Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning

“Ow, shit.” I rubbed my skull. The pain meant I wasn’t dead, at least. My hurt was soon forgotten as a scream sounded. It was a voice of complete hopelessness, of the kind of fear and begging that immediately puts a chill in your spine. It was the kind of emotion an actor could only hope to portray a tenth of in a movie. It was also a voice I recognized—the stewardess.

“Wait, wait!” she begged. I snapped my head back to the tarmac to see the stewardess, smile broken, tears streaming down her eyes. She was running straight toward the car. The pilot came out of the plane and started after her. Beast was acting as if he couldn’t see or hear her. He settled back into his seat and pulled out his phone.

“I’m sorry, I’ll serve you champagne first next time!” she screamed. “Please, Boss, I won’t do it again. I’m so sorry—” Navy blue arms wrapped around her body and she was dragged backward, arms reaching out. Her heels scraped lines into the snow just as my door was slammed shut. I put my palm to the window as the car pulled out of the airport.

Had I just witnessed a woman’s last words? Over what? The fact that she’d served me champagne first? Slowly I brought my palm to my lap. If he could kill someone over that, what was in store for me? I focused on him, hoping his expression would shed some light, but that was a miserable failure. Nothing about his demeanor said he’d just ordered someone’s death. He looked at his phone with the same bored expression.

I sat back, feeling hollow. Sick. Her cries were imprinted on my eardrums. I could see her tears in my mind’s eye, a ghost stuck on a loop, the look of abject fear as she tried to run after us but was pulled away. I turned my gaze away, focusing on the outside. Everywhere my eyes traveled, stores were decorated in brightly colored lights, twinkling like stars. I could almost forget the reason I was there.

Until the car came to a stop.

“You’re really not going to kill me?” I asked, surveying the room.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Not exactly reassuring, but at least I wasn’t dead.

Later I would learn I should have wished for death.

Arms folded, he pressed the foot behind him against a creamy white wall, watching me take in the room. He wasn’t glaring, but he wasn’t smiling either, his expression somehow doing both, all at once menacing and cocksure. He was beyond handsome, a dangerous beauty. If I’d seen him on the streets, I would have been too chickenshit to look at him, instead praying he’d look at me. Now I prayed he would look away, his intense, soul-sucking stare too much as I inspected my jail.

Jail—right.

The room had floor-to-ceiling windows and opened onto a balcony. A freaking balcony. The walls were white with clean lines and gorgeous molding, the windows all French. There was a plush king-sized bed that practically begged me to snuggle in it. I’d briefly swallowed in the house while walking inside and this room was very different, decidedly warm and feminine. It was my dream bedroom, honestly, complete with flowers and chic vintage decor.

I looked back to Beast, waiting for him to drop the other shoe.

I’d gone from sleeping in a closet-turned-bedroom in New Jersey like Harry freaking Potter, living with a father who legitimately thought spraying air freshener on a pile of trash solved the problem, and what I assumed to be certain death, to this, a Tribeca penthouse with a psychopath.

I had no comment.

He smiled a crooked, cruel smile that made me want to hide in the closet with a baseball bat and said, “I have other plans for you, Frankie.” When he said my name my heart pounded and that thing in my tummy twisted and ached. I’d never yearned to hear something while simultaneously hating it than when Beast said my name.

He left moments later, saying nothing else. I stared at the door he’d just closed, wondering if I should feel relief. Was I going to be able to spend the night Beast-free? It seemed like a possibility, but minutes later there was a knock at the door. I waited, breath stuck in my body, for the Beast to reappear. Instead, a head of graying blond hair peeked through. When the full body appeared, I knew immediately who it was.

I mean, I didn’t know, but I knew what type of person it was: a doctor. When you’re sick for the better part of your life, you just pick up on the aura of a doctor. He had that smile, that doctor-ly smile that attempted to be disarming but instead came off patronizing.

I just had no idea why Beast would send a doctor to me.

Did he know I used to be sick? Was he worried I was damaged goods?

“Hello, Frankie,” the doctor said, that smile on his face. “I’m Doctor Wyatt.” Fucking bingo. I wasn’t surprised he knew my name even though I didn’t know him. I waited for him to tell me his business; when he didn’t, I gave him a begrudging hello. “May I sit on the bed?” he asked, gesturing to the plush king.

Still standing, I shifted. “Go for it.” He opened up his briefcase and I saw what appeared to be a fancier version of a hospital johnny. My stomach dropped but then I steeled myself. You don’t get poked and prodded for years without numbing yourself to it. I tugged at the collar of my t-shirt.

“Will you tell me a bit about yourself, Frankie?” he asked.

Eyeing the folded fabric in his briefcase, I said, “Not much to tell.”

“I don’t believe that,” he responded, voice saccharine. “You’re young. You’re very beautiful.” I shrugged, still staring at the johnny. I wasn’t exactly in the mood for talking. Dr. Wyatt followed my line of sight, and then with a slight wrinkle of his brow, closed the briefcase. I blinked, looking back at him.

“How old are you?” he asked. Dr. Wyatt was how I imagined a stereotypical polo player would age. He had the classic all-American features, just wrinkled and fattened a bit. He was handsome enough, and he hadn’t done anything that made me not trust him—besides his obvious connection to the Beast. He sensed my discomfort about the johnny, but I couldn’t help but think that was less to do with my feelings and more to do with the fact that I wasn’t talking. His smile was also too sweet, like the witch in Hansel and Gretel.

I was sure I was being lured into something, but what I didn’t know. I shook the thought and reluctantly said, “Twenty.” I rubbed my arm, despite the warmth in the room.

“Can you tell me how many sexual partners you’ve had?” The question seemed innocuous, but goose bumps broke out along my skin the minute he asked it. Still, his smile was unwavering, making me feel like I was the weird one for not wanting to give such intimate information to a complete stranger.

“I…” I trailed off. His smile felt slimy against my skin. I didn’t tell anyone that kind of thing. The most a doctor had ever asked was if I was active and I could easily, hurriedly say no. “I don’t see why you need to know that,” I eventually said.

He shrugged. “You don’t have to tell me.” It didn’t sound like reassurance, but a threat. The implication was clear: I might not