Taming Her Beast

by Flora Ferrari

“Millie, what’s wrong?” I say, catching her hand before she can hit it again and hurt herself.

  “That mother-” she whispers, shaking her head and staring into the woods.

  I’m a virgin.

  Her words bounce around my mind, but yet again an interruption makes it impossible for us to explore right away. I’m starting to think somebody up there is having one hell of a laugh at our expense.

  “We need to get into town,” she says.

  I guide the car onto the road, driving as quickly as I can while still being safe.

  “Do you want to tell me what happened?” I ask.

  “You’ll see in a second,” she sighs. “God, this is so embarrassing.”

  She won’t look at me, I note, and I wonder if that has anything to do with whatever’s happened at work or her revelation before the phone call. She gnaws at her thumbnail, adding to the shift in her scent, the change in the quality of light in her eyes … all the thousand things that make her her twisting with anxiety and something else, a notion of fear beneath it all.

  “I’ll protect you,” I tell her.

  She glances at me, briefly, but then turns away as though the eye contact is painful. “Thank you,” she says. “But I’m not sure you can, not from this.”

  I drive us through town, getting closer to the diner.

  A crowd is gathered in the parking lot, the cars pulled up at unnatural angles, as though arranged around a crime scene. It’s like I can hear the increase in Millie’s heartbeat the closer we come to the gathering, synchronized with the way she taps her knee with her free hand, the one that’s not cradled close to her face.

  “Okay, this is it,” she sighs. “My big freaking moment.”

  “I’m right behind you,” I tell her.

  We step from the car together, several of the townspeople turning to glance at Millie as she approaches. A couple of women turn their noses up at her, and I see one elderly man turn and whisper something in a sailor’s ear.

  A hush falls over the crowd when we get to the front, looking down at the display.

  Shattered glass, but much more than was in Jackie’s house. There’s more then one window worth of it sprinkled over the parking lot like grit, with the snow swept away to make room for it. The glass has been covered in red spray paint, outlining the words that it spells.

  Millie Green, the paint-covered glass reads.

  I glance over at the diner, confirming my suspicions.

  All the windows have been shattered, scraped free of their glass. He must’ve done it in the middle of the night.

  This bastard is obsessed.

  A man comes walking over. He’s got a mop of gray hair with a bald spot in the middle, and he grunts and grumbles as he walks, leaning on a cane that’s constantly trying to slip out from underneath him. He has the mean sort of eyes I recognize from wannabe tough guys over the years.

  “Garry, this wasn’t me,” Millie says.

  “Then who was it?” the man grumbles, glancing at me briefly, standing protectively at her shoulder, before turning fully to her. “Because it looks pretty suspicious, don’t it, seeing as it’s your name? Do you have any idea how much this mess is gonna cost?”

  “I don’t know,” Millie whispers.

  “You don’t know?” her boss says, gesturing with his free hand as though he’s going to grab at her.

  I step forward, only slightly, and shake my head at him in a subtle way. His eyes flit to me and he recoils, as though he’s realized he’s in a cage with a wild jaguar. I don’t want to hurt this man – bullying has never appealed to me – but the idea of him laying his hands on my woman makes me sick.

  “Your name’s written in glass and paint, I’m out of business for a whole goddamn day, and you’ve got no explanation for me?”

  I glance at Millie, wondering if she’ll tell him about Finn. I won’t blame her if she doesn’t. But I’m ready to accept whatever she decides.

  “No,” Millie says. “I’m sorry, Garry. Really. Are you going to fire me?”

  “You haven’t put me in a great position here,” he huffs. “In any case, you ain’t working today. I’ll call you, alright?”

  He turns without waiting for a response.

  Millie lets out a shaky sigh and turns, looking around at all the Stone Harbor folk, many of them blatantly watching. I realize what she’s doing after a moment.

  Searching the crowd for any sign of this Finn Marston bastard.

  I stay close to her, ready to spring into action the second she aims her finger at somebody and says him.

  She turns to me, shaking her head subtly.

  “Wanna get out of here?” I say.

  She smiles slightly. “Yeah, I thought you’d never ask.”

  I reach down and take her hand, not caring if they want to gape. Let them look. She’s my woman and I’m not ashamed of it. I’ll never shy away from staying loyal to her, from letting her know she doesn’t have to go through life alone.

  She flinches, and for a terror-filled second I know I’ve made a mistake.

  But then her smile widens and she gives my hand a squeeze.

  “I thought I overstepped the mark back there,” I say, my voice gruff, maybe a little defensive. “Holding your hand, I mean.”

  We walk toward my Chevy, hand in hand, like a real goddamn couple.

  I’ve known her less than a week.

  And I don’t care.

  I don’t give a single solitary fuck.

  “No, it’s not that,” she says, climbing into the car next to me. “It’s just I was starting to wonder if you’d even want to be with me still, I guess.”

  “Because of the virgin thing?”

  She swivels on me, giving me a no-shit look.

  I chuckle. “Fair enough. But you need to know that you being a virgin only makes me want you more.”

  “Really?” she whispers.

  “Really,” I snarl. “Now I get to claim you, just for me. Now my jealous possessive ass knows that nobody else has ever touched you.”

  “I must be all kinds of messed up,” she says, her cheeks flaming red as she reaches across and places her hand on my arm.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well jealous and possessive are supposed to be bad traits, right? But when you say it, I don’t know, I get all tingly and warm.”

  I growl like a savage, like any second I’m going to go full werewolf and strain at my skin, sprout fangs and goddamn horns and God knows what else. I’ve never felt my life essence surging so close to the surface of my being before, ready to erupt and blaze through me, ready to dominate me like I want – need – to dominate my woman.

  “Can we get out of here?” Millie whispers, waving a hand at the parking lot.

  I start the engine and back us out of the lot, driving down Main Street, meaning to head through the forest and back toward Jackie’s house.

  “Where are you going?” she asks.

  I listen to the uncertainty in her voice, sense that she’s not quite ready to go home yet. Then I turn to the car to the side of the road, beneath the spiky pine leaves.

  “Where do you want to go?” I ask.

  She wrings her hands together. “I don’t know,” she murmurs. “I want to—you know. But I don’t know if I’m ready.”

  “I can wait,” I say, though there’s a choked, carnal quality to my voice.

  “Really?” she murmurs.

  “Really,” I say with an effort, my seed swelling and surging inside of me, roaring at me to tell her that until I’m buried balls deep inside of her I’m going to be a madman.

  But that’s not fair. She’s my woman, all of her, and no part of me would ever want to pressure her into something.

  “I will be,” she says. “Maybe soon. Just not …”

  “Right now,” I finish.

  She nods.

  “Okay,” I say. “So where do you want to go? Anywhere, Millie, anywhere you damn want.”

  “Anywhere?” she gigg
les, shaking her head. “I think you might be pushing the limits of that word.”

  “Nope,” I smirk. “For you, I’d drive to the North Pole and hijack Santa’s sleigh if that’s what it took, and then I’d bend you over it and strip you naked, keeping you nice and warm with my hands all over those thick gorgeous legs.”

  “Thick,” she repeats, her tone unreadable. It reminds me of the ways she spoke when I gifted her with the chocolates.

  “Thick,” I snarl passionately, placing my hand on her juicy-as-fuck thigh and slide it up her leg because even if she’s not ready for my engorged manhood, she’s not going to stop me getting a feel of her delicious flesh.

  “Do you think we can go for a walk?” she moans, putting her hand atop mine as if she’s fighting between letting me slide up all the way and stopping me.

  “Here? Now?”

  “Do you mind?”

  I climb from the car and walk around, warmth firing in my chest when she laughs at the ostentatious way I open the door for her, as though I’m her personal valet.

  “Your wish is my command,” I say, acting sillier than I have since…

  Shit, since I was a kid, probably.

  “What a gentleman,” she teases.

  But we both know that’s the biggest joke of all.

  I’m the furthest goddamn thing from a gentleman.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Millie

  We walk for a minute or so in quiet, the only noise the light wind around us, rustling the trees, the branches swaying. The snow has stopped and a comfortable peace has fallen over the forest as we walk, without destination, the air pricking my cheeks coolly.

  “Maybe I didn’t think this whole go-for-a-walk thing through,” I murmur, shivering as the wind tickles the back of my neck.

  Markus takes off his jacket, which he had the foresight to go back for before we started in earnest. He drapes it over my shoulders and then leans down, kissing the top of my head softly, a different tingle altogether moving over me now.

  Back in the car, I wanted to let his hand slide further up my thigh, press between my legs, let my lust unleash, and not live so perpetually in my head all the time.

  After what happened last night and in the parking lot, sinking sinfully into Markus would make it all go away.

  But the word thick kept stabbing into my mind.

  “What’s wrong, Millie?” he says, brushing his lips down my face, close to my ear.

  “Apart from the obvious?” I sass.

  “Something happened in the car,” he murmurs. “Did I say something?”

  I lean back – his arms around me, solid oak holding me up – and search his face for any sign that he’s playing me.

  He called me thick. Did he mean it as a good thing?

  “Look at me,” I murmur.

  He smirks slightly, eyes skirting up and down my body.

  “Okay, I’m looking.”

  “What do you see?”

  “Is this a trick?”

  “No … well, maybe.”

  “I see my woman,” he growls, sliding his hands down to my hips, grabbing possessively. “I see the answer to a question I never asked, not once, never even thought to ask.”

  “Okay, fine,” I murmur, blushing fiercely. “But I’m guessing you’d agree I’m not conventionally attractive, right?”

  He narrows his eyes, eyebrows furrowing.

  “Millie, you’re the most attractive woman I’ve ever seen.”

  I spin away from him, letting out a strangled breath, all the craziness of the past few days – the past few years – coming out.

  “Millie, what is it?”

  I wheel on him, a voice within telling me that I’m being self-centered, that there are bigger things going on right now than my self-image. But it’s always there, whispering at the edge of everything I do.

  “I’m fat, Markus,” I spit.

  His mouth opens and he stares at me, shaking his head slowly.

  “You better be fucking joking,” he snarls.

  “W-what?” I whimper.

  “I said,” he growls, “that you better be fucking joking. What insane bullshit is this? No, Millie, you’re not stick thin. You don’t have a six-pack. You’re not built like a ballerina. No, you’re not like the models on the billboards and the actresses on TV. No, okay, you’re none of that. But to call yourself fat, to label those mind-fucking curves like that—to discredit yourself like that, to not realize how downright beautiful you are …”

  He turns away, fists clenched, body trembling.

  I watch, heart hammering in my chest like it’s going to choke me.

  He’s so convincing.

  An unfair thought—a reflex. He’s convincing because he’s being honest and sincere, I tell myself.

  I approach slowly, hand outstretched, his suit jacket weighing down on me with security.

  “You’ve got curves,” he says quietly, glancing over at me, his eyes drinking me in. “You’re full figured. You look like a lady who’s not afraid of a meal and that’s so damn attractive. I’ve never liked this craze we have these days, these … I don’t know what you’d call them, unobtainable ideals? Shit, I’m no philosopher. You’re not fat. Your figure drives me fucking feral. The point is, Millie, that there’s no woman in this world I find sexier than you. Surely you know that by now.”

  He reaches out and slides his hand from my shoulder, down the side of my breast, over my belly, and to my hip.

  “Every inch of you is made to drive me insane,” he snarls. “If you can do me one favor, it’s to never call yourself fat again. Because you’re not. Or even if you were, it wouldn’t matter. Because you’re beautiful. You’re angelic. You’re sinfully fucking sexy. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted in a lady.”

  I blink, tears whelming in my eyes and trying to gush down my cheeks.

  No, not trying to, I am crying.

  Crazily, selfishly, I’m crying happy tears over his words when there’s so much else going on.

  Markus surges toward me, pulls me into him, and cradles me to his chest. I bury my face in the manly muskiness of his pectorals, letting loose the pain I’ve held in for years, gripping into his sides and feeling the rock hard surface of his muscles beneath his shirt.

  Trembling, unleashing, I cry and cry until I have no more tears left to give.

  “I never thought anybody would say that to me before,” I whisper.

  He lifts the hem of his shirt, using it to wipe my tears away, revealing a tempting sliver of muscled skin, a V-shape of flesh leading down his pants toward his manhood.

  “Well, get used to it,” he smirks. “I find it hard to envision a day I’ll stop telling you you’re beautiful.”

  “I thought you were going to punch a tree or something then,” I say, giggling past the tears. “You got so angry.”

  “Hmm,” he murmurs.

  “Hmm?” I banter. “What is it? What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Shall we walk?”

  “Sure, if we talk too. Deal?”

  He glowers for a moment, looking like the beast he has come to be known as around town. But then his eyes settle on me and he nods shortly.

  “For you, Millie,” he sighs. “Yeah, we can talk.”

  I loop my arm into his, a rush of confidence comes from seemingly nowhere and barrels right into me.

  It might have something to do with how he looked at me when he got angry at me calling myself the F-word, as though the very notion was absurd.

  We walk through the snowscape of the forest, pine and snow and ice crunching beneath our feet, settling coolly on the back of my neck so that I shrug his weighty jacket up higher. He smooths his hand over my shoulder and pulls me close to him, walking, sinking into each other as though any moment we could just disappear into our own private world.

  “Whoah,” I murmur when the trees break and open onto a clearing, Crystal Lake living up to its name as it blinks in the sunlight.

  “Whoah is da
mn right,” Markus says.

  Trees border it on all sides, so that it seems like a secret, as though the only way to find your here is by accident.

  “I’ve heard people talk about Crystal Lake, but I’ve never actually been here,” I murmur, as we descend the short decline and stop at the edge. “It’s beautiful.”

  I turn to face Markus, his forest colored eyes fixated on the winking icy light, as though he’s seeing things that I couldn’t even guess at.

  “Where are you, Markus?” I ask.

  He smirks tightly, and then grabs me and spins me closer to him, a dancer’s pirouette that has me feeling crazily graceful.

  Our bodies crash together and he leans down, claiming my lips with his, rough and just-him, our tongues magnetized to each other, to taste and feel the tingling points of pleasure dancing up and down my mouth.

  “Right here,” he snarls.

  I place my hand on his chest, panting, my breath causing puffs of fog to rise into the air. “Okay, smarty pants. What were you thinking about? You know, you still haven’t told me why you went all werewolf at the F-word.”

  “Maybe it’s as simple as me not wanting you to think that—ever. Because it’s not fucking true.”

  “Hmm,” I say, teasing him.

  He chuckles grimly and his hands snake up my sides, finding my ticklish spots.

  I mock glare at him. “Don’t you dare,” I tell him.

  “Or what?”

  “Or—or I’ll never kiss you again,” I banter, knowing it’s not true, could never be true.

  He sucks in the winter air. “Damn, Millie, you drive a hard bargain,” he says. “But here’s the thing … I don’t believe you.”

  I squeal in delight and shock as his tickling hands find the spots that usually bring me the most savage self-consciousness. My curvy hips, the spots between my breasts and my belly, and yet when he touches me I feel something beneath the whispering doubt.

  I feel …

  Sexy as a freaking queen.

  “Okay, okay,” I gasp, squeezing onto the solid mass of his chest muscles.

  He stops, smirking, cocky and so handsome I could shed an icy tear.

  “You shouldn’t look so damn cute when you’re being tickled,” he growls. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to resist now.”

  “You better,” I say, as we break off our embrace and hold hands, walking around the edge of Crystal Lake. “Out here, it sort of feels like Stone Harbor doesn’t exist, doesn’t it?”