Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning

“Suddenly I am not in the mood for a party,” she mumbled. Nikolai opened the door, ushering in a bitter chill. It had been a snowy winter so far, hardly any minute of reprieve from the white powder. It blanketed the sidewalks and buildings. He could smell the promise of snow in the air even then.

Anteros motioned for Nikolai to leave and give them a minute.

Bending forward, Anteros lifted her chin and captured her gaze. “I will find him, Frankie.”

Her glare was like the snow, harsh and unrelenting. “Why should I believe anything you say?” It was on his mind to beg her to believe him, to believe he had been working tirelessly to find her father. Then the face of his Wolves appeared in his mind, the promise he had made to them.

“Because you have no other options.”

“Don’t I?” she murmured. As though she were made of fire, Anteros dropped her chin.

It was probably nothing, but it bugged him. What the fuck had she meant? Don’t I? She had no other options. Anteros kept his eyes glued to Frankie while they entered Lucio’s home. He had a feeling—one that was a uniquely Frankie feeling—that he was missing something. He was seconds away from grabbing her and demanding she tell him what was really going on when she gasped.

Red lips parted, eyes grew wide, her face transformed with wonder.

“Wow,” Frankie gasped. “And I thought your place was pretentious.” Anteros watched her a moment longer, eyes narrowed, before relaxing. He was making a big deal out of nothing.

“Lucio had it modeled after the Palace at Versailles,” he explained.

“So, simple, then,” she replied, but her gaze was on the room. Her face softened as she took in everything. Lucio’s front room had been designed after the famous Hall of Mirrors. Over a dozen crystal chandeliers hung. Huge floor-to-ceiling mirrors stood opposite windows that looked out over the dazzling city. Gold Louis XIV-style molding and statues lined the walkway. At night, it really was spectacular—that is, if you hadn’t become completely over saturated by the place after years of meeting the owner there like Anteros had.

Anteros followed the delicate peaks and valleys of her profile along the column of her neck, down to where her palm was open. As if possessed, he grabbed it, enclosing her soft palm within his own. He didn’t stop long to think on it and tugged her along, urging her from her standstill and through the long, open hallway.

“Oh my God.” Frankie stopped and pointed with her other hand. “Is the ceiling hand painted?” Instead of following her hand to a ceiling he’d seen hundreds of times, he watched her. Mouth open, she looked absolutely stunned.

“Aren’t all?” Anteros quipped. She snapped her head back down, making a face at him.

“It looks like the freaking Sistine Chapel,” she said, mouth staying open wide in wonder.

“Frankie,” Anteros chided. “If we stop at every hand-painted mural we’ll never get to the party.”

“This house is like a museum,” she whispered as they turned the corner. “Who owns this place?”

“Lucio Pavoni.” At his response, she whipped her head to the side and looked at him, features contorted in what appeared to be interest. He narrowed his eyes and she looked forward. Anteros kept looking at her.

“Will he be at the party?” she asked lightly.

“No,” Anteros replied, still watching her.

Her brows crinkled in confusion. “Where will he be?” Anteros frowned. That was the second question into Lucio Pavoni. He was just about to probe into her curiosity when they rounded the corner. As they came to the edge of the party, he decided it wasn’t worth the time. They paused at the top of a two-story staircase with columns lining the balcony. Below them a massive ballroom was filled with so many people you couldn’t see the floor.

“Is that the press?” she asked, awed, noting the flash of cameras as they met the lip of the stairs. “Is this how big all of your Christmas parties are?” She looked up at him then. Her chin caught the light, somehow managing to look sharp yet softened by the yellow glow. Absolutely stunning.

It nearly floored him.

No matter what this night meant for him and everything he’d been working for, no matter what he should or shouldn’t do, seeing her right then really brought home that it was futile to deny her. In her red dress, she was exquisite, shining more than the jewels that lined the bodice and ballgown.

“No.” He coughed. “This night is special.” She gripped his elbow and they walked down the stairs together.

“They’re taking pictures…of us,” she commented, voice laced with suspicion and curiosity.

“I also have eyes,” Anteros teased.

“But…” She looked up at him and then quickly looked away. His cheeks quirked at that, guessing what she was thinking.

“Who is going to tell them?” he whispered into her ear as they reached the floor. When his lips came back from her lobe, he realized he was smiling. Quickly he wiped the thing from his lips, but his gaze had already collided with someone in the corner: Crazy A. Eyes hard, Crazy A took a drink, looked from him to Frankie, and then looked away.

“I see you’ve brought your pet,” Crazy A said coldly, looking to Frankie.