Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning

by Mary Catherine Gebhard

  “I don’t know if they’re homeless,” Little O confessed. “They could be hipsters.”

  Big O nodded and, putting a finger to his lip, pointed it back at his brother. “Doing God’s work.”

  Barely a moment passed before Pretty Boy said, “She isn’t good for you, Boss. You need to get rid of her.”

  “It’s off the fucking table,” Anteros yelled, slamming his fist down on the table. The wood cracked a little. After all the abuse it had suffered, it was a wonder it had lasted so long. In the ensuing silence that followed, Anteros stared at his fist on the table. He could feel their eyes on him, their surprise and confusion hot like irons. Anteros never lost his cool, never got emotional. Then again, they hadn’t been around him and Frankie.

  He exhaled.

  His Wolves made a point.

  “Just get the fuck out.” Anteros sat back down, rubbing his fingers through the muscles on his forehead. “All of you.”

  Anteros was knotted up when he got home, filled with a fury that couldn’t be wetted. The morning started off terribly and the day didn’t go any better. Everything his Wolves said was rational, yet his mind warred against it.

  He was unrested.

  Angry.

  He needed an outlet for his anger. When he was a soldier, he killed so often, there was always something or someone to punch. As Boss, it was spreadsheets and organizing kills, not real blood. Red, sticky liquid coating your hands—that was the reason he’d been at Antonio Notte’s.

  He’d felt caged.

  Anteros stood in the foyer of his home, coat hanging from his hand. Floor-to-ceiling windows sprawled from the first floor to the second, but he felt it again, the caged feeling. His gaze drifted to the library.

  He dropped his coat.

  Anteros expected her to be on the chair as she always was, but it was vacant. Alarm overcame him. He curled his fists and sucked in a breath, stymying his anger—anger not at Frankie, but at himself…foolish, stupid, anger that he’d given Frankie the okay to leave in the first place. Confronted with the reality of her departure, he realized he would never, could never—

  Then he saw her. On her knees, book in hand, she appeared to be grabbing something from the bottom shelf. She looked so beautiful, so submissive like that, but it wasn’t her pose that stopped him in his tracks.

  “What are you wearing?” His voice was hoarse. Frankie gasped at his voice, dropping the book. She turned to look at him then looked down at herself.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “It was what was laid out today.” He groaned. There must have been a mix-up with the stylist, but for once he didn’t care. The mistake was fantastic.

  Frankie was in his shirt and all she wore underneath were tight gray leggings.

  “It’s a bit odd.” She fell back on her heels with a sigh. “But I’ve stopped questioning it. I assume they’re wearing this stupid sh—stuff in Paris or something?” Frankie looked up at Anteros, eyes big and bright. The shirt she wore—his shirt—was unbuttoned down to her collarbone. It was so much larger than her that it hung off her shoulder

  With a growl he gripped her palm, pulling her up until she was pressed against him. “This is my shirt.”

  She looked down again and laughed. “Duh…” Trailing off, her gaze traveled back to his. Her eyes widened as if taking him in for the first time. Her face twisted in fear, afraid the harsh fury clouding him was directed at her. She wiggled as if she could escape. Anteros grasped her harder, anchoring her against him.

  He found he wasn’t so angry anymore.

  Frankie had twisted his rage into burning lust.

  “It’s not my fault,” Frankie began hastily. “I didn’t go into your closet. This was on my bed. I didn’t do anyth—”

  Anteros silenced her with a kiss.

  Anteros broke the kiss and Frankie looked up at him, her face a mix of confusion and lust. He wasn’t done with her, though. His blood felt boiled, it was as if he was jonesing for her. Demanding Frankie’s gaze, demanding her stare, Anteros stuck his hand into her leggings. Her lids widened then dropped to half-mast. She was hot and wet. He slid his palm against her then removed his hand, placing his fingers against his lips. He groaned as he licked the taste from them.

  She was so fucking good.

  “How I’ve still yet to taste you from the source…” Anteros trailed off, cupping her face with both of his hands and plunging his tongue into her mouth so she could taste the little bit of her on his tongue. Her body uncoiled, eventually slackening against him and his tongue, and she groaned into his mouth.

  Anteros kissed her cheek, her ear, down her jaw, trailing the column of her neck to the hollow of her throat and along the wings of her collarbone. He was overcome, needing to taste every part of her within seconds. Falling to his knees, he lifted up the shirt to see her slightly rounded tummy. Frankie gripped his shoulders as if trying to remain steady. He kissed the honey-colored flesh below her belly button and tugged at the tight fabric of her leggings, lowering them past her round ass.

  He was savage in his need to taste her, blinded with red-hot lust. All he could think about was getting the fucking fabric off her body, his flesh to her flesh.

  “Wait!” Anteros looked up at the beseeching tone in Frankie’s voice. “I just…never mind.” She looked away, resigned. Pausing, he frowned. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since he’d revealed her father’s betrayal. She was probably mourning, either the father she’d thought she had, or a life she could have had, but she knew the rules: if she stayed, he owned her. Yet something inside of him told him to stop. He held her ass and, with a groan, leaned his head against her thigh.

  “Tell me to stop and I will, mio cuore.” The words sounded odd coming from his mouth. It was not his usual cadence; it was soothing and caressing, as if talking to a frightened doe. Frankie frowned at him anyway, disbelief etched into every line in her face.

  Anteros let his grip fall from her ass slowly and stood up. Her pants were nearly past her thighs, shirt up to her chest. Her hair was a mess, her face flushed in that delicious ruby glow. Every part of him screamed to take her, to make her his. Still, he couldn’t, not until she gave him the okay. Her lips were pulled as if holding in words. With a frustrated groan, Anteros turned to leave the library. He was nearly out the door when—

  “Wait,” Frankie's throaty whisper called to him. He turned back to see she was chewing on her lower lip, crystal gaze flickering from him to the fire. Anteros raised a brow. “Don’t go,” she said, eyes locking with his at last. Before she could change her mind, Anteros closed the short distance between them. He cupped her by the ass and waist, placing her on the floor.

  He ripped her pants off the rest of the way and spread her legs with his shoulders. The way Frankie wrapped her legs around him and speared her hands into his hair showed she had no intention of stopping. Good, Anteros thought. There was no way he could stop now. Lust had taken control.

  When he saw her he hissed. He’d seen her bare, seen her up close, even, but now he was so close he could nearly taste her. The fire made her glow. Frankie was so wet, the juices dripped down her and sparkled like diamonds. With his fingers he gently opened her, spreading her for his tongue. Frankie gasped when he tasted her, Anteros groaned as she hit the back of his throat. So fucking delicious, so utterly Frankie. He could stay there for hours, getting high on her.

  He gripped her thighs, needing more of her. She was so fucking wet, she dripped past his lips and down his jaw. Anteros thought he might drown in it, in her. Frankie’s fingers tugged at his hair, tight and hard, pulling at the roots in a painful way. It was a good pain, a pain that let him know how close to madness he was driving her.

  In sync with the melody of her pants and moans, he flattened his tongue against her slit in one long lick that ended against her clit, where he sucked her long, slow, and hard. Her back arched and her toes turned to points against the flesh of his back. Against his mouth he felt her throb and pulse as she cam
e undone.

  “Oh God,” she gasped. “Oh I’m…I’m…” Her words trailed off into a long, melodic moan. He looked up, watching her face. Her jaw slackened, her eyes rolled back and she lolled her head to the side, looking utterly spent. For a moment, she lost herself. Anteros latched onto that moment like a bee to honey, because seconds later awareness returned. She realized what she’d just done, how much she’d given away, and she was untangling herself from him, pulling his shirt down, looking for her pants.

  Anteros slid up like a panther, taking her into his arms. He didn’t care that she’d pulled away. Didn’t care that she was stiff and rigid against him. Didn’t care that she covered her body again.

  He’d just had a glimpse of her naked soul.

  Fifteen

  This must be a fantasy, or at least my brain has finally broken under the torment and I’ve gone insane.

  What he just did to my body, it was—Jesus. For a moment my soul fractured. That thing I’d been safeguarding against fucking happened. I knew the Beast could make me orgasm, that wasn’t a shock—he’d basically been doing it since day one. I tried to fight it but, I mean, there was little I could do about it since one, he apparently knew his way around the female form and two, he had more sex toys than Doc Johnson.

  But coming?

  Giving my mind and soul over to him?

  Yeah, I could do something about that. When he touched me like that, though, I fell apart. It was so gentle and tender and it felt like he was with me, whoever he was before the Beast. I’d given him a piece of myself.

  Dammit.

  After what he said to me on the roof, I’d told myself I would steel myself to his advances, really steel myself. If I had to live here, then there would be no more of this push-pull crap. I decided I wouldn’t believe him. I couldn’t believe him. My papa wouldn’t leave me here. That was just, that was not even a possibility. What was a possibility, though, was that the big bad mafia Beast that I’d traded myself to was a liar.

  That made a hell of a lot of sense.

  After I…well, after…I tried to get away from him, tried to crawl away, but he captured me. Now he was holding me, like we were spooning, like fucking cuddling or something. I stared into the fire, wishing I could throw my memories into it, wishing I could make them burn into ash.

  “Are you hungry?” His breath was hot against my neck.

  “No,” I lied.

  “You lie.” He pulled away from me and then his hand was reaching for mine. Warily I grasped it. He tugged me up from the floor, and then he kept me at a standstill, his hand holding mine, not letting us leave. There was space between us, but his stare consumed the distance. His gaze raked over me, hungry, devouring.

  God, I feel so stupid.

  Not just about giving up a piece of myself, but the fucking shirt. What fucking idiot puts on a men’s shirt thinking it’s haute couture?

  An idiot who’s never left the suburbs, that’s who.

  “Are we going to get food or what?” I finally asked, gaze pinned to the soft-looking carpet.

  “Just looking at you, mio cuore.” His words were tinted with amusement and I glanced up to see his face twisting in a wicked grin. Beast pulled me quickly into him, and the distance we had suddenly, sharply, vanished. Pressed against his chest, I felt everything—not just the physical of his muscles and his hard, even breaths, but the emotional, his deep, penetrating gaze. “Does my stare bother you?”

  I shrugged against him. “No,” I said defensively. “Just thought you wanted food.” He held me against him a moment, not talking.

  “You’re right,” he said, and let me go. I followed him out of the library and into the kitchen. Then my eyes widened, bewildered, as Beast started taking things out of the fridge and pantry. He turned on the stove and placed a pan over the fire, arranging meats, vegetables, and other ingredients…things that looked like milk, or dressing? I don’t know, I don’t cook.

  “You cook?” I asked skeptically—because I didn’t think the Beast cooked either.

  Beast placed the meat in the pan with an amused expression on his face. “Sometimes I wonder how you think I’ve survived this life, mio cuore.” I narrowed my eyes slightly. He called me that thing again, mee-oh something. What did it mean? Was it like Italian for slave?

  He looked at me, waiting.

  “You have people that cook for you.” I gestured to the giant ass penthouse we were currently in. “You have people make you eggs every morning.”

  The hiss of oil meeting flesh sounded as the chicken hit the pan. “I was not always waited on hand and foot.”

  “You were an orphan,” I said, remembering what he’d said that fateful night on the roof before everything went to shit. He nodded, adding some kind of sauce to the chicken. I waited for any sign that he would expound, add meaning to the word. He simply continued to cook, adding vegetables to bowls, spices to the chicken.

  I wasn’t a cook; the most I could do was make various sandwiches—PB & J, grilled cheese, ham and Swiss. I started “cooking” when I was like five. Mom died when I was three, and she was the cook. Papa tried for a year. I mean, he did his best. He had his own limitations. We all have our limitations. You wouldn’t ask someone without arms to lift boxes.

  I didn’t ask Papa to cook.

  Some of the things Beast was cooking I didn’t even know the name for. It was all very colorful, very fresh smelling, yet also buttery too, thick and creamy.

  My mouth watered.

  He placed the yummy-smelling food on plates then brought them around to the bar. From behind my careful perch, guarded by the kitchen counter, I watched him sit down with the dinner.

  Beast gestured for me. “Come, sit.” I could feel the frown on my face, the lines of incredulity and skepticism. Beast was being way too nice. That night on the roof he’d basically said if I stayed, not only was I staying his slave but I was stupid, that by not killing my dad I was killing myself. Had he really just made me dinner? I gripped the counter as if it was a shield. Beast watched my fingers tighten on the granite, his face slowly morphing from patience to frustration.

  I knew that face.

  Hesitantly I walked around and attempted to take a seat next to him. He stopped me, gripping my arm so I couldn’t sit. Dread filled my gut. What had I done?

  “What?” I asked.

  “You will eat with me.” He tugged at me, pulling me closer. The motion twisted me off balance and I fell into his lap.

  “I don’t really know how I can eat like this,” I said. I faced the Beast, not the plate. My arms were on my lap, as I refused to put them around his neck.

  “You can’t,” he said with trademark laconic dispassion. I looked into his sharp, stolid features for what he meant, but was met instead with impassivity. I shifted slightly, uncomfortable and unbalanced on his lap. What did he mean? Should I just watch him eat?

  My gut dropped.

  Probably.

  I clenched my jaw, swallowing, and focused on the opposite wall. We sat in silence again, rushing and straining until I couldn’t breathe from the quiet. My face got hot with emotion, and I hated myself for it, hated that I’d given so much already, hated that I gave a little more each day. I hated that he could touch me and I crumbled; I hated that he showed me kindness and I caved completely.

  Mostly I hated that there was a part of me that hoped, a part that kept giving and giving despite all the other parts yelling not to, because that part hoped he would eventually give back too. No matter how much I hardened myself, if I was honest, I knew part of me would keep giving and keep hoping. It was like trying to cover a leak in a boat when you didn’t know where the leak was. I closed my eyes, trying to crush the avalanche of emotion in my chest.

  Wet. Delicious.

  My eyes shot to his, wide. Something probed my lips, wet and buttery. He pressed a fork to my lips, filled with a bite of the sauce-covered meat—chicken, maybe.

  In silence I let him feed me, too afraid to ruin it.
I stared into his eyes as he brought the silverware up to my lips, eyes locked with mine. He would return the fork to the plate, appearing to pick the pieces carefully. The entire time I kept my eyes locked with his, until he set the fork down, pausing.

  “Tell me something about yourself, mio cuore.”

  “What do you want to know?

  “Anything.”

  “Um,” I smacked my lips, unsure of what to say.

  He smiled. I focused on that smile. “I had a cat,” I wished I could take the words back immediately. I didn’t want Beast to have this part of me, but I’d focused on his smile, on how warm and unbeastly it was, and it had just slipped out.

  “Tell me more,” he urged.

  “It wasn’t really my cat.” It was a stray and I wished I could bring him inside, but Papa was completely against it. I would bring food out to him and we would sit together.

  “What was its name?”

  “Cleary.” Cleary had the biggest purr; it sounded like a truck. The vibrations would reverberate through your entire body and make everything better.

  His cheek quirked. “Unusual name.”

  “I looked it up in an old baby book,” I explained. “It means ‘to gain knowledge from old books.’” It fit him. Beast smiled but said nothing. I whispered, “People say black cats are unlucky, but he was the only thing that got me through being sick.”

  “You were sick?” Beast was staring at me earnestly. There was no twisting in his stare, no will to transform or use what I said against me. Still, I just couldn’t go any further, couldn’t reveal any more of myself. Cleary had been my best friend—my only friend—but one day he never came back and it had absolutely destroyed me.

  “I don’t…” I turned back to the plate, half full with food. “I’m still hungry.” I could feel his desire to press, to open me up. I knew if he kept probing, I probably would spill everything, spill what happened to Cleary, all the years I was sick, and Beast would own yet another part of me.