Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning

by Mary Catherine Gebhard

  I closed my eyes.

  Abruptly the weight of the bed gave way. I opened my eyes and he was standing, holding the core out to me. I gripped the blanket, holding my breath.

  He glowered and said, “In time you’ll wish you’d taken this from my hand.” Then he walked out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

  I threw the blankets off, sat up, and exhaled until my chest felt like it would cave in. I stared at the door. My skin felt hot and cold, like I had the flu. I recognized the feeling as safety, relief. He was gone, maybe for the night.

  I could sleep, alone. This room was dark and foreboding, but at least I was alone. I didn’t have to spar with him or, more importantly, what he did to me. I settled back into the bed, my limbs relishing the warmth and my muscles finally releasing the tightness that had been wrapped around them like a boa constrictor all day.

  Then the door flew open.

  At the harsh banging sound of the door bouncing against the wall, I jumped off the bed. I didn’t look to see who it was; it was instinct. Thoughts weren’t coherent. I just knew I had to hide. I scrambled to the floor and under the bed. Tears fell from my lids, but I wasn’t crying. To cry I would have had to acknowledge what was happening, and conscious thought had left the building.

  I wasn’t even under the bed when a hand grasped my ankle.

  “No, please!” I frantically palmed the carpet, the soft fibers feeling rough and cruel against my skin as I was pulled out from under the bed, the light from the other side disappearing.

  He threw me to the ground and seconds later I heard the door slam. Pushing my hair out of my face, I looked at the new room. I tried to find any distinguishing features, but there weren’t any. It was small, no bigger than a closet—I would know, too, considering I’d slept in one most my life.

  The place was barren. There was no furniture, meaning no bed, no lamp, no chairs—just in case you didn’t get the picture with no furniture. The hardwood floor shone even in the darkness.

  There was only one item in the small space: an apple core.

  An apple core he’d obviously left behind.

  My gaze traveled to the door I’d been thrown through, eyes fixing on the doorknob. It was fancy looking, some kind of turquoise porcelain with a brass lace head.

  I blinked, looking away. I didn’t need a bed. I could sleep on the floor. I’d sleep in the attic in the scratchy insulation if it meant I could get away from the Beast. There was just one thing keeping this from being my heaven, one little thing: a window. A small, wide-open window exposed me to the frigid, New York City winter.

  I walked right to it and of course tried to close it. I tugged and tugged but it was painted or glued or held open only for Thor to close. With a sigh, I went to the opposite side of the room and sat in a corner, drawing my knees up to my chest.

  I unzipped the Dior dress and lifted it so I could pull my arms inside the fabric, sort of how I used to do with sweaters when I was a child and Papa would forget to pay the gas bill. The sweater arms would hang limply by my side and I would keep myself warm by putting skin to skin. The dress didn’t have arms though, so I tugged the skirt up around my neck.

  Snow was starting to fall outside and the wind carried it inside the room. It fell on the floor, dusting the hardwood with white ashes. Shivering, I stuck my head inside the dress. I figured he wouldn’t leave me here for very long. That was what I thought at first.

  At first, the cold was just uncomfortable.

  My hunger increased.

  My thirst did too.

  My skin numbed.

  After what felt like two hours, I lifted my head; the floor was entirely dusted in snow. I glanced over to the door and it was like the doorknob grew before my eyes.

  I stood up. Holding the dress to my body, I walked over and curled my fingers around the knob. It turned and would have opened for me, but I snapped my hand back as if the knob was electric. Memories of what happened the last time I went through an unlocked door slammed into me and I stumbled backward, still staring at the porcelain knob.

  Slowly, I walked back to my corner. Sitting down, I stared at the turquoise knob and stuck my hands inside my dress again. The dress was a reminder of the lesson I’d learned about unlocked doors: the other side was undoubtedly worse. I was freezing, but I didn’t put my head back into the dress.

  On the floor white cinders of snow masked the dark wood. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the door, but it was hot on my neck, just like the apple core. I was all alone in the room, but it was like I was trapped inside with two other bodiless, malevolent entities.

  I tried to focus my mind on the way the snow drifted across the floor. It slid and slipped, like it was floating. At the end of what felt like three hours, I gave up. I stood up and, holding my dress so it wouldn’t fall, walked over to the window, my ribs feeling like they were made of paper. The entire time the doorknob and apple core were at my back.

  When I reached the window a gust of chilly air hit me.

  It was night time, but the city that never slept was earning its name. Lights were on everywhere, twinkling in reds, yellows, whites. Cars were honking in a cacophonous symphony. I put one hand on the sill and looked down at the street. People were milling about, but they looked tiny. It would be a long way to fall, but it would be over instantly.

  If only I could fit.

  Slowly I curled my hand in the cool air then looked to the doorknob, to the core dusted with snow. Those options felt more like suicide than freezing. Freezing was freedom. Going through the door was annihilation.

  I walked back to my corner and let the dress drop to the floor, leaving me naked. When I sat down, the ground was cold and snow melted where my skin touched it, making me wet. The wetness amplified the freeze. With determination, I took my dress and placed it beneath my head, making a sort of pillow. Then I lay down.

  As I shivered, teeth chattering violently against my jaw, I tried to remain calm. There was this tug inside my gut, a primordial warning that wanted to take control of my arms and have me put the dress back on. But, if I did that, I would still die, just not as obviously. At least this way there would be a body.

  I closed my eyes, trying not to focus on the bitter burn against my skin. I didn’t know how long it was going to take me to freeze to death—I’d read stories about people who froze to death in as short as ten minutes or as long as hours—but eventually I wouldn’t feel the cold. Eventually I would feel warm, even.

  My gaze flicked to the apple core again, shriveled on the hardwood floor, dusted with a bit of snow. I knew he could have had it cleaned up. Everything was immaculate in the penthouse. He’d picked it up from the other room and brought it with him for a reason. He’d thrown it to the floor for a reason, too.

  To taunt me.

  To remind me.

  Most people remember Dante’s hell as fiery and lava-filled, but the final center, the darkest, most horrible place, the place where Satan likes to hang out, is cold. Satan is frozen, and his chilly winds are felt in all the levels of hell.

  Hell is not a boiling place. Hell is an icy place. I laughed at the thought then groaned as my teeth chattered ferociously. What a perfect description of Beast: a beautiful, fallen angel, the most beautiful and evil of them all.

  I had one last thought before I fell asleep: at least my sojourn in hell had been quick.

  When I awakened, twisting, crackling flames filled my vision. I saw more than felt at first. Saw the orange glow, the crackling pops. Saw the way the large yellow-orange tendrils cast shadows. I was disoriented. The last thing I remembered was falling asleep in the room, sure I was going to die, thinking about hell.

  “God dammit,” I said, my teeth chattering. I’m going to have to walk back through each individual level of hell. As I blinked, though, my vision got clearer and more senses returned. I saw where I really was: in a sitting area, on some kind of armchair, sitting in front of a fire, a blanket draped across my body.

  Beast w
as there as well, leaning casually against the marble mantle of the fireplace, holding another fucking apple. He sliced it, watching me with an aloof expression.

  “Hungry yet?” he asked, taking a bite. Seeing him, I wasn’t entirely convinced I hadn’t landed in hell after all. He bit into the red flesh and the juices ran down his chin, across his sharp, angular jaw, trickling down his neck. I had the worst thought pop into my head: I want to lick that. I shook my head, clearing the thoughts.

  I knew what the asshole wanted. When I stood, such violent shivers racked me that the blanket nearly dropped from my shoulders, but I hurriedly caught it. My limbs felt heavy and sore. Holding the blanket with one arm, I made sure to keep the fabric grasped tightly so I didn’t expose myself. I tried not to think about the fact that in order to put the blanket on me, he would have already seen everything. With a deep, dogged breath, I walked to him, holding my free hand out.

  “No, you’ll eat that.” He lifted his chin, gaze flicking from my eyes to behind my shoulder. With dread, I turned slowly around, following his gaze to an end table next to the chair. When I realized what he was talking about, I was simultaneously furious and revolted. Sitting neatly on the table was the fucking apple core. I spun around, glaring at him. I swallowed every bit of pride I had to walk up to him and he wanted me to eat the fucking core? In front of him?

  How about he suck it instead? I’d go back to my original plan of dying.

  I took my hand back and tugged the blanket tighter around me, waiting for him to throw me back in the room. Instead he ate a piece of his apple and stated, “When you’ve finished eating, you may join me in the living room. You’ll stay here until you decide.”

  With equal parts stunned indignation and mute fury, I watched him leave the room. I stared at the dark maw of the doorway he’d walked through, my eyes flickering to the dried core on the table. When I was sure he wasn’t going to come back, I picked it up then walked to the fire. It took me about two seconds to make my decision.

  It had been at least two days since I’d had any food, since the morning Beast came for me. If I’d known what was going to happen, I would have eaten a huge breakfast, but I hadn’t, so all I’d eaten that day was a banana. My gut felt like it was growing a home for the Minotaur, but I wouldn’t let him take everything from me.

  I threw the core into the fire, waited until the flames licked it and turned it into ash, and then walked out. The Beast was reclining in the sitting area I’d walked into the day before, reading the paper. Everything about him screamed casual, content, and most infuriatingly, handsome. His hair fell to his neck in loose black waves. He wore a forest green Henley that not only stuck to his muscles but somehow brought out both colors in his eyes.

  I looked down at myself: covered in tears and blood, hair a mess.

  Good.

  Maybe he’d leave me the fuck alone.

  He flipped a page. “Welcome back.”

  “Yeah, well…” I shrugged in the blanket, trying to portray confidence. “There’s nothing you can do to me that you haven’t done already.”

  He chuckled lowly, but didn’t say a word.

  Four

  Opening his palm, the Beast looked down at the sleek black surface of the remote, thinking about what it controlled. It was just the morning after he’d punished Frankie, since he’d turned off the heat and thrown her into the empty storage room with the window open. She’d lasted in there for nearly four hours.

  Twisting the remote in his hand, he thought about her resolve. Her strength had shocked him. The night before, he’d watched her through his cameras, watched what she would do. He’d left the door open for her, but she refused to go through it, proving she was a quick study. For four hours he’d stared at his monitor. He had work to do, shit to get done, but he couldn’t help staring at the girl.

  Mostly she sat in the corner, head in her lap, conserving her warmth. He wasn’t worried about the cold. The human body is hardy and it would take much more than a window for her to die. Mostly, it would be uncomfortable. But then she’d taken off her dress and lain down, and he’d sat up straighter in his chair. For an hour she’d been stone and unmoving. Another hour had passed and he’d watched as snow settled on her naked skin.

  Then he’d had to intercede, which was a burgeoning pattern with her. Beast would formulate a plan and in some way or another, she’d ruin it. He needed to get her out of his life, but for the first time, he wasn’t sure he was in control of that decision. It was as if he was watching his hand pick up a ball when his mind said to pick up a bat.

  With an exhale, Beast closed his fist over the remote and sat down at his desk. He looked out at the room; the office looked very different than the first time he’d been there.

  But it hadn’t always been his office, just like the Beast hadn’t always been a beast—or at least, it hadn’t always been so obvious.

  He was once Anteros Drago, an orphan that slept on the streets of Venice. It was coincidence, or maybe fate, that brought him to the feet of the infamous Lucio Pavoni. Lucio had long since immigrated to the States and was operating the business from there when their paths collided.

  Lucio Pavoni was a name of legend in Italy. Anteros grew up hearing the stories so much that Lucio was a myth, and myths never appeared in reality. Also, in all of the stories, Lucio stayed in the boot of Italy, in Sicily. He’d never visit Venice, everyone said.

  Then one hazy yellow day, Anteros picked the wrong pocket. Anteros wasn’t afraid to pick the pockets of the elite; in fact, they were his favorite targets. While other urchins went for the obvious—tourists with their maps out and heads buried—Anteros cast his line for the biggest fish.

  That fateful day, Lucio Pavoni wore a bespoke three-piece suit and shoes that reflected brighter than the sun, but it was the way he held himself that drew Anteros to him. He radiated power. He reflected reverence. That day Anteros wanted to pick something more than money.

  Anteros followed him through the streets, keeping a distance, waiting for the right moment. He was just a boy then, and his youth and the ability to avoid any real consequences had made him foolhardy. When he grasped Lucio’s wallet, all of that changed.

  It had been more than two decades since Anteros picked Lucio’s pocket. Now the man was dying and Anteros was only weeks away from staking a final, irrevocable claim of power. Anteros spun in his chair and looked out to the iron blue water of the Hudson River. He could be sure this was not the future Lucio had intended when he took Anteros with him that day—him lying sick and dying in a bed while Anteros sat in his warehouse moving around chess pieces to maintain his tenuous grasp on power.

  Those in the Family used to wonder why Lucio would rescue an orphan, and the conclusion was that Anteros was the shoddy replacement for the two sons Lucio had lost. Anteros knew the truth. Lucio had always treated Anteros with less dignity than the other soldiers. As he grew, other soldiers—worse soldiers—got promoted ahead of him. The most Lucio saw in Anteros was a ghost of what could have been, and that made him bitter.

  Staring out the top-floor window to the docks on the river, Anteros remembered back to when Lucio was actually running things, not just in name. The window was a testament to that time, the glass old and blurry, having not been replaced during the renovations.

  Anteros had spoken to Lucio in the very room he stood in now, though then it had been just a derelict warehouse. There had been no furniture, the lights were just bulbs swinging from strings. The room had been quiet, cold as there was no heat, the only sound was a faint creaking as the wind wove its way through the wood.

  He’d hoped to get approval, hoped to get promoted. Anteros had been a soldier much longer than the others and was starting to wonder when he would advance—if he would advance.

  “Listen to me, boy,” Lucio had growled. “I’ve been running this longer than you’ve been alive. I could snap my fingers”—he did so—“and have you killed. You’re nothing but what I make you.” Anteros had nod
ded deferentially and left.

  That day Anteros stopped relying on anyone but himself. Lucio had given him passage to America, but that was all he would give him. Lucio preached about brotherhood and rising far in the Family, but like most preachers, his tongue was simply coated in honey. A few months later a job would bring Anteros and the Wolves together, cementing his conclusion: if he wanted power, he would have to take it.

  Anteros turned from the old glass to his office. Placing his hands atop his desk, he curled them into fists. Inside one palm he could feel a protrusion—the remote he’d brought with him. Despite his early intervention with Frankie, the punishment had had the desired effect: that morning Frankie obeyed his commands. Still, he saw the disobedience in her eyes. Occasionally she slipped, her tongue betraying her thoughts and revealing the iron soul beneath, the iron soul he felt compelled to bend.

  He thought about her back at his home. He’d put her in his bed again after punishing her, needing to have her in his sheets. It should bother him, he should be wondering why he was doing it, but all he could think about was her in his bed.

  Waiting for something she didn’t know was coming.

  Just as his finger pressed on the remote, there was a knock at the door. He closed his palm, pulling the remote into his lap, and called out, “Come in.”

  Rhys entered the office, Emilio trailing with bored interest behind him. Stopping before Anteros, Rhys held his arms behind his back, ever the respectful subordinate, and quickly launched into what Anteros missed the night before at the meeting with the Wolves.

  “I’ve spoken with Senator Hatch,” Rhys stated. “Half-way through the cycle, he’ll drop out.” Emilio sat down and slouched comfortably on the couch. He had at least dressed properly, Anteros noted as Emilio crossed a bespoke suit-clad leg.