Beauty of the Beast (Fairy Tale Retellings Book 1)

by Rachel L. Demeter

  “You were supposed to believe there was still good left in me.”

  Sébastien’s head lolled forward. When he spoke again, his voice sounded broken and weary. “But I do believe that, mon ami. That’s why I have returned. Raphael deceived me. I was a fool to have fallen for such deception. But I’ve come to make things right again. Adam, let me lead you to them. Let me help you avenge Isabelle. You two deserve a life together—and I shall do everything in my power, damn it all, to help you achieve it.”

  Several minutes crawled by. Finally Adam inhaled a steadying breath. He returned to the drawing room and removed a revolver from the satchel. Passing it into Sébastien’s hands, he said beneath a long-suffering sigh, “Then you’d best be ready.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Apprehension raced down Isabelle’s spine as the footman ushered her into the withdrawing room. Raphael lounged in his customary wingback chair, positioned close to the hearth, and blankly stared into those wavering flames. Isabelle eyed him with revulsion and a pulsating hatred; she had nearly escaped this hellhole nights ago. Raphael had caught her snaking through the servants’ quarters. He’d made it abundantly clear that Adam would pay in blood, should she attempt another escape. Raphael had truly imprisoned her; she would sooner forfeit her own life rather than risk Adam’s.

  Adam. My Adam Delacroix. Her thoughts crept inward as a sob lodged in her throat; she closed her eyes, sinking into her own private solace.

  “Come, come,” Raphael muttered, shattering her thoughts. She hesitated for a heartbeat—then swiftly stepped forward. She yearned to get his daily scorn and mockery out of the way.

  Raphael turned from the fire, swirled his glass of brandy, then gave her body a once-over. She was wearing a lovely emerald green walking dress—a garment that had belonged to Raphael’s late mother. He’d forced the damn thing on her, as a child might dress his doll. Absently Isabelle tracked her hand over the damask lace detail, her stomach curdling. As of late, Raphael always seemed to be deep in his cups and never sober.

  “I apologize,” he drawled, his stare admiring the dress, “for tearing you from those chores I know you love so much.”

  He paused, physically gauging her reaction. Isabelle brushed off the dress’s hem and forced a painful, sardonic smile to her face; she could only imagine what Raphael would do if he caught sight of soot on the dress. “It’s quite all right. I enjoy our nightly conversations even more if that’s even possible.” The words actually pained her.

  He surrendered to a small chuckle—an eerie, husky sound that made her skin tighten and crawl. Then her thoughts reverted to that long-ago night... how his hands had invaded her most intimate parts... how he’d laughed and found pleasure in her distress... in this very room...

  Sadistic animal.

  Anger pulsated through her. I’m no longer the weak and naive girl I’d once been. If he thinks he can threaten me again, then he’s a damned fool.

  A damned fool with nothing to lose now...

  That last thought sent another shiver of fear through her. She watched with mounting apprehension as he adjusted his body and then signaled her forward with his index finger. Every fiber of her being urged her to run, yet she knew well there was nowhere to escape to.

  She slipped forward, her heart beating out of her chest. Their eyes locked for several moments of silence. Then he reached out, grabbed the hem of her skirts, and yanked her body to him with a rough gesture. He chuckled as she fell across his lap, stomach-first. Alas, his lower region protruded and jerked against her abdomen.

  She cried out and battled to return to her feet with her dignity still intact. He merely chuckled again, steadying her movements with two unyielding hands on her lower and upper back. Indeed, he laid her across his knee, as if she were a naughty schoolgirl in need of reprimanding.

  The heat of the fire, which lurked painfully close, flashed over her face and drew sweat from her brow. Raphael’s vile fingers snaked up and down her back in a slow perusal... up and down... before settling on the curve of her backside. Her tears mixed with perspiration as she silently wept.

  Please don’t let him hear me. Let me retain at least that much of my pride...

  She stared straight into the flames with an unwavering, unblinking intensity. The insufferable heat burned her eyes, yet she did not look away; the heat in Raphael’s voice burned far more as he lowered his head and whispered against her scalp. “Don’t fight it any longer, ma chérie. It’s over now, can’t you see that? Don’t fight me any longer...”

  Isabelle bit her tongue until the metallic flavor of blood filled her mouth. His hand glided down her leg... down, down, down... then moved under her skirts in a painfully slow motion.

  She couldn’t hold back the words any longer. “I shall die fighting.” She cursed the quaver in her voice, praying Raphael was too deaf to her emotions to hear it.

  Her gaze abandoned the hearth and planted on the medallion-style rug. Dejectedly she watched as blood from her mouth lightly splattered the fine material.

  He responded with amused laughter. “My darling, you always know just what to say. I cannot help but think you secretly yearn for me... and for my touches...” She shivered, filled only with revulsion, as his hand caressed her backside... then dipped lower, underneath, his fingers invading her most intimate place all over again. “That monster,” he huskily said, as if whispering a twisted endearment, “did you let him take you? Did he dare touch what belongs to me?”

  Isabelle said nothing, though the silence felt painful. The words she burned to shout nearly burst her lungs apart.

  “That’s quite fine. Say nothing if you wish. I shall find out with one, eh, slip of the finger, shall I say?”

  You had already stolen my maidenhead, stupid fool.

  Isabelle eyed the fire poker, which lurked enticingly in front of the hearth.

  Do I dare? Could I dare?

  As his intrusive finger slipped a centimeter away, her heart and mind screamed in unison, Yes, I dare. It wasn’t poison—but it’d serve her purpose quite eloquently. Just as she prepared to propel her body forward—to sacrifice herself to preserve what remained of her dignity—an astonished voice floated in the air.

  “Raphael! What... what is this?”

  Isabelle breathed a sigh of relief as his hand wrenched away; he behaved like a lad who’d been caught invading a jar of sweets. He twisted his fingers in her hair instead and yanked her upright. Her throat pumped like a furnace while he stretched her neck in a painful backward arch.

  “Answer me!” Vivian demanded in a panicked voice.

  He responded with an amused chuckle, lightening his words. “You mustn’t feel envious, my love. You know there’s no one for me but you. She... Why, Isabelle is nothing more than a plaything. Our plaything, if you so desire.”

  Isabelle frantically scrambled from Raphael’s lap and onto the floor. She stared up at Vivian, who stood quiet and still in the archway. Her eyes took on a new fierceness, and her fair hands clenched into fists on either side of her body. Her penetrating green gaze slipped over Isabelle, taking in the dress.

  “What is she wearing?” Silence. “How—how could you, Raphael? She disgraced you—made a fool of your entire family with her flight! How could you do this to me?”

  Raphael’s gaze darkened for a moment, then he looked amused again. “Even more reason for us to amuse ourselves with her,” he whispered, speaking of Isabelle as if she were their pet. Or a pitiful lapdog.

  Vivian threatened her with an icy look—one that chilled Isabelle to her marrow. She felt imprisoned as she mutely sat on the floor, encased between Raphael and Vivian.

  They were unraveling before her eyes. Isabelle strongly suspected she’d be the one to suffer their agony. Raphael and Vivian were two dams on the verge of busting open. And Isabelle was fated to drown in those murky, unquiet waters.

  Adam and Sébastien traveled through the heart of Demrov for two days and night straight. Adam urged Spirit fo
rward at a pace that should have broken her, yet she surged on, as if she knew the importance of their hasty journey. A hard rain hammered down the second day, which brought their pace to a frustrating slowdown.

  Only when mere kilometers lurked between them and Chateau Dumont did Adam and Sébastien break their fast. They sat in companionable silence, observing as the rain fell in harsh sheets. The silence eventually slipped into strained small talk—then warped into amicable reminiscing about past times. Memories washed over Adam, as palpable and chilling as the thrashing rain. When the conversation turned to the birth of Rosemary, an excruciating ache pressed against his heart. Sébastien mercifully pushed the topic aside and gave his shoulder a comforting pat. He felt himself soften at Sébastien’s tenderness; he fought to remember his recent betrayal, yet all he saw when he met Sébastien’s gaze was compassion, regret—the eyes of his friend.

  “What really happened that night, Adam? When Isabelle and her father came to your door.”

  Adam sighed and shook his downcast head. “About what you would have expected from me. I turned them away. Her father was on death’s door, quite literally, and I refused them shelter.”

  “Ah, yes. You always have lacked, er, a gentleman’s hospitality. But that’s not the way it went.”

  “No,” Adam agreed as a small smile slipped into his voice. “Isabelle stood her ground—for her father. She wouldn’t allow me to turn them away. She was prepared to sacrifice everything for him.” Adam shook his head again, reached into his coat, and withdrew the revolver. He rotated it between his thumb and forefinger as the words poured out. “She changed me, Sébastien, every moment she was here—starting with that first. I didn’t believe such loyalty, such profound love, still existed in the world before she and her father stumbled upon my door.”

  Hours later, Chateau Dumont seeped into sight. Adam pulled on Spirit’s reins and brought the phaeton to a halt. She pawed at the muddy ground and tossed her great silver mane with defiance.

  Spirit, indeed.

  Adam wiped the rain from his brow and surveyed the property. Per Sébastien’s story, he and Raphael had struck up a sort of friendship during their encounter. Adam considered having Sébastien call upon Raphael to act as a distraction. He turned the scenario in his head, trying to weigh the possible risks and outcomes.

  No, he knows Sébastien will be aware about what he’s done. It would only put him on alert. We need to strike while he’s completely in the dark—defenseless, vulnerable, and unsuspecting...

  Besides—the hour was late. Raphael and his servants may be sleeping if we’re lucky.

  A half an hour later, Adam pulled the phaeton inside the carriage house and led Spirit to the stable. Afterward, he and Sébastien circled the chateau’s towering walls as they hunted for a way inside.

  “Damn you, Adam, we have nearly circled the whole wretched thing. I’m not as young as I used to be, I’m afraid. I may very well have to sit the next thousand meters out. I dare say—”

  “Quiet,” Adam hissed. “And lower yourself to the ground, you fool.”

  They crouched before a sweeping conservatory window. A flowerbed surrounded them; small buds decorated the leafy branches. A light flashed on inside the stunning parlor, illuminating the mahogany furniture and fine upholstery. A least a dozen animal heads hung from the darkly paneled walls and decorated the room.

  “That’s him,” Sébastien spat as a handsome man in his mid-thirties swept inside the room. He looked vibrant and in the prime of his youth. He was everything Adam was not. His blond locks, swept back to expose the fine architecture of an aristocratic face, glinted in the lantern’s illumination. Adam felt a tide of jealousy crash down.

  Sébastien must have read his discomfort. He cleared his throat, then gave a wry smile. “Ah, the spell of his golden beauty is not so different than being too deep in your cups. At first, it’s positively alluring—and a short time later, once the effects of his personality cut through, you’re left feeling nothing but nausea.”

  Adam held back his smile and felt as the venom drained. Inside the parlor, Raphael Dumont staggered behind a satinwood bar and rustled through the collection of spirits. His hands visibly shook, and when he moved closer, Adam saw his eyes were hazy and bloodshot. Wiping the rain from his stare, Adam murmured, “He’s a fucking drunk.”

  Sébastien surrendered to a devil-may-care shrug. “I can’t say I blame him with the comte being his father.”

  Raphael drank his fill—straight from the bottle. Swaying with each step, he crossed the parlor, bumping into the hulking furniture along the way, and glared up at the salon wall. Portraits covered the chinoiserie wallpaper from floor to ceiling. The hand clutching the bottle shook in midair, and Adam saw his lips move as he whispered something to a framed portrait. Then he scrubbed his fingers over his face and through his hairline, disheveling the slick golden mane.

  Vicomte Raphael Dumont was coming undone before their eyes.

  “I’ve seen enough.”

  Adam shot onto his feet and wheeled around the chateau’s curved facade. A half an hour later, he stopped in front of a small window. Inside, the kitchens were visible; shadows obscured the room, transforming the vast table and chairs into crouching monsters. Adam breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was dark and cleared; the servants had already turned it over for the evening.

  Adam searched the ground for a rock—and found one in a nearby flowerbed. Rainwater made it slippery to the touch; he adjusted his hold, then cocked his arm back and hurled it straight at the window. The glass shattered with a splintering crack. Adam used his elbow to knock away the remaining shards. Then he gestured to Sébastien and climbed through the portal.

  Minutes later, Adam and Sébastien tracked down the dark corridors. The servants appeared to have settled into their quarters for the night, and the hallways were eerily quiet and still.

  He felt like he’d dropped through a black mirror—a portal into the past.

  Inside his mind, Adam was eleven years old again, slipping through Castle Delacroix in search of his loved ones. His heart beat out of his chest, and a blast of thunder rendered him momentarily immobile; only his love for Isabelle and his determination to free her kept him anchored. He clutched the revolver between his clammy fingers and signaled Sébastien to do likewise.

  After ten minutes of sneaking through the shadows, Adam heard the muffled sound of sobs and a woman’s voice. He sprinted down the long hallway, his revolver drawn and cocked, ready to fire. He fought to deaden the sound of his footfalls as he and Sébastien gained on the panicked voice.

  His heart thrashed as he paused outside a door left ajar. For a moment, he was sure he’d see Maman and Papa gagged and standing in front of their four-poster bed. Holding his breath, he peeked inside—and the sight purged the air from his lungs.

  A beautiful woman with flaming red hair clasped a dagger. He couldn’t see her face—but her curls were slick with sweat. Her pale hand violently trembled—and Adam noticed that red covered the tip of that dagger.

  Adam shifted his body to grant himself a better angle. Isabelle. The woman had cornered her against the wall. Isabelle was sitting, her legs pulled up against her chest. Frantic sobs shook her body as she clasped her shoulder. A ring of blood stained the material of her servant’s garb. Adam felt a wave of red-hot rage bubble inside. It took every gram of his willpower not to burst into the room and strangle the redheaded woman.

  “I know her,” Sébastien muttered. “Vivian Brazin—Raphael’s mistress. She—”

  “I don’t care who the fuck she is.” Adam gestured for him to keep quiet and tightened his grasp on the revolver. In spite of the cold, sweat drenched his palms and made the barrel quite slippery. “Follow my lead. Be my shadow.” Venom leaked from every word; so dark and distorted was Adam’s voice, he hardly recognized it as his own.

  “I have been, mon ami, for over twenty-five years.”

  Isabelle’s heart banged against her ribs as she stared
into Vivian’s wild gaze. Tears streamed down the woman’s cheeks, and the dagger faltered in her trembling hand. Isabelle felt herself growing fainter... felt herself slipping into blackness. Although the wound was not deep, it summoned a fierce pain in her shoulder and urged her jaw to clench against the discomfort. Cursing her weakness, she recalled the insurmountable pain Adam had suffered as a young boy.

  Red curls flurried against Vivian’s tearstained cheeks like wisps of fire. She’d gone mad. The evening had started out normal enough; Vivian had requested Isabelle in her chamber while Raphael was out on a social call. Isabelle had spent over an hour brushing out Vivian’s hair and suffering her insults. Afterward, she’d stopped by the library, hoping to find an escape.

  Then Vivian had appeared.

  Isabelle chose her words carefully, for once not succumbing to her wagging tongue and sharp retorts.

  Her very life depended on it.

  “Vivian... please, listen to me... Raphael loves you—only you...” Each word took a monumental effort and heightened the throbbing pain in her shoulder. She gasped for breaths, trying to stay conscious—afraid of what would happen if she descended into that seductive darkness. “I’m nothing to him. Nothing! Just a plaything, a way for him to thwart his father and pass—”

  “Do you think I’m daft? So long as you draw breath, he shall never belong to me. Raphael shall always keep you close. You have bewitched him, stolen him away; he sees his wretched mother when he looks at you!” Vivian edged forward, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. She raised the dagger, and her wobbly hand suddenly grew steady and sure. She struck again—Isabelle gave a pained cry and spun out of the arc of the blade.

  A cloaked figure flashed into her peripheral vision, quick and smooth as a lightning strike. Vivian’s arm was still in midair; a hand had enclosed over her wrist, keeping it securely in place. Isabelle struggled to her feet, gripping the writing desk for support as she watched the scene unfold.