Out on the patio, the morning passed by slowly. It felt longer, more sluggish, the way mornings do when you’ve seen the full extent of the night. Wrapped in a cashmere sweater over leggings and snow boots with a plush gray blanket thrown over my knees, I stared out at the iron-cast city. Without sleep, my thoughts felt trapped in a bog, my limbs drowned in slime.
I’d run out of physical tears but the action behind them remained. The labored breathing. The heavy lids. The headache. The deep, chasmic sorrow. My feet were propped up on the railing, the journal resting on my thighs, but I kept staring at the ledge, wishing a rat would run along it.
One good thing came of the previous night, at least. When Beast left, casting me away like a used plastic bag, I was able to walk back to the library, grab the journal, and take it back to the room. Eyes feeling tight as if the edges were glued together with dried tears, I looked away and down to the cursive lettering.
This journal belongs to Sofia De Luca.
I skipped past the part I’d already read, past how the woman, Sofia, wished to kill herself because her new husband was an asshole. Yeah, that wasn’t hard to relate to at all. I continued to the next part.
Not dead yet.
Feels like it.
I snuck out to see Alessio and got home too late. Dario beat me. I don’t mind the bruises as much as I mind the distance from Alessio. Alessio and I have planned to run away together. I can’t be certain, but I think his child grows inside me. I haven’t bled in weeks and am fatigued, all signs that Mama says point to being with child. The child could be Dario’s, as he takes me every chance he gets…but I don’t care. It will be Alessio’s even if the child doesn’t share his blood.
Soon I will have no use for this journal.
Soon I will be happy.
My head shot up at a sound, eyes darting over to the door and then to the ledge. My chest pounded, ears rushing with blood. I caressed the worn page of the journal, eyes scanning my surroundings. When I was certain I was alone, I returned my attention back to the journal. The next entry didn’t relate at all to what I’d been reading.
Today I overheard Alessio’s father, Lucio, talking with his sister Lucia. It was something I shouldn’t have heard and I fear for my life. If this secret got out, it could ruin not just Lucio and Lucia, but all of us.
If anyone finds out I know, I will not live long after.
This is something I cannot tell even Alessio.
The rest of the page was torn out. I skipped to the next part, but it was completely off topic. I flipped back, holding the page between my thumbs and comparing as if I could find some common ground. I was so engrossed in this process that I didn’t notice the patio doors open behind me, nor did I notice the sound of footfalls on the floor. When there was a presence behind me, it was too late.
“Mistress.”
I jumped, the journal falling from my thighs to the snow-dusted patio. I spun to see curly, blond hair. It was him, the boy who was like a ghost in the penthouse, bringing me food, cleaning up the food, always there and yet not. I should have realized he would see me; ghosts see everything.
His face was completely blank while inside I was a mess of emotion.
I’d been caught.
I’d lose my only weapon. My emotions swelled in my throat, threatening to suffocate me like the time Papa gave me peanuts and I had to be rushed to the hospital. My esophagus had swelled up. I’d nearly died. Distantly I wondered if you could suffer an allergic reaction to emotion, like when the peanuts had overwhelmed my system.
“I won’t tell him,” he said as if sensing my thoughts.
“What?” I gasped. “Why?”
“You aren’t the only one with secrets, mistress.”
“But…” I sputtered, swallowing spit and expelling breath at the same time. He stepped toward me, hands behind his back.
“The Beast will have company tonight. You will need to wear something special.” He bowed his head and turned around. I watched his apathetic exit, feeling even more confused. Then he paused, hand on the patio doorframe. With back still turned to me he said, “You should find a better hiding spot than under your mattress.”
“But—” I started again.
“You may call me Nikolai.” And then he left.
Later that night, Nikolai’s words still played in my head. I remembered staring at his body leave the room, waiting for him to return with Beast, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
When it didn’t, I was no more at ease. Beast had said he saved Nikolai, but Nikolai had said I wasn’t the only one with secrets—what did that mean? Was he a prisoner as well? Did I have a friend? I don’t know how he knew where I was hiding the journal and as I chose a new spot—outside, under a loose brick—I didn’t feel any better. If he could see me in bed, could he see me as I put the journal under the brick?
Nikolai didn’t feel like a friend. I wasn’t able to think on it very long, though, as the reason Nikolai had come in the first place preoccupied me. The Beast had company coming. It was time for me to play royal concubine.
My dresses were changed out weekly so there wasn’t even a chance of wearing something twice. Except for the yellow dress. That one was never changed out—probably to taunt me. My fingers stroked it as I passed by the sheaf of dresses, contemplating what to wear for the evening.
There were like two rich kids at my high school. They were siblings and they always dressed in band shirts and jeans, or some variant thereof. One year we were assigned a school project together. We met up at their house and I saw their closet. I was awed. So many clothes, but they wore the same goddamn thing every day. I always wondered why they didn’t wear nice clothes, like the ones I had now.
Now I wondered if it was rebellion.
Every bone in my body wanted to show up in jeans and a Cure t-shirt, but I didn’t want every bone in my body broken so, you know, choices.
I reached the end of the row, still undecided. Each gown was unequivocally lovely. Gorgeous. A work of art, just as the yellow vintage Dior had been. I walked back down the row, expelling a breath that felt like a plea.
At last I chose a periwinkle Paolo Sebastian gown. White lace flowers sprinkled the tulle bottom. It had an open back with more flowers creeping up from the bottom and one line of pearl buttons, though they appeared to float on my naked skin. The bodice was also covered in flowers and it had long white lace sleeves that looked like they were painted on my skin.
It was beautiful. Flawless.
I hated it.
I released the bottom of the gown just as the door flew open behind me. My breath left me. Beast was there, completely dwarfing the frame. Of course it wasn’t his size that caught my breath—I’d at least become somewhat used to that by now—it was his eyes, his gaze, the intense way he looked at me.
When the silence stretched too long, so palpable it felt like it was beating inside my chest alongside my heart, I asked, “So, I assume McDonald’s is on the menu tonight.” In lieu of responding, Beast moved forward, shutting the door behind him as he went. I had to quickly step backward so he didn’t push me over.
My fingers made little rosettes in the cloth of my blue gown as I waited for him to talk. His gaze was a hot sun on my body, making me sweat and goading me to try to move out of the glare. He stepped forward and I stepped back, but the arch behind my knees hit the bed. He stepped forward again and I was pinned.
It was this—the agonizing and the waiting—that was terrible. The hot stares. The sucking breaths. The not knowing what was next. I was never allowed to get used to my prison. He disallowed me routine, constantly keeping me on tiptoes so I was like a ballerina with bleeding toes.
The Beast had the ability to make me feel more naked in clothes than when my flesh was actually exposed. His fingers danced along the embroidery of my dress. The pad of his index finger outlined the stitching, as if refusing to touch my skin. Still keeping his hands only on the fabric, he walked slowly behind me. I could feel his cool
breath against my neck.
He whispered into my ear, “You look entirely fuckable.”
I sucked in my breath as he unbuttoned the back. The Beast was too unreadable. Blue-green circles marked my body from where his fingers had gripped my flesh too tight. Now, he said those dirty words in the most raw and feral voice, but he was also unbuttoning my dress, careful not to rip the fabric.
He spun me around and my hair whipped his chest. I clenched my teeth as he lifted my chin to meet his stare. It was hard and unreadable. I hated his inscrutable gaze. At least when he was angry or lustful, I knew what to expect. With these looks, anything could happen.
He seized my mouth and I nearly buckled with the force, but he caught me. I grappled at his chest, wrinkling the fine fabric. The Beast held my back, grabbing at my bare flesh, bruising it in the sweetest way. It would have been so much easier if he were obviously evil, the way a Beast should be, the way I’d imagined him when I traded myself.
Sometimes I found myself thinking back to the kitchen and wondering how it might be if instead of putting me on the counter, he’d pushed into my mouth. I wondered if I would still be me. If I wouldn’t be so close to shattering. The way he treated me was twisted.
He pulled me closer, fingers going deep into my hair.
It did not feel good.
It couldn’t.
Yet I relished it all the same, because it made me feel alive.
One hand left my skull and gripped the bottom half of the dress, pulling the cascade of fabric up my body.
“No,” I said as I gripped the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer. I was saying it to myself. It was like a mantra, as if I could invoke the parts of myself he stole back into my body. He was twisting me, pulling me to him, and I wanted nothing more than to let go and give in. When I was with him, it felt better than good; it was pure, uncut bliss, the kind of pleasure that gives you a hangover when it’s gone.
He lifted me up, setting me on top of the vintage-looking dresser. It shook with the movement, rattling against the wall. His palm pressed against my core and I sighed as he kissed my neck. My arms wove around his neck and my legs wrapped around his waist.
A warm haze settled in my body. I was delirious, intoxicated. He pulled aside the lingerie, exposing me. Suddenly I wanted nothing more than to feel his flesh against my flesh, and I arched up to his palm. I gripped his neck, my fingers digging into his flesh, and he pushed a finger inside me.
“I want to feel you coming into my hand,” he growled into my ear. It was as if cold water was poured all over my body. I suddenly remembered what I was doing and with who. I froze in his arms. As I froze, he stilled. I could feel him pull back, could feel his fingers leave my body. He sat back, putting space between our bodies so that I could see his face.
He didn’t look angry.
He stared at me with those intense, soul-shredding eyes and licked his fingers off as if daring me to refute what was clearly on them.
I’d managed to stay relatively hidden, gnawing on crudité while the Beast spoke with his men. His “friends” had already arrived when we’d left my room to join them, which made me wonder if they’d heard any of what we’d done. It was so weird to feel embarrassed or private when my situation so didn’t warrant such things.
To feel embarrassed that his “friends” would have heard me when they’d already seen me naked, seen me on display, didn’t make sense, but I felt it all the same.
The Beast was wearing what he usually wore: an impeccably tailored three-piece suit. I had to give it to the asshole—he knew how to dress. His wickedly dark jacket, waistcoat, and trousers matched with his black shirt and a black tie gave him a menacing yet elegant air. The thin, silver fob of the pocket watch that dangled from his waistcoat and went into his jacket added a certain regality.
At least what we’d done in the bedroom had wrinkled his attire some. Taking a bite of carrot from across the room, I bitterly wondered if he even used the pocket watch, or if it was just for looks. As if he could hear my thoughts, he turned and looked at me. His ocean-colored glare washed over me, drowning me, making me feel heavy and soaked and breathless. I looked away.
There was no food at the dining table. Despite his best efforts, I was sure I’d lost a couple of pounds since arriving, and he never seemed to eat anything. Apparently his friends didn’t eat anything either. I guess I’m the insane one for expecting there to be food at a dinner party. I sat down at the table and watched his friends, trying not to look too sulky.
There were six men, two I recognized as his dogs, the ones that did whatever he told them to do and bit at whatever he told them to bite. I thought their names were Arlo and Tough Tino. They had been at the club, outside the room, and were around occasionally. They hung by the door, obviously not partaking in the “festivities.” The other four I recognized immediately from the night he took me out, the night at the club.
I winced at the recollection.
Out of that dark, dingy club light, I could see them all clearly now. They all had distinguishing features, each looking like a carved sculpture from hell. Each dressed similarly to the Beast, wearing tailored suits and hundred-dollar ties. They hung near the window, sipping amber-colored liquid and talking lowly. I would have rather been left alone with a mad dog than one of those men.
The one called Pretty Boy looked over to me. I quickly averted my gaze, focusing on the way the glass table reflected the moody light. Most of the nicknames had me wondering about their inception, but I didn’t have to wonder why they called him Pretty Boy. He had coiffed hair, smooth skin, and navy blue eyes. He looked like a model, his lips begging to say sweet things, but I knew otherwise. He’d been the cruelest one that night at the club, his lips twisting in delight when I cried. I touched my cheek, remembering where he’d slapped me.
I said, how loud will you scream for us? I sighed jaggedly at the memory. How could I even start to think there was something nice or sweet about this life? Just because the Beast had shown me some tenderness didn’t mean he was tender. He was probably like a cat playing with food.
It was a real hopping party. No one was saying anything. Low haunting music played. It sounded Italian, maybe operatic. When I glanced back up, the Beast had disappeared and all the men were staring at me. Through the icy numbness I forced upon myself, the bitter lidocaine I applied to survive, I wondered if I was the party favor, if this wasn’t a dinner party but actually a repeat of what had happened at the club.
The only food was crudités and canapés, not exactly dinner. Also, I was the only one eating. Everyone else hung near the window, sipping their drinks, whispering their words and unabashedly staring at me. Like a gazelle among the lions, I could see their glowing eyes through the tall grass, could feel their murderous intent.
“Dance with me.” I jumped at the low voice, turning to see the Beast had reappeared behind my back. Sitting down, he completely towered over me. How sick is it that I was relieved to see him?
It wasn’t a request; his hand was outstretched and his eyes narrowed as he waited for me to take it. I clasped my hand in his, not saying anything about the weird timing or weird choice in music, and followed him to the divide between the dining room and living room. The Beast drew me close and I went numb in his arms.
Numb was better than nauseated. Numb was better than aroused. I couldn’t handle my feelings around him. I hated him and I wanted him. He simultaneously made me want to throw myself off a building and throw myself at him. It was best not to feel anything at all.
Beast took my hand, spinning me around before bringing me back to his chest. Pressed into his chest right as he was about to spin me out, my mind spun out to earlier that night. I’d lost myself, just as I had the day before. When he was kissing me, I had forgotten. My defenses had fallen, making what happened next even worse.
I’d told him I hated him to gain composure, to build my walls again. It’s not your love I want, he’d responded, and just like that they’d fall
en all over again.
He spun me back into his arms.
“You are beautiful in that dress,” he murmured against my ear. My eyes widened at the affectionate compliment, then dulled when I remembered why I’d picked it.
“It reminded me of a fairytale,” I whispered.
“This isn’t a fairytale, Frankie,” he said against my earlobe. I nearly scoffed. Obviously not. Men are drinking wine by the window I lost my virginity on, eyeing me like meat. They’re undressing me with their eyes because they actually know what lies beneath, because of you.
He twirled me around in circles. I let him do all the work. Twirl, spin. Twirl, spin. It was monotonous in its orchestrated grace and discord.
“Will I ever know your name?” I asked as he dipped me. His hand rested on my lower back as he held me prone. My toes were pointed, legs lifting off the ground as my hair kissed the floor. His chest pressed firmly against mine, and his eyes…his lips… I craned my neck, arching my back as far as it could go to get away from them. His intensity rivaled the music. If I gave in I would lose myself just like against the door.
Abruptly he dropped me and walked away. My ass stung with the impact. My dress spread around me. The song continued on.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” I told him, but damned if he tried to stop me. He’d just dropped me on the fucking floor. He eyed me suspiciously for a moment but then it was gone, as if he knew that I was done trying anything. His eyes said everything I feared to acknowledge. My fight was gone. I had traded myself, I wasn’t some kidnapped girl. I had made my bed and I was going to lie in it—it wasn’t like I had anywhere I could run, anyway.
I finished washing my hands and stared at myself in the bathroom mirror. It was like I was disappearing before my eyes. I wasn’t upset about disappearing, though; I was upset that I didn’t have a choice. Sighing, I turned and opened the bathroom door.
Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning Page 13