Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning

  “Okay…” Big O said.

  “Good luck with that,” Pretty Boy said, shrugging the rest of the new shirt onto his body. Anteros opened his desk and pulled out a vacuumed-sealed shirt, tossing the plastic square on his desk.

  “Like I said, I’m doing it tomorrow night.” Anteros locked glares with Crazy A, new shirt untouched. The energy was feral and raw. With his chest bare and Crazy A covered in blood, it was like two animals at night.

  “What a way to start off the New Year,” Pretty Boy said, sinking into the couch. Arms up on the top, he looked completely relaxed.

  “I wish I had a girl to kill for the New Year,” Little O replied wistfully, joining Pretty Boy on the couch.

  “We should start that tradition,” Big O proclaimed, sounding excited.

  “I’m down,” Little O replied. “We could do it right when the ball drops.”

  “I’ll call The Institute,” Pretty Boy said.

  “Fuck. That,” Big O said with emphasis, squeezing into the couch. “Don’t waste money on high class, I’ll just find someone off the street.”

  “And here I was worried I wouldn’t have anything to do this New Year’s,” Pretty Boy said. While they worked out the finer details, Crazy A continued to stare relentlessly at Anteros. He leaned back against the wall, eyes pinned on Anteros, as if ready to settle in for the night. With a snarl, Anteros grabbed the vacuum-packed shirt off the desk and headed for the door.

  “Tick, tock,” Crazy A said to his back. Anteros paused, gripping the doorframe so hard his knuckles turned white.

  “Tomorrow night,” Anteros growled, not bothering to turn around.

  “Happy New Year!” Little O, Big O, and Pretty Boy cheerfully called back from the couch.

  When Anteros got home, Frankie was in his bed—just as he’d told her to be. Her brunette hair fanned out wide over the pillow and her arm was stretched across his bed as if reaching for something. Though he’d had the other room made with her in mind, something about having her here, in his bed, was right.

  A need to crawl into the sheets and pull her to him overcame him. A need for her skin. To smell her feminine, fresh scent. To consume her. He tightened his fist, feeling the plastic of the vacuum-packed shirt. Blood crusted his skin and flaked in his hair. It drenched the hem of his pants, splattered on his knees and thighs. With one last look at her sleeping face, he went to the shower.

  “Shower on,” Anteros said, stepping into the bathroom. Steam filled the large space, hot and muggy. He removed the last of his garments, kicking them into a corner. The tile was warm beneath his feet when he stepped inside the shower.

  Hot water pelted his back and he groaned. Anteros watched as the water ran red, disappearing in a spiral down the drain. The color was fruity looking, like punch. He couldn’t help but remember the last time he’d been in the shower, with Frankie.

  It should have been red then.

  But she’d lied.

  He leaned forward, forehead to the tile, watching the red water slowly turn clear. His black hair was wet against his forehead, draping over his eyes. Water ran down his face, over his nostrils and down his lips. He rested his hand flat on the tile, fingers splayed. The water went from pink, to pinkish, to tinged, to completely clear.

  For a few moments, he continued to watch the clear water run down the drain. The tile rippled uncertainly underneath the current as water splashed on his feet in a continuous pattern.

  She’d feared his touch then, feared him.

  As she should.

  Anteros turned off the shower and walked back out to the bedroom. Frankie was still fast asleep, oblivious to the predator toweling off just feet away. Wearing only a small tank top and thong, it was nothing like what she’d been wearing the past month, hardly the negligees and lingerie Anteros had commanded her to wear. It was reminiscent of the jeans and shirt combo, somehow utterly Frankie.

  Anteros tossed the damp towel to the floor. His hair was wet, the waves falling across his eyes and blocking his view of Frankie. He shook his head, tossing the damp hair back. He should do it now, while she slept.

  That would be a mercy.

  But he fucking couldn’t, and for the first time in weeks, he acknowledged the lie to himself: he never would. He thought of the faces of The Council, each one an amalgam of surprise and indignation, of the years that they had expected to have but had realized they’d lost in that single second, of the fury at realizing it was Anteros who took it from them.

  That would be Frankie's face.

  He glanced back to the shower, thinking of what Frankie had revealed to him that day. In the beginning, when he’d first taken her, he could fight the emotion, like trying to fight off an invader. Whenever it appeared inside him he tossed it aside, claimed it as something else. Even in the shower, when the emotion had really taken root, it was odd and foreign.

  Now it was like Frankie was completely inside of him.

  Whether it was love or his destruction, he didn’t want to fight it anymore.

  With a low exhale, Anteros slid in next to her, pulling her into his arms. She moved closer to him, her skin meeting his, warm and soft. He burrowed his nose into her neck, tightening his grip on her.

  Anteros groaned. He was having a dream, a fucking great one. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d dreamed. He usually slept light, to be able to wake the minute he sensed alarm. In this dream, his cock was hard and someone was rubbing it.

  He groaned again, arching toward the illusion, and in that moment, the dream snapped in half and he came to his senses. The foggy haze of sleep was sucked away and reality came tearing through. He sat up in bed, expecting a threat.

  Frankie was on top of him, still wearing only the small tank top and thong. He glanced to the side to see the time: three in the morning. Twenty-one hours left before the Wolves realized what he hadn’t done, before Crazy A came after her, and before he really had to choose.

  Her little hands were running the length of him, making him achingly hard, making it impossible to focus.

  “What’s this?” he asked, gripping her hand and stopping her ministrations.

  “I can’t sleep.” She looked away. “I want you inside me.” Anteros didn’t believe in fairytales or happily ever after; after all this time, now? Now she was starting to want him? It didn’t add up. He grabbed her chin, pulling her gaze to his. She bit her lip, looking him deep in the eyes. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips.

  “Is that so?” he asked.

  “Look, never mind.” She tried to get off him but Anteros flipped her, pinning her to the bed. His bare chest created friction against her tank, causing it to rise and expose the skin of her stomach. In one motion he jutted his hand into her thin panties, finding her soaking.

  “Oh…” she exhaled, her eyes going wide then fluttering when he plunged a digit inside of her.

  “How bad do you want it?” he asked, curving the finger within her.

  “Bad…” she whispered, voice hoarse. Anteros smiled. He leaned down to kiss her but she moved her head away. He raised a brow, sliding his finger out. He could take her, but then after she would do as she always did when the passion left her—she would look frightened at herself, at what she’d done, and go cold.

  He’d had her moaning before, had her gripping him before. He could make her moan until she lost her voice. That wasn’t the problem. He wanted her completely.

  All of her.

  With a frustrated groan, Anteros let her go. At that, she moved up against his hand, as if trying to trap him inside her.

  “I want you inside me,” she gasped.

  “But you don’t want to kiss me?” Doubt and skepticism were hot on his tongue. Slowly she turned her head back, eyes locking with his. Her hand was feather light along the length of his arm, whispering against the skin up across his broad shoulders until it grazed his chin, along the scratch of his perfectly cultivated stubble.

  She leaned up, going in for a kiss, but he didn’t me
et her. Anteros made her go the entire distance. He made her pull his lips in, and though the minute Frankie’s soft lips made contact he wanted to push her into the mattress, Anteros waited for her to suck his lips, to trace her tongue against his, waited until he felt her heated pants against his mouth.

  Then he devoured her. He tore her panties aside, stretching the material until it was useless. Thrusting two fingers up inside of her, his thumb rubbed against her folds, lightly against her clit. And, fuck, she was so hot and wet. Just perfect. He sucked her bottom lip until the sensation was so much that she had to pull away and catch her breath.

  He moved his mouth down and over the thin tank, pulling an erect nipple into his mouth. The cotton was a barrier, blunting his assault on the sensitive peak. His attack was savage, he couldn’t hold back in that moment. His need had overcome him. Anteros sucked so hard the cotton became wet. He opened his mouth wide, devouring most of her breast in his hungry mouth.

  She panted, gripping his hair, urging him to suck harder. With a frustrated growl, he sat up slightly, pulling her with him, and ripped her shirt up over her head. Then it was back to the mattress. Frankie immediately reached her arms up for him and Anteros was going down to her when he paused.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her naked, not nearly, but she’d never been like this—reaching for him. Brown locks all around the pillow in disarray, strands of hair tangled and mussed with passion. Her cheeks red, lips swollen from kisses.

  Her eyes…

  They were stuck on him, begging, pleading, so ferocious in their desire. The crystal depths drowned his insides. Anteros realized then he was the slave, and always had been.

  A slave in his desire.

  A slave in his need.

  A slave in his love.

  He closed the distance, flesh meeting flesh. He slid his hand beneath her neck, twining it into her locks. Tugging at her, he arched her neck up so he could see her face when he entered her. Anteros plunged his cock deep inside her with one, forceful, meaningful thrust. Frankie’s breath hitched, her eyes grew wide then went to half-mast, and her pink tongue darted out to lick her lips. She gripped his shoulders, nails digging into the muscle as he pulled out and thrust deep again. He loosened his grip on her skull and her head fell back in a gasp.

  “Look at my cock inside you,” Anteros demanded. “See how deep I am.” She opened her eyes dreamily, following his gaze to see where they were like one person, his cock so deep inside her.

  “Do you like that, Frankie?” he asked. She nodded furiously. He went back to the action, pulling out and entering with slow, careful, forceful movement. His hands traveled the length of her, feeling the way she flowed with him, the way her body took him inside of her and the way she craved him. She kissed his shoulder, holding on tight, her sigh turning into a groan.

  But it wasn’t enough. He wanted her screaming his name.

  “Say my name, mio cuore, say it.” Anteros pushed her sweaty hair from her forehead, looking into her piercing cornflower eyes.

  “Beast,” she whispered.

  “No,” he corrected. “Anteros.” If only she would just say his name, give him a reason for the hell he was about to rain down upon himself.

  “What?” Her brow furrowed. “What is that?”

  “It’s my name,” Anteros pressed. “Say it.”

  Frankie looked surprised, but she smiled a second later. “Anteros.”

  Twenty-Five

  Anteros.

  I splashed cold water on my face. Stick to the fucking plan.

  Anteros.

  I touched my lips, could still feel his name on them, feel him on them. He trusted me. It was one thing to have me sleep in his bed—I’d been doing that on and off since I arrived—but he’d told me his freaking name. The Beast had a name. I didn’t know why it shocked me so much; of course he had a name. He wasn’t born Baby Beast with weird monogrammed onesies. It must have been so shocking because I’d been looking for any chink in his armor since I’d arrived, and his name was such a vulnerability.

  Anteros.

  The night before, I’d tried to kill him. It was stupid and reckless but sleeping next to him I just couldn’t fucking do it anymore. The plan was stupid and fucking crazy—a moonshot. I knew what I had to do and when, but it was still all such a balancing act. Everything depended on certain things coming together at the right time. The longer I stayed with him, the more of myself I lost.

  The one I love doesn’t love me.

  Romeo and Juliet blasted through me and I remembered the day in the library. I remembered his annoyingly beautiful, arrogant, and wry smile. It was as if he knew that I had no control of my emotions. His smile confessed all my fears: just a few more days and I would be completely his, whether he wanted me or not. I gripped the sink, breathing heavily, trying not to cry.

  But Beast—Anteros—slept right next to me, and I had controlled the pillow in my fucking hand. I could have ended it all. While he was asleep, I grabbed a pillow, put it over his head, and prepared to snuff the life out of him. Then he stirred. I threw it to the floor and started rubbing his dick because that was the first thing that came to my mind.

  Fuck.

  I gripped the edge of the sink, staring deep into my light blue eyes. There had been a moment last night, a moment when I didn’t feel like a victim, when I forgot to hate him. During that moment the thing I’d been fighting finally happened and love swallowed me whole.

  I would gladly take a lobotomy over remembering that moment.

  The one I love doesn’t love me.

  “I can’t keep doing this,” I whispered, falling to the floor, hands gripping the sink. I was being pulled apart. Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough, I needed to get out.

  “Frankie?”

  Fuck. He’s awake. I stood up quickly and splashed more water on my face to hide the tears then called back to him. “I’m in here.”

  “What are you doing?” he asked, coming into the bathroom. I watched him in the mirror. He stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. I smiled at him, masking the confusion and self-loathing his presence caused. Did he have to be so goddamn perfect looking?

  Long and lean, he had a swimmer’s body—but a huge swimmer. They called him Beast for a reason, he even had to duck in the doorway. Looking at his cocked head, I realized I knew so little about him. He could have been a swimmer for all I knew. Broad shoulders, slim waist, muscular thighs, his eight-pack intricately cut as if someone had used a chisel on marble beneath his smooth, glowing skin. He leaned so casually against the frame, too, a wry ghost of a smile on his face—and that bugged me all the more.

  I didn’t know why it bothered me. I should have known nothing humbled him, not even his beauty. He even had a beautiful penis. I’d never given much thought to penises until Anteros showed up with a great one. Gloriously thick and veiny, resting like a steel rod against his thigh, it was all I could do not to rush him right then.

  And I hated myself for that.

  I remembered reading that the greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist. I wondered if he did it by creating beauty.

  Anteros put his hand out, gesturing to me. “Come.” I spun around, bracing my hands on the sink behind me. I swallowed down my emotions with a smile until they settled in my gut with the familiar feeling of heartburn that had wracked me for the previous month, and I walked into his embrace.

  Seconds into the embrace, Anteros spun and pushed me against the wall just outside his bathroom. He pressed his nose against my neck, lips grazing the skin. “You need to go get ready,” he said, his voice a low hum against the skin. “We only have a few more hours.”

  “Are you having another party?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady as Anteros pressed me against the bedroom wall. “Like Christmas?”

  “Something like that.” He leaned farther against me, bracketing me on either side. I froze, not sure what he was going to do, then he kissed me on the
cheek. “Wear whatever the hell you want, but be ready in a few hours.” I touched my cheek, staying frozen until long after he’d exited his room.

  Slowly I peeled myself off the wall, staring at where he’d gone. He’d left, still naked, and had gone into the hallway. He was acting so weird. It wasn’t the naked part, Anteros wasn’t exactly shy, it was everything else. The gentleness in how he touched me, the kiss on the cheek, telling me to “wear whatever the hell I wanted.”

  Chewing my lip, I followed the ghost of his footsteps into the hallway and down to my room.

  It was New Year’s Eve, definitely a gown night, meaning regular designer shit wasn’t gonna cut it. A year ago I would have killed to have the closet I had now. Designer, haute couture, and vintage labels, it really was a fashionista’s wet dream. Everything came with a price though, and mine was the Beast.

  I’d officially survived one month. It was New Year’s Eve and the night Nikolai, Gabby, Vic, and whoever else Nikolai had roped into it—he hadn’t been very forthcoming—was going to make their move.

  It couldn’t have come at a better time because one more day in this place and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to go through with the plan.

  I wasn’t sure I would want to leave.

  I reached my door, my hand feeling the fine painted wood. Goose bumps prickled my skin the moment I pushed it open, and I headed straight to the closet. Every dress was gorgeous so I couldn’t go wrong with any of them. There was one dress, though, that stopped me in my tracks, a Paolo Sebastian. I remembered the first time I’d worn a Paolo Sebastian, how it had been torn from my body, how it had torn what little fantasy I’d had left.

  I pulled it out and examined it. It was gorgeous, maybe even more so than the first dress.

  I wouldn’t be able to wear any underwear with it. The dress went beyond sheer, it was absolutely see-through. The only way imagination was halted was by delicate beading. I slipped it on and it looked like the crystals and thread were one with my skin, like I wasn’t even wearing a dress. The dress fell to the floor, pooling like liquid around my feet. Like water, it was clear, and you could see every inch and detail of my legs—the only hint of fabric the ripple and stitching of flowers, like they were floating on a river.