Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning

by Mary Catherine Gebhard

He didn’t moan.

  He didn’t groan.

  He didn’t even come.

  It was like he didn’t even enjoy it. I knew why, too—because he was doing this for me, to make me fall and cave. Despite the small part of myself crying not to give in, it worked. I was getting lost. I hazarded a glance up at him, and it was an absolute mistake—but one that would save me for a little while, at least. My eyes locked with his bluegreen ones, and for a moment I was trapped inside his head. It was like tumbling down a tunnel of razorblades and chewing on broken glass.

  I quickly closed my lids.

  Cut off from the drug, my senses came rushing back. I realized how much I’d almost given away, how far I’d let myself go. I refused to open my eyes; I didn’t trust myself. I held my eyes shut tight as if he was about to come over there and pry them open lid by lid. Instead I heard the shuffle of clothing, the sound of a zipper. Next, Beast ripped the bindings from the ceiling. With my eyes still shut, I fell to the bed in sweet comfort. My muscles ached in places I didn’t even know existed. All I wanted was to disappear in the sheets.

  I kept my eyes closed and listened as the door clicked shut. When I was sure he was gone, I still didn’t open my eyes. In the blackness I didn’t have to acknowledge what had just happened.

  The worst part wasn’t that I’d caved, it wasn’t that I’d lost a bit of myself. The worst part had been the way we’d locked eyes. For that brief second, he’d not been inside me, but I inside him. No amount of showers or therapy would ever erase that.

  Ten

  She was trying so hard to stay under control. Brows slowly pulling inward, mouth just parting, releasing the most tempting sigh, still she wouldn’t just give in.

  “Give in, Frankie,” Anteros said, surprised at the edge in his voice. Anteros was not used to losing. He’d never lost. In his thirty-odd years of life, he’d never once lost—it was how he’d survived so long. In the mafia, you lose, you die. He’d started out thinking Frankie would eventually lose, would give in to him, but the edge in his voice was the kind he’d heard thousands of times before. It was the kind that came just before a man gave into his fate.

  Hardening her gaze, she breathed heavily and said, “Never.” He upped the intensity on the vibrator, but all that served to do was to cause her to bite her bottom lip until blood welled beneath the surface like water in a balloon. She gripped the sheets, not even trying to get away. She was resigned to her torture, willing to take whatever he gave her, but never willing to give anything back.

  No matter how hard her cunt seized against it, now matter how her clit throbbed and pulsed, she kept her morbid stare, as if her insides were stone. He could make her body come, but her mind stayed stone. Yesterday there had been a brief glimmer. While she’d been strung up on the wall, she’d let go and nearly come to him, but it had faded—just like all the other brief glimmers with her. Her self-control was all at once a powerful aphrodisiac and completely maddening.

  Abruptly he turned the device off, throwing it to the floor. It was a rare device he’d ordered just for her, shaped like a rose. It slammed against the hardwood, splitting in two. He stood up and walked toward the door. When he looked back at her, she was blinking, as if coming out of a fog.

  “We have company coming,” he said.

  “Company?” Frankie blanched. Anteros couldn’t blame her. The last time he’d had company, it had ended with her bloody and nearly despoiled on the floor of a bathroom.

  “You will like this company,” he explained. “Gabriella and her husband, Giovani.” A split-second frown covered her face but it was replaced just as quickly with a tepid smile. He had half a mind to ask her what had upset her, but the impulse left him. Who cared? Women were fickle, even more so when it came to their friends.

  “You have an hour to ready yourself.” He left her, slamming the door shut behind him. Now he’d been driven out of his own fucking bedroom. A month ago he wouldn’t have questioned throwing a woman out of his room—no, a month ago he wouldn’t have had a woman in his bedroom.

  Now he was stalking angrily away from the place. Like a fool. Because the woman in his bed refused to warm it.

  With an hour left before company arrived and Frankie hijacking his bedroom, he went to his office. He shut the door behind him. Night fell quickly with winter and as it was nearly halfway through December, it was already full dark outside despite it only being the evening. In New York City, that hardly mattered. It was never dark, at least not completely. In his office, a few electronics glowed in different spots and the city lights twinkled through his floor-to-ceiling windows.

  Feet padding against the hardwood floor, he made a stop at the bar. He hadn’t bothered to grab his shirt off the floor, so he walked bare-chested. He selected the elegantly studded Baccarat glass bottle and poured himself a glass of Rémy Martin Louis XIII.

  Anteros raised the glass, looking into the muddled honey depths for a moment before taking a large swig. His phone buzzed, drawing his attention. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the words.

  Pretty Boy: New shipment rdy for The Institute. U coming?

  Shit, Anteros thought, putting the phone away. He had completely forgotten what day it was. Once upon a time Anteros had declared he would be the one to approve new women before they were shipped to The Institute. Without him down there to approve it, the shipment wouldn’t go through, yet here he was about to host a dinner party.

  A fucking dinner party.

  He told himself keeping the De Lucas happy was good for business, but he’d never given a shit about De Lucas before. He took another sip of honey-colored cognac, staring out at the city. He should just cancel the fucking dinner and go down to the docks. It was more important than the De Lucas. Nothing came before business, before being Boss. Yet as Anteros took another sip, focusing on the way light refracted off the buildings outside, he wondered what Frankie would look like tonight, if she would wear her hair down or if she would wear it up, exposing her slender neck. Finding out was suddenly more important than approving some shipment to The Institute.

  Anteros reached for his champagne glass, which was nearing empty, and made a motion with his hand. Nikolai walked forward with the Dom Perignon and poured, gold liquid streaming into the crystal. Anteros swallowed. The sound of silverware clinked against the fine china.

  Giovani and Gabriella De Luca were seated on the opposite side of his modern glass table. Normally Anteros sat at the head of the table, but for the sake of balance, he sat next to Frankie. Wax dripped down the thin sides of the tapers and onto the radiant silver holders, a reminder of how long the painfully stiff dinner had already lasted. Above them, a massive crystal chandelier hung. Swarovski crystals dangled from it like hundreds of glass tears and light refracted off them, illumining the room with shimmering light.

  Anteros opened his mouth to attempt conversation for the fifth time when his thigh buzzed. Head down, he pulled out his phone.

  Pretty Boy: Where r u?

  Anteros quickly stuffed the phone back into his pocket and turned back to the table. “Do you not enjoy lamb, Gabriella?” he asked, inclining his head toward the rack of lamb cooked to perfection. Gabriella was sitting stock still, having touched nothing save the napkin she put in her lap. Gabriella’s eyes shot to Giovani, who paused from his carnage to grunt in her direction.

  She smiled at Anteros and reached a hand out to her plate; at the same time, Giovani reached his own paw out and slapped hers away. Chagrined, Gabriella placed her hands back in her lap. With mouth in the middle of chewing, Giovani took a gulp of wine and turned to Gabriella.

  “You eat when I tell you to eat, you know that.”

  Gabriella nodded her head gracefully and said to Anteros, “It looks delicious, thank you.”

  Anteros tightened his grip on his knife. Giovani wasn’t insulting him. In fact, he wasn’t sure why he even cared. It wasn’t the first time he’d eaten with Giovani, nor was it the first time Anteros had eaten with someo
ne like Giovani. It wasn’t rare for the men he had dinner with to control their women completely. There had been times where women were forced to sit on their knees and eat scraps. No, it wasn’t unusual at all.

  What was unusual was Anteros.

  Taking another bite of the artfully spiced lamb, Anteros tried to stomach the thought that he should be down at the docks, not having dinner. Why the fuck was he even doing this? He wasn’t Lucio. He never entertained De Lucas. Anteros adjusted his tie and shot a glance at Frankie. She’d barely touched her meal, instead staring hard at Gabriella. With a sigh, Anteros put both his utensils down.

  “Eat,” Anteros said.

  “I’m not very hungry,” Frankie stated simply. Giovani paused his ravaging to look up, waiting to see how “the Beast” would respond to that act of insolence.

  “You will eat anyway,” Anteros growled. Lightly, he set his fork down and snaked his hand under the table, gripping her thigh until the pressure transformed into pain. Releasing a small yip of pain, Frankie lifted her own fork up and ate with robotic motion. Giovani returned to his food.

  His phone buzzed again and he set his fork down. Keeping his hand tight on Frankie, he used his free hand to read the text.

  Big O: Everthin k?

  Anteros looked up at the table. Everyone’s head was down and they were picking at their food or pushing it around the plate. It was as if they were in the mourning. The only exception was Giovani, scarfing his food obliviously. Anteros looked back at the text, his finger hovering over the reply button. Frustrated, he shoved his phone back in his pocket.

  Giovani sat up, removing the napkin from his lap to rub his greasy mouth. He leaned back, hand on his stomach, and waved a hand at Gabriella. “You may eat.” As she was about to lift up a fork he added, “Wait!” She froze. Though no muscle in her body moved, her eyes strained against the sides of her sockets, waiting to see what he would do.

  Giovani took the plate from her and scraped her food onto his own plate. Both Frankie and Anteros paused their meal to watch the action. When it was over, half of her food was on his plate.

  “Gotta keep her thin, you know?” He winked at Anteros then waved a hand to Gabriella. “Continue.”

  As Giovani was about to dig into his second portion, Anteros said, “Her lamb is cold now. Maybe you’d prefer a fresher slice.”

  “’S fine,” Giovani grunted, shoveling food into his mouth. Frankie’s disapproval was like a heater set right next to his body. He shouldn’t care.

  He didn’t care.

  Following Giovani’s lead, Anteros took a large bite of lamb and followed it with an even bigger swallow of champagne. The dinner passed in the same pressure-filled hush until all plates were cleared. It was customary for Anteros to have cigars with Giovani after dinner, but Anteros was having a hard time with custom. He really wanted to tell the guy to fuck off. He’d made his bed, though, so he had to lie in it. Now that he had invited Giovani into his home, he couldn’t be too uncivil. Giovani might be trivial, but he was a De Luca, and custom permitted him a fucking cigar.

  So, while they all left the dining room, Anteros told Giovani to wait for him upstairs. Giovani nodded and ascended the stairs, taking Gabriella with him. Frankie followed, probably assuming she was to go with Gabriella, but Anteros grabbed her arm. He pushed her against the wall so they were hidden by the shadows of the hallway.

  “You look very lovely today, Frankie.” Brushing an open palm over her shoulder, he felt her dress. It was a little rough against his skin, as if he could feel each shimmer of the pale gold fabric. The dress appeared painted to her skin—deep inside her breast, high on one shoulder, low on the other. The fabric was uneven along her skin, as if the painter himself had stuttered at her beauty. If you looked closely, there were little cracks in the flowers where her skin peeked through. Shimmery gold florets adorned one shoulder but not the other.

  “Did you like the lamb?” One hand fell to her waist, fingering the material lightly between his thumb and forefinger. There the shimmery gold material ended and met stark, creamy white. Like freshly fallen snow, it fell to the ground without any wrinkle.

  “It was very…” Her unflinchingly clear gaze, bright even in the shadows, settled on him. “Biblical.”

  “I’ll be sure to pass that along to the chef.” He pulled her other arm up to his mouth. The forearm was decorated in the same gold florets as the other shoulder and her bust, but her wrist was bare. He turned the arm around, kissing her gently on her skin. She’d worn her hair down, and it fell in apparently effortless curls he couldn’t wait to ruin.

  Just as his mouth met her skin, his phone buzzed. And then it buzzed again. And again. Frankie looked to his pocket, where the thing vibrated with purpose.

  “Do you need to get that?” she asked.

  “It’s not important,” he replied, finishing the kiss against her wrist as if to prove the point. Frankie watched him, her eyebrows drawing together. He could feel her pulse quicken against the flesh of her wrist, like a thrum thrum thrum against his lips.

  “Why are you being so nice to me?” she asked, her question caught on a breath. He gently lowered her wrist, keeping his gaze locked on hers the entire time. He opened his mouth to respond, when another’s voice superseded his.

  “Insolent girl!” Giovani yelled. Both Frankie and Anteros's heads snapped to the sound of Giovani’s voice, just in time to see him push Gabriella down the stairs.

  Well, that was certainly going to ruin the mood.

  Anteros watched Gabriella fall down his white staircase. Luckily she only fell down the stairs—as it was an open floor plan so she could have fallen off and to the ground. He sighed, dropping Frankie's arm completely.

  Giovani was impatient and short-tempered. The De Lucas had picked him to marry Gabriella because he fit certain standards. One, he was the right class. Two, he was willing to take the woman’s last name and continue on the De Luca line.

  No one said they were very high standards.

  In all other respects, Giovani was worthless. Unkempt. Ugly. Stupid. Angry. If he were a dog, he would have been put down. If his last name weren’t De Luca, Anteros would have been the one to put him down.

  Frankie pushed past Anteros and rushed to the bottom of the stairs, falling to Gabriella’s side. With much less haste, Anteros joined her. Frankie immediately began fussing. She checked Gabriella’s extremities, looking for injury. The bottom white part of Frankie's dress had begun to wrinkle, he noted absently.

  “Call 911, assholes!” Frankie screamed. Giovani’s eyes raged at the insult, but one look from Anteros put him in his place. Frankie turned her attention back to Gabriella. “Gabby—Gabriella—You here? What hurts?” Gabriella moaned in response. Anteros took out his phone to dial the house physician. In the same instant, his phone buzzed with a text.

  Crazy A: Where the fuck are you?

  He felt the muscles in his forehead pull together. Closing the text, he instead dialed the physician. When the physician confirmed, he put his phone back and focused on the situation at hand. Frankie’s hands hovered over her friend’s body, apparently afraid to touch her.

  Smart.

  Anteros had seen one too many broken necks turned paralysis. Once again, Anteros was impressed by Frankie. Giovani had finally finished his walk down the stairs and eyed Frankie as if she was a nuisance.

  “I’ll just have my boy put her in the car,” Giovani said. “I’m sorry if she scratched anything on the way down.” Frankie’s eyes flashed up at him, burning so bright with anger they nearly ignited. With a deep, scorching look, she turned her attention back to Gabriella. She placed her hand on Gabriella’s stomach and bent over to whisper something in her ear. Anteros frowned at the placement of her hand.

  “Come here, Frankie,” Anteros said, holding his palm out for her.

  “Go fuck yourself,” she growled, keeping her lips beside Gabriella’s ear.

  Anteros exhaled and turned to Giovani. “Leave us,” he
said.

  “Excuse me?” Giovani said, not even trying to hide his indignation. Anteros dropped all pretenses of civility then. With his cold, cruel stare, he warned Giovani not to mistake thinking that because he wore a suit now, or because he lived in a nice apartment, and hosted dinner parties, that made him a gentleman.

  He was not a gentleman. He was a beast, and beasts were hungry for blood. Beasts liked to rip people apart.

  Giovani swallowed and turned to leave. He hesitated at the door, turning back. Anteros kept his stare on him the entire time and when their eyes locked, Giovani quickly scurried out.

  “Do you think you can talk to me like that?” Anteros asked, turning to Frankie. “Do you want to end up like your friend?”

  Frankie's eyes flared, though she kept her gaze on Gabriella. Anteros could see the vitriol just beneath the surface, but to her credit, it stayed there. “No,” she said, but it was quiet, barely audible.

  “I didn’t hear you.” He flicked a piece of lint off his suit. “Maybe you should stand and respond to my face, like a civilized person.” Frankie stood, reluctance pouring from every muscle in her body. Her jaw was clenched as she walked toward him.

  When she was within his reach, he gripped her by both arms, pulling her close. Surprise and fear flashed across her face. “Don’t forget who I am, Frankie, who you are,” he hissed.

  “I’d sooner forget how to breathe,” she replied just as quickly and with as much vehemence. They shared a heated look then he released his grasp. She walked back to Gabriella, resuming her position of fussing and fretting. She gently stroked her hand over Gabriella’s blonde streaks. Her brow knit in concentration as she stared at her friend’s unconscious body. A few minutes must have passed as he watched her. Since laying down the rules, it had appeared she’d been trying to obey. With all things Frankie, though, appearances were never as they seemed. For some reason, it didn’t bother him, if anything, it intrigued him more.

  At last he said, “The night is over, Frankie.”