Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning

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?