Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning

by Mary Catherine Gebhard

  “You’re sorry?” The needle broke through the skin.

  “You’d rather me be something else?” she asked. Anteros met her fierce glare and she hit him, rushing through his veins, twisting in his blood, commanding his brain. Her eyes softened and she sighed, looking back out the fogged window. The lights outside blurred together, reminding him of a painter’s palette.

  Her brown locks fell forward as she moved from the window and leaned toward him. “Do you think I can see him for a few hours? Just for the holidays?” Big blue eyes beseeched him. Eyes up, eyelashes thick, her hands gripped the leather seat, waiting, waiting for him to give her something he could not. Her father was gone, and Anteros had no idea where the fuck he was. Dead, maybe. If Anteros knew anything about deadbeats like him, it was that they were often bleeding for more than one shark.

  She pulled her lip between her teeth, eyes growing even wider, hands gripping the leather until it puckered.

  He hissed. “Your father is missing.”

  She raised her chin slightly then slowly turned away, hands resting lightly in her lap as though he’d just informed her of the weather. Needless to say, it was not the reaction he’d expected. When she faced him again, her features were hard. He narrowed his eyes, preparing for the fight he’d expected.

  Instead she calmly said, “He’s probably dead then.” Anteros narrowed his eyes even more.

  When she’d traded herself to him, he’d been expecting a young, naive girl, someone to sell to The Institute, as young girls were most often easily moldable. From the minute he’d spoken to her on the plane, he knew that would not be the case. The more he discovered, the more he realized there were deep, hidden depths to Frankie—depths she didn’t even realize were there.

  She was dangerous.

  Like deceptively deep water, she appeared shallow, but could easily suck you down and under. What was most unsettling to Anteros was the need he felt forming in his gut. He found himself wanting to stop swimming, to see where her depths took him.

  The car jolted to a stop.

  “We’re here,” Anteros said, coughing slightly.

  “Suddenly I am not in the mood for a party,” she mumbled. Nikolai opened the door, ushering in a bitter chill. It had been a snowy winter so far, hardly any minute of reprieve from the white powder. It blanketed the sidewalks and buildings. He could smell the promise of snow in the air even then.

  Anteros motioned for Nikolai to leave and give them a minute.

  Bending forward, Anteros lifted her chin and captured her gaze. “I will find him, Frankie.”

  Her glare was like the snow, harsh and unrelenting. “Why should I believe anything you say?” It was on his mind to beg her to believe him, to believe he had been working tirelessly to find her father. Then the face of his Wolves appeared in his mind, the promise he had made to them.

  “Because you have no other options.”

  “Don’t I?” she murmured. As though she were made of fire, Anteros dropped her chin.

  It was probably nothing, but it bugged him. What the fuck had she meant? Don’t I? She had no other options. Anteros kept his eyes glued to Frankie while they entered Lucio’s home. He had a feeling—one that was a uniquely Frankie feeling—that he was missing something. He was seconds away from grabbing her and demanding she tell him what was really going on when she gasped.

  Red lips parted, eyes grew wide, her face transformed with wonder.

  “Wow,” Frankie gasped. “And I thought your place was pretentious.” Anteros watched her a moment longer, eyes narrowed, before relaxing. He was making a big deal out of nothing.

  “Lucio had it modeled after the Palace at Versailles,” he explained.

  “So, simple, then,” she replied, but her gaze was on the room. Her face softened as she took in everything. Lucio’s front room had been designed after the famous Hall of Mirrors. Over a dozen crystal chandeliers hung. Huge floor-to-ceiling mirrors stood opposite windows that looked out over the dazzling city. Gold Louis XIV-style molding and statues lined the walkway. At night, it really was spectacular—that is, if you hadn’t become completely over saturated by the place after years of meeting the owner there like Anteros had.

  Anteros followed the delicate peaks and valleys of her profile along the column of her neck, down to where her palm was open. As if possessed, he grabbed it, enclosing her soft palm within his own. He didn’t stop long to think on it and tugged her along, urging her from her standstill and through the long, open hallway.

  “Oh my God.” Frankie stopped and pointed with her other hand. “Is the ceiling hand painted?” Instead of following her hand to a ceiling he’d seen hundreds of times, he watched her. Mouth open, she looked absolutely stunned.

  “Aren’t all?” Anteros quipped. She snapped her head back down, making a face at him.

  “It looks like the freaking Sistine Chapel,” she said, mouth staying open wide in wonder.

  “Frankie,” Anteros chided. “If we stop at every hand-painted mural we’ll never get to the party.”

  “This house is like a museum,” she whispered as they turned the corner. “Who owns this place?”

  “Lucio Pavoni.” At his response, she whipped her head to the side and looked at him, features contorted in what appeared to be interest. He narrowed his eyes and she looked forward. Anteros kept looking at her.

  “Will he be at the party?” she asked lightly.

  “No,” Anteros replied, still watching her.

  Her brows crinkled in confusion. “Where will he be?” Anteros frowned. That was the second question into Lucio Pavoni. He was just about to probe into her curiosity when they rounded the corner. As they came to the edge of the party, he decided it wasn’t worth the time. They paused at the top of a two-story staircase with columns lining the balcony. Below them a massive ballroom was filled with so many people you couldn’t see the floor.

  “Is that the press?” she asked, awed, noting the flash of cameras as they met the lip of the stairs. “Is this how big all of your Christmas parties are?” She looked up at him then. Her chin caught the light, somehow managing to look sharp yet softened by the yellow glow. Absolutely stunning.

  It nearly floored him.

  No matter what this night meant for him and everything he’d been working for, no matter what he should or shouldn’t do, seeing her right then really brought home that it was futile to deny her. In her red dress, she was exquisite, shining more than the jewels that lined the bodice and ballgown.

  “No.” He coughed. “This night is special.” She gripped his elbow and they walked down the stairs together.

  “They’re taking pictures…of us,” she commented, voice laced with suspicion and curiosity.

  “I also have eyes,” Anteros teased.

  “But…” She looked up at him and then quickly looked away. His cheeks quirked at that, guessing what she was thinking.

  “Who is going to tell them?” he whispered into her ear as they reached the floor. When his lips came back from her lobe, he realized he was smiling. Quickly he wiped the thing from his lips, but his gaze had already collided with someone in the corner: Crazy A. Eyes hard, Crazy A took a drink, looked from him to Frankie, and then looked away.

  “I see you’ve brought your pet,” Crazy A said coldly, looking to Frankie.

  Anteros shrugged. “For show.”

  Crazy A narrowed his eyes at Frankie and said, “I’ve seen enough of this dog walking on its hind legs for a lifetime.” He felt Frankie stiffen, though she didn’t respond.

  Anteros gripped Frankie’s hand and slowly removed it from his forearm. Tearing his gaze from Crazy A’s menacing, coal depths, he turned to her and said, “Leave us.”

  She gripped his arm tighter. “I don’t understand,” she said. “What should I do?” Frankie looked around the ballroom with wide doe eyes. His chest felt tight. For a moment he could taste that divine rush he got from her. If he just gave in a little bit…His eyes collided back with Crazy A’s.
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  Anteros shrugged her off. “Go stand in the corner and wait.”

  “And I was worried tonight wasn’t going to be fun,” she said as she walked away.

  “Where are the others?” Anteros asked Crazy A, scanning the ballroom. He could see Frankie had positioned herself on the farthest wall, next to the kitchen, arms folded. His eyes narrowed when a man approached her, but Frankie waved him off quickly.

  Crazy A took a slow sip of amber liquid. “You’re in deep.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Anteros said harshly.

  “I know better than anyone.” Crazy A didn’t talk with gentle, wizened sympathy. It was bitter and broke off, implying a past they never acknowledged. “And you know that.” Anteros faced Crazy A, whose glare was like the burning sun. Theirs was a past never spoken; not even the other Wolves knew what had happened between them. The tension between them felt as though it was about to reach boiling point when someone slapped him on the back.

  Anteros turned, affecting a terse smile when noticing who owned the arm that had so carelessly slammed into his back: Governor Dubois. If it were any other person, the arm would have been chopped off. He nodded at Emilio De Luca standing next to the governor.

  “Tonight’s the night,” Governor Dubois said, hand still grasping Anteros firmly on the shoulder. Anteros rubbed a finger to his nose as the potent smell of alcohol hit his nostrils. Governor Dubois leaned in, stumbling slightly.

  “This is Vic!” Dubois threw a haphazard hand over the shoulder of the man called Vic. “H’swith the Times. Doing an exposé on our boy.” Anteros followed the hand to Vic. He wasn’t like any journalist Anteros had ever known. He was nearly as tall as Anteros and held himself with the poise of a warrior, eyes cold from death. Vic met his stare head on, unflinching.

  Anteros reached a hand out. “Nice to meet you.” Vic grabbed his hand with just as much force, maintaining eye contact the entire time. As he leaned over, his long, straight black hair fell over his shoulder.

  “You as well,” Vic replied. They broke the handshake at the same moment. Leaning back, Vic kept his eyes locked on Anteros’s until breaking to look to Governor Dubois.

  “Thank you for introducing us, Governor,” Vic said. “I’ll find you in a bit.”

  “Aren’t you here to do an exposé on Emilio?” Anteros asked, skepticism cool on his tongue.

  “I am,” Vic replied evenly. “I’ve already spoken with Emilio at length. Now I’m going to get a feel for the room.”

  Anteros narrowed his eyes just as Emilio whined, “He asked me so many questions.” Anteros shifted glares. “I mean,” Emilio said, adjusting his suit. “I look forward to the honor.” He smiled, the grin cracking slightly.

  “It was nice to meet you…” Vic trailed off, signaling for Anteros to give him his name.

  “Mr. Drago, but friends call me Beast.”

  Vic raised a brow. “Interesting nickname.”

  Anteros shrugged. “Uninteresting story, I’m afraid.” Vic gave a wry smile and disappeared into the crowd. Anteros watched him leave, suit a little too tight on his muscular frame. There was something off about him, something he couldn’t place. He knew journalists, had bribed many. None of them had looked like that.

  “It’s planned for thirty minutes from now,” Dubois said, breaking into Anteros’s thoughts. “That bald guy of yours—what’s his name? Reese?” Anteros nodded, redirecting his attention to Dubois. “He’s been finagling the press’n…” Dubois paused, bending over. “Should not have had that seventh Grand Marnier.”

  Anteros breathed deeply. If there was anything he despised most, it was someone who couldn’t hold their liquor.

  Dubois stood up and swallowed. “He’s been finagling the press’n got everything set backstage. Got all the women ready and—shit.” Dubois stopped, looking struck. “Emily.”

  “Do you mean Ellie?” Emilio offered, trying to be helpful.

  “No, no, Emily,” Dubois said. Anteros looked through the crowd, growing tired of Dubois. Emily was Dubois’s mistress, one of many. Anteros looked over the heads of the crowd, most of whom were smaller than him. Frankie had disappeared from her spot against the wall. Frowning, he looked along the wall, but he locked eyes with Pretty Boy instead.

  Pretty Boy was talking to Councilman Hangman and when he saw that Anteros was watching him, he made a noose gesture. Anteros smiled at the motion. When Hangman looked back, Pretty Boy quickly snapped his head back to attention, taking on a stern countenance and pretending to be deep in conversation.

  “I can’t remember which girl I pointed to when he asked who to put backstage,” Dubois said. “You think that bald guy a’yours knows who I’m married to?”

  Anteros looked at him straight in the eye. “Probably not.” Rhys knew who Dubois was married to. He knew everything about Dubois—they both did—but Dubois had moved past stepping on his nerves; he was practically tap dancing on them.

  Dubois eyes grew wide. A waiter walked by with drinks, and Dubois grabbed one then dashed off, presumably to go deal with the fire he’d started.

  “You should follow him,” Anteros said. “You both need to be in as many pictures as possible. Don’t make Rhys pay for unnecessary photoshopping and bribing.”

  Emilio nodded. As he was leaving, he stopped and asked, “You’ll be there, right?”

  “I will meet with you before the announcement.”

  “But you’ll be on stage, though, right?” Emilio asked, eyes beseeching. Anteros nearly said no, but then paused. He had planned to stay in the shadows, but now he could come out. That was the point.

  “Yes.”

  Emilio exhaled. “Okay. Good.” After Emilio left, Anteros cut through the crowd, going to the spot where he had last seen Frankie. There was no sign of her. He looked out over the crowd of majestically dressed people. A sea of black, gold, white, red, and green met him, but none of them was Frankie.

  He clenched his fist, jaw tightening.

  Where the hell was she?

  Nineteen

  Pressed against a wall and shoved into a kitchen pantry—a goddamn pantry. I’d been minding my own goddamn business, being a nice little slave and watching a sea of elegantly dressed people have fun—or at least appear to have fun—when a man grabbed me and shoved me into a pantry faster than I could think.

  Long, silky black hair framed a jaw sharper than cut glass. Slim, probing eyes were blacker than the night outside. He was definitely frightening, but also beautiful. He reminded me of the Beast in a way; there was something dark about him. Maybe if it were a month ago, I would have been scared. Instead, I regarded him with curiosity.

  What brand of pain would he bring me?

  “We don’t have much time,” he whispered. “Your grandmother sent me.”

  “I don’t have a grandmother,” I replied instantly, dumbly, before the cogs in my brain began to work on their own. Did this man think I was a princess? Was this one of the fanatics Gabby and Nikolai had spoken of? To them I had an entire royal family. Suddenly it felt like I was walking on loose stone, unsure of which step I wanted to take.

  He laughed harshly. “Well she disagrees on that point. I don’t give a fuck either way, but I owe her a debt.” He stepped back, edging off from the wall and giving me space to breathe. I took said space greedily, sliding out from under him and stepping into the middle of the room. It was obvious how he watched me, like a spider does a fly, but he didn’t move to grab me.

  After a few moments, when it was clear I wasn’t going to be pinned again, I asked, “What debt?”

  “Unimportant,” he said quickly. Looking at his watch he said, “We have two minutes before that guy—Beast—notices you’re gone.” This man offered no tells. He didn’t run hands through his hair, didn’t pace, just stood there.

  The Terracotta Army was one of the many pictures I’d taped to my walls. They fascinated me. There were so many stone soldiers for one burial. I never thought I’d get to see the
m though, not beyond that picture.

  Now I stared at this man, wondering if he was my very own Terracotta soldier. Did he represent my freedom, or was he going to stand watch for my burial?

  “Why are you here?”

  He smiled, a bright dazzling smile accentuated with dimples. “I’m here to rescue a princess.” Then just like that he was gone. Poof. Back to where he’d come from.

  Just kidding.

  He left the pantry and, on his command, I waited a few moments to stagger our exits. When I got back outside, I searched for him, wondering what the fuck to do. He appeared to be press. He walked straight up to the man I’d seen at the party, the one with brown hair and crystal blue eyes, and they started to chat; he even had the man smiling. He appeared to write what the man said down on a pad of paper.

  Feeling even more confused, I walked toward the drinks, figuring if I couldn’t decide my future, I could at least get a little drunk. The bartender looked at me, waiting for me to give him an order. I wasn’t sure what to order because I wasn’t even sure what kind of drink I liked. I’d only read about drinks, never experienced them. How could I say What kills the most brain cells and leaves my mind in a heap of incomprehensible rubble? without sounding like…well, you know.

  “Champagne.” I smiled, the stretch of my lips feeling wrong against my skin. The bartender handed me the flute and I turned so I didn’t have to smile again. Walking toward the middle of the crowd, I wondered if Beast had noticed my absence. I couldn’t see him anywhere. I was supposed to just sit against the wall, so I was sure he was going to punish me.

  A little shiver ran up my spine. Earlier I’d tried out my own form of punishment against him. First being cold to him in the library, then probing about Papa. I wanted to see if he would still lie to me, needed to know. I knew I shouldn’t have said anything about Papa. I didn’t even like Christmas. I was just so viciously torn and angry at him for lying to me. Of course I shouldn’t have expected honesty from him, but I thought we’d come to an agreement on the roof. I thought there was an understanding.