suddenly his beautiful voice faded into silence. Memories of that horrible night—the burn of Raphael’s touch, the stench of his alcohol-laden breaths—seared her thoughts. But then Adam tentatively removed one of his hands and brushed away a wayward curl; the gentleness of his touch fiercely contrasted against Raphael’s, and Isabelle found herself relaxing in his arms. Indeed, she ached to get closer... closer...

  His lips drew against her ear, answering her silent plea. He whispered the husky words upon her skin, then allowed his mouth to gently brush her temple. “During my childhood... I was very selective about whom I’d perform for. Music is an intimate affair, see... akin to making love...”

  Isabelle’s fingers turned limp and fell away from the ivory keys. Silence momentarily seized them. Adam responded to her flustered state with a deviant, low chuckle that sent her nerves spinning. Then he reclaimed her hands in his own and pressed her fingers, one by one, down onto the keys. His—their—beautiful music flooded the room once more with the audacity of a thundering waterfall. The light melody darkened to a Gothic shade—and Isabelle knew Adam had settled back into his own composition. Each note washed over her senses, revived her, even strengthened her.

  “Have you always lived in Hartville?” Isabelle breathlessly asked as she fought to temper the quaver in her voice. His body seemed to engulf her, to draw her in, to seduce her with its strength and warmth. She ached to melt against the strong planes of his chest, to lay her cheek against the beat of his heart, to run her fingers through his hair. Nights ago, in the library, she’d thought he was going to kiss her.

  Will he kiss me now? she thought with a trembling wonder.

  He hesitated. “Non. I was born in Lavoncourt. Stayed there until I was eleven years old.”

  Isabelle nodded in understanding. Although the province lay on the edge of Demrov, Lavoncourt was truly the country’s heart. So that’s where his cultured accent and regal demeanor emerged. He was a product of little Paris—and somehow, through a tragedy she couldn’t comprehend, he’d been flung into this desolate ruin. But how? And why? Her mind crawled back to the keepsakes and portraits in the eastern tower. The questions sang on her tongue, though she dared not ask them so boldly.

  Adam was an enigma, a beautiful mystery that she ached to unravel. His music was enough to leave her breathless—and his refined mannerisms and the innate way he held and asserted himself reaffirmed that cultured upbringing.

  Just as she battled for the proper phrasing, he broke her thoughts with his own inquiry. “And you? Have you always lived in Ruillé?” The music loudened, growing in power to slowly climax into a crescendo of emotion and genius.

  Some of the magic in the air dissipated, and Isabelle slipped into an ocean of memories. “Yes... though my father and I traveled the country quite a bit when I was a girl.”

  The mood of the music darkened to a melancholy tune. Whether conscious or a mere byproduct of his sensitivity and skill, Adam had amended his music to echo her stirring emotions. Indeed, it was like an internal mirror—the only mirror inside the castle, apart from the broken one in the East Tower.

  Something was growing between them, as deep and dark as the forest. He was a dangerous man to tangle with; his fantastic hold on her grasped further than she’d first imagined. She wasn’t merely awestruck and intrigued. She was emotionally rocked, connected, under the enchantment of a carefully woven spell. Adam overwhelmed her in a way that surpassed physical influence.

  The first time they met blazed through her thoughts. He’d resembled Death hiding beneath the dark folds of his cloak; his darkness had implored her with grasping arms.

  The music’s somber refrains seemed to reach inside her throat and pull the words out by sleight of hand. “Papa and I went everywhere together, as if the entire world laid at our feet. After he had married Theresa, everything changed overnight. The illness slowly took hold of him... and I can’t help but think she stole whatever energy remained.”

  “You and your father were exceptionally close.” It wasn’t a question.

  Isabelle’s fingers faltered on the keys. “As close as any two people could ever be. The best of friends. Though we grew apart somewhat after he married Theresa. She died several years ago.”

  “I’m sorry for that.”

  “Don’t be. I feel wicked saying so, but it was truly a blessing in disguise. Not even in disguise, actually. Theresa was an envious, petty woman who took advantage of an unwell merchant. Her dislike of me rubbed off on her daughters and forever tainted our relationship.”

  “Forgive me for asking, but how could he love such a woman? Why did he allow such treatment, especially when you two had been so dear to each other?”

  Isabelle sighed. “Love is a strong sentiment. Did my father love Theresa? Perhaps. Though, I believe he loved the idea of her more.”

  The melody intensified. Took full command. Her lips curled into a whimsical smile while Adam’s music pulled her beneath its dark wing, urging her into a trancelike state. She felt like she was floating. “Maman made me vow to only marry for love, because then everything would be beautiful. Papa loved her so deeply—sometimes, I felt rather left out, as if they were enveloped in only each other. And so I became a dreamer, a bit of an escape artist. Storybooks transformed into magical portals, and the heroic knights and fine ladies became dear friends. He would waste the days away with Maman. I’d look at the pictures... make up stories for them before I learned to read the letters.”

  Adam’s guiding hands came to a standstill, and the music faded away. Snapped back into the moment, her words trailed off only to be swallowed by the silence.

  Isabelle felt like she’d been released from a dream. She met Adam’s steady gaze—and the desire in his eyes flattened her. Overwhelmed and growing hotter all over, she rose from the pianoforte’s bench in an unsteady motion. “Forgive me. I... I think I’ll go relax for a bit.”

  Music and darkness swirled around Isabelle, reaching for her with a thousand hands.

  Cavernous chords resonated beneath her skin, pounding with each errant beat of her heart. A moan slid from her throat as she felt herself falling into a dark abyss. Non, she wasn’t falling. She was being carried, cradled, caressed with rich melodies and mesmerizing touches.

  A resonating harmony quivered through every bone and muscle, causing her insides to turn hot and heavy. Isabelle groped blindly within the night. Her hands behaved of their own accord, as if pulled by an unseen puppet master. Trembling fingertips glided over the fabric of her nightgown... sank below the material and kneaded the tender skin. Her cupped hand moved in time to the melody, seduced into a strange erotic dance.

  She arched into the touch. Another moan wriggled free of her throat. The music grew louder still; it vibrated her bones and pressed hard on her moving hands. Then it lightened and ebbed away, unfurling within the darkness in an alluring, slow melody. She reached for it, urging it to return to her at full force. Her opposite hand stirred over her damp thighs and sank below the hem of her nightgown.

  Her fingers stopped there—right on top of the wet, hot mass of curls. She hesitated for a moment, and the spell almost broke. Then a pounding chord ripped through the room and pressed down on her knuckles. Hard. Resolutely. She gasped aloud, felt as her index finger pried through the curls and found the bundle of nerves buried underneath. She massaged it in tentative, slow circles while the music reached a pounding crescendo. Adam’s rich, velvety voice whispered down her backbone and flooded her very soul.

  “What I am experiencing I will tell you,

  It is new to me and I do not understand it...”

  A tall, formidable figure emerged within her thoughts. It was Adam, standing on the East Tower’s circular balcony, his broad back turned to her. The
cloak filled with air and waved around him like a pair of dark wings. He stared down at the gardens below, as stiff and unmovable as a shadow. Snow fell from the bruised sky, floating around his body like ashes. She saw herself in third-person perspective, wandering toward him, the light from a sconce casting them both in a wavering shaft. Overhead, the moon shone bone white against a black sky, larger than a queen’s dinner plate.

  “I have a feeling full of desire,

  That now, is both pleasure and suffering...”

  The pressure on her core increased while she gazed up at Adam. Powerful. Regal. As dark and mysterious as the surrounding night. His features were silhouetted, not visible, and a delicate golden light shimmered along his cloak. She reached out to him, her movements empowered by the music, completely transfixed. Slowly he turned toward her, a great shadow looming above, and set his large hands on her cheeks. She trembled beneath his touch, felt her insides caving inward. Scarred hands glided down her face, her neck, the sides of her breasts...

  “I sigh and moan without meaning to,

  Throb and tremble without knowing...”

  He crept closer, lowered his hand... traced his fingers over her aching womanhood. Just barely. She strained her body toward his touch, needing more. His head bowed forward, so that warm wafts of his breaths tickled her face and swelled her senses. Then his hands joined together and settled on her backside. She shut both eyes and inhaled a steadying breath. Soft, gentle lips ghosted over her cheek... down the side of her throbbing neck...

  Kiss me. Consume me. Make me yours.

  “Adam.” Her voice sounded distant, faded, twisted by a blossoming passion. “Adam... what is happening?”

  He leaned impossibly closer, his scents of pine, sandalwood, and winter swelling her senses, the heat of his body enveloping her own. The deep baritone of his voice caused her body to tremble; she felt his words vibrate through her bones, echo in each beat of her heart with the same power as his music. “Does it even matter? It has already happened...”

  Take me.

  “But I—” His desperate kiss smothered her words. At first, she hesitated—then her body surrendered, limb by limb. Every bit of her melted under the tender exploration of his tongue and hands. She reveled in his daring caress, molding herself to it. A peculiar, tingling sensation mounted inside her core. She rode the music’s throbbing melody and suspended all further thoughts and feelings.

  “That’s it, ma belle... Let yourself go... Let my music fill you...”

  The silky caress of his words pushed her over the edge. The melody splintered through her and melted any resistance. A heartbeat later, she reached a tingling, red-hot crescendo; mind-numbing pleasure swept through her body—shooting from the tips of her curls, down to her very toes. She shuddered, thrashing against the mattress. The unbelievable sensation thrummed on and on, bringing forth a deep, penetrative wave of pleasure. She let it crash down, wash over her, and soak her to the marrow of her bones. Every nerve ending buzzed and pulsed. A moan fluttered from her throat as her womanhood contracted in time to Adam’s music and touches. On and on the release went, drawing torn moans and cries from her lips. Isabelle shifted her wet, slick thighs while her body descended from that exquisite peak.

  In her mind’s eye, her small hands frantically wove around Adam’s torso, smoothed up and down his muscular back, and bunched in the folds of his cloak. He groaned low in his throat, and the husky sound shuddered through her entire body. She threaded her fingers in the thick strands of his hair, relishing their silky weight. Absently she felt the left side of his face, bald and burned, his ear a shriveled mass, the skin leather-like and raised into interwoven ridges...

  The spell shattered.

  Isabelle broke off their kiss and opened her eyes. Her mind departed from the fantasy and returned to her private chamber. Darkness filled her vision—as if her eyes still remained shut. She blindly staggered against her bed’s headboard, realizing the music had fallen into silence minutes ago.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Pistol in hand, Rosemary’s burned and shriveled body flashing through my mind, I huddle outside Maman and Papa’s bedchamber while my home rocks beneath my naked heels. I fight to silence my own ragged breathing, struggle to decipher the voices behind the walls. My burned arms and hands pulsate with mind-bending pain, robbing the air from my lungs.

  I must be brave, just like Papa...

  The door is ajar; I adjust my posture a few centimeters and peek inside. My heart leaps in my throat, and my pulse races, threatening to shatter through each rib. Maman and Papa are standing in front of their large four-poster bed dressed in night rails. Red and blue scarves gag their mouths, and their hands are tied behind their backs. A group of men engulfs them, several clasping flickering torches. The illuminations toss eerie shadows against the damask walls and hulking furniture.

  The leader holds a long, curved blade in his hand. His arms are tucked behind a broad, muscled back, and the crude blade drinks in the surrounding torchlight.

  He tears the scarf from Papa’s mouth in a harsh movement. A scar, which extends from the corner of his lip to his ear, twists as he surrenders to a cruel smile. “Care to say any words?” The leader looks formidable and severe with that scar and a thick black beard slashing across his face.

  Hollering voices and stampeding footfalls echo from below. The castle shudders beneath my feet as more cannon fire blasts through the walls.

  “Have you no fear of God?” Papa asks in a steady voice. The leader says nothing; he merely drags the point of his blade across Papa’s neck, engraving his skin with a thin line of blood. I tremble from my hiding spot, overcome with nausea and rage. Mon Dieu, my heart races so fast... I’m convinced it’ll give me away. Papa meets the man’s leveled stare, refusing to show fear. Refusing to be bullied. Blood beads down his throat as he holds his head up with an unwavering pride and dignity. “What... what is this? A revolt?”

  “Non, sire. A revolution.”

  It’s now or never.

  I tear inside the bedchamber and aim the pistol. Agony and sheer terror cause my hand to tremble in midair; severe burns cover my arms and hand, though a rush of adrenaline prevents me from succumbing to the pain. I find myself in a state of detachment and unreality—almost as if I’d died alongside Rosemary minutes ago.

  The leader wheels toward me and bends into a mocking bow. “My prince. My men have been searching for you.”

  “Adam!” Papa cries out, struggling against his restraints, his cool composure from moments ago quickly unraveling. “Leave! Leave now! Don’t defy me, mon fils!”

  The leader signals to his men—who storm after me.

  “Stay back!”

  Bang! I fire the pistol without thinking, shooting the leader in the shoulder. He curses, and the curved blade tumbles from his hand. “Get him, you fools!” he orders, his voice a fierce rasp, his hand grasping his seething shoulder. “And keep him alive.”

  One of the men punches me straight in the stomach. The blow ripples through my entire body. I crumple to my knees, coughing and struggling for precious air. It feels like a stone has been laid across my breast. Maman cries out—her words muffled by the scarf—but then a sound punch to the gut silences her.

  A second man latches on to the back of my night rail and drags me to my feet. I turn to him and encounter a pair of eyes I know well; the eyes of a servant, someone I’d known all my life and believed was my friend.

  “William... please, I beg you... You, who taught me how to fish. Help us...” He glances away, shame embedded in his gaze, and focuses on a random spot on the wall.

  “Do what you must,” Papa whispers, his voice barely audible above the clamor and chaos. “Only spare my son. I beg you. Please—”

  The leader shoves the scarf between his teeth again. He signals the men, who hold my body upright like a puppet. “Now... you watch Maman and Papa die.”

  My pulse slams against my eardrums as I’m thrust in front of Maman and Pa
pa. I lock on to their gazes while an entire conversation floats between the three of us.

  Endure, my dear son. Be strong, be brave...

  We, the Delacroix house, shall stand for a thousand more years, because we are the true pillars of Demrov...

  The men hold me in place, their grips akin to iron manacles. I try to look away—to keep from witnessing the horror that’s about to unfold—but William’s callused hand grips my chin and keeps me staring forward.

  “Don’t you dare close your eyes, little prince.”

  The torch’s heat flashes across my burning face. Sweat and tears and more vomit track down my neck and splatter onto the parquet floorboards.

  It happens in a flash—though I perceive the moment as a weightless eternity. And in that suspended instant, my life, and everything that makes me who I am, vanishes like a phantom.

  The blade’s thrust back—then it’s swung, full force, directly at Papa’s neck. I fall faint... My legs give out; William grips my shoulder and holds me up like a fish on a hook.

  The leader seizes a torch from one his men and points the flame straight at me. His deep, steady voice slices through the bedchamber like a hurtled knife: “Nutrisco et extinguo...”

  Then darkness swallows everything, and my house’s words sardonically echo in that abyss.

  Adam awoke with a start, his entire body drenched in sweat. Tangled in his coverlet, he lurched upright and willed his breathing to return to normal.

  He still felt the heat of the flames wafting toward him, still smelled the rancid scent of his burning skin while Rosemary’s cries blasted in his ears...