Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning

His position in the Family was teetering on the edge of a cliff, and his fingers were growing bloody with the effort of hanging onto the edge. He slipped with the blood, fingers sliding off the precipice, and the solution, his rope back to the top, lay right there in bed.

Asleep.

Comfortable in sheets he’d given her.

He undid his belt slowly, watching the way she breathed in her sleep. Sliding the leather between his hands, he clenched the belt in a fist. She rolled her head, exposing her slender, pale neck. The shades were not drawn, a testament to how tired she’d been. The city lights poured in, illuminating her face in a swath of blurry, dotted glares.

With the belt gripped between his two hands, he studied her. Just as with the whore from the club, he could easily snuff out Frankie's life. He could wrap the belt around her neck until the breath stopped coming. Her face would turn purple. She would die.

She said she’d been sick. What did that mean? Like cancer? Could it come back? Why did it even fucking matter if he was planning to kill her anyway?

Frankie twisted in the sheets, rolling on her back. Her arm came above her head and the blanket fell so he got the briefest glimpse of her breasts beneath the lace of her nighty. She released a small sigh. Letting one hand fall, the belt dangled from his hand, touching the floor.

Anteros didn’t know how long he watched her. Everything dulled to a quiet hum. His eyes were glued to her, only roaming to catch the little movements she made.

A sigh.

A shift in her leg.

The flicker of her lids while she dreamed.

Belt still clenched in his fist, Anteros slid into the bed, wrapping his arms around her body.

Seventeen

“Tonight is Christmas Eve.” I could feel his presence behind the wingback chair, looming, begging for something.

I wouldn’t give it.

Not anymore.

Even if I had to fucking tattoo it on my brain matter. That morning I’d awoken to him cuddling me. It had been warm…comforting, even. In my sleep I’d curled into his large, muscular frame. It had seemed safe and I’d forgotten. AGAIN.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

“I own a calendar, thanks,” I sniped, keeping my attention on my book. He grabbed my elbow, whipping me to attention, the book falling from my grasp. I arched my back, glaring into his eyes. They were dark, like a swamp at night, dangerous.

They flicked to the book on the ground and he said, “It’s time you put away your fantasy and go get dressed for the party.” He let go of me with a violent thrash and I fell back into the chair.

Then he left.

Without saying another fucking word. Without letting me say another fucking word. My fantasy? Who calls Night by Elie Wiesel a fucking fantasy? I clenched my fists, staring at the empty doorway for a few more seconds before walking through it in a huff.

I walked back to my room, trying to keep my eyes down. Sometime while I was sleeping, the penthouse had been decorated to look like Christmas jizzed everywhere. Dozens of little white trees dotted the surfaces. I couldn’t blink without seeing twinkling white lights. Silver and blue nutcrackers taunted me.

We never really celebrated Christmas back home. Some years the day passed and I didn’t even know it was Christmas.

Home.

My sadness and betrayal

had twisted in to anger, white-hot anger, at my father. He was just sitting at home, getting drunk, having a jolly good time while I was here. Why? Why didn’t he want me? What had I done? I’d tried so hard to be a good daughter. I’d done everything I could. I cooked. I cleaned. Why didn’t he want me?

I pushed open the door to my room so hard it slammed against the wall and bounced back. Even my hovel hadn’t remained untouched. While I’d been in the library, my room had been revamped. It was the only place color popped, too. Bright lights danced, intermittently changing color. My white bedspread had been replaced with a deep red one. Pillows had been added as well, each showing a different Christmas scene. An antique-looking painted wooden Santa sat in the corner.

I grabbed a pillow with a stitched scene of mice decorating a tree and walked over to my window, opening it. Setting the pillow down on the sill, I stared out at the city as snow tried to suffocate it. Beyond the tall stacks of light, my father sat at home, not caring where I was.

My anger dissipated in to hollow despair.