Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning

The door pushed open slightly but no creak was heard. I filed that knowledge away in my brain. Of course the door didn’t creak. The floorboards probably didn’t creak much either. The entire penthouse was sparkling and new. I was so used to a house having groans and sighs, but this one was silent. Deadly.

“Excuse me, mistress?” A young man with yellow-gold hair peered around the door. “I’ve brought you breakfast.” He stepped in the rest of the way, presenting a wooden tray topped with food, a cup of some kind of beverage, and even a little vase with a black rose. I nearly laughed. Was this a fucking joke? What kind of twisted bed and breakfast was the Beast running? I glared at the man who couldn’t have been older than eighteen. He would have been beautiful, gorgeous even, if not for the jagged scar running down his forehead to his chin. I had half a mind to tell him where to shove his eggs, but deflated.

When I said nothing, the young man put the eggs and toast on the night table to my left and exited. I stared at them for a moment then whipped my hand out, feeling sublime satisfaction when they hit the floor with a crash.

The young man came back and with him so did lunch. Noticing the eggs and toast on the floor, he got to the ground and tacitly cleaned. Pulling out a small rag from his back pocket, he mopped up the orange liquid that had spilled from the broken glass flute. I wondered if I should feel bad as he piled tiny pieces of the porcelain plate onto the tray.

When he left, I knocked the tray of lunch to the floor again, hoping he’d get my point. He came back an hour later and went through the same motions. I did feel a little bad then, making him clean up after me, but that thought soured quickly.

He was the enemy.

Then I waited, watching the shadows move across the walls and floor with the time of day. Soon the entire room was swathed in them when the sun dropped. My gaze locked on the door, waiting for golden curls to make an appearance.

Six pm turned to seven and then seven to eight, and I couldn’t help but feel a small victory. Maybe the scarred boy had taken the hint and would stop bringing me meals, but that victory was soon shattered. The door opened slowly. I sat up a bit, gathering the courage to just tell the curly-haired boy to shove it.

The door opened all the way and I froze. Though everything in my brain screamed to disappear back into the sheets, I couldn’t. I was trapped, couldn’t breathe, my body petrified wood. My voice disappeared down my throat in a rocky gulp.

Leaning casually in the doorway like the snake from the Bible was Beast. He held a red apple in one hand, observing me. A small knife in his other hand caught the light.

I unfroze, senses coming whooshing back at top speed. It all happened in less than a second. My heart beat against my chest, my breathing ricocheting against my ribcage. Motor control returned and my limbs were tingling and prickly, like when I forgot a coat during a blizzard and had to warm up by the fire.

I scrambled back beneath the sheets, pulling them up higher. I thought I would be stronger, you know? I’d spent the entire day fuming, thinking about his violation, thinking about how much of a fucking asshole he was.

But then he stood there.

&nbs

p; Casually.

Holding an apple as dark locks fell carelessly over one deep, turquoise eye. My fingers gripped the blanket, the only shield I had. I wanted to scream at him, to hurl insults that would transform into curses that could kill. Instead I watched, waited, and died a little more inside.

I noted every small movement, the way he pushed off the frame and the way his suit twisted with the movement, as if captivated by his muscles just as much as my eyes were. My breathing got lost somewhere inside me and I didn’t know if I’d ever find it. When he sat on the bed, just millimeters from my foot, I thought maybe I really had suffocated.

He started to undress.

Oh, there’s my breathing.

Fast. Choppy. Coming like a train about to go off the rails. So quick that I got lightheaded. He folded his jacket carefully, so carefully and I hated him all the more for it. Where was that consideration with me? I was focused so hard on that stupid, folded dark fabric, that when he turned to me, I wasn’t ready.

Again.

He was shirtless, only in his black suit pants, a feral glare pinned to me.

I pulled the fabric up past my lips.

“You haven’t eaten,” he said. His lips moved, dark red and full, like the apple he was offering me. I glared. I stared at the naked plains of chest. I never thought I’d ask for it again—sex with him. Not after last night. Never imagined it would be a thought in my head, let alone a plea.

But this anticipation was torture.

The way he offered his slices.

The way he licked the knife when I refused.

The theatre, the dance—I wanted it over with.

Just over with.

Each time he offered a slice to me, I gripped the plush, velvety-feeling comforter tighter, so tight my nails might really tear through. He sliced and sliced until eventually there was only one slice left to offer. He leaned over on the bed, holding it out to me, waiting.