The Beast

Easily three times the size of a human man, with shoulders terrifyingly broad, and a barreled chest that blocked out everything behind him.

His massive biceps and forearms were hairy, but even that couldn’t hide the power in them. And his face… completely inhuman.

He had a wide forehead, pitch-black eyes, and a nose that reminded me of a primal animal. And his legs—God, they appeared to be like a feline, or even of the canine variety, bent oddly and tipped with massive paws.

His hair was dark and fell to his shoulders, only broken up by the huge, arcing horns that curved back and away from his forehead.

And his mouth was full and wide, his teeth sharp, and the lower ones like daggers. My heart thundered as I stared at them which looked more like tusks than teeth, protruding up so that when he closed his mouth, they were still frighteningly visible.

He wore clothing fit for a noble, but it couldn’t hide how animalistic and utterly primal he was.

Nothing could mask how entirely terrifying he was.

He took a step forward, and another one, and I swore I felt the floor vibrate from the force. His legs and feet reminded me of the illustrations from fairy tales about the werewolves that prowled the dark, danger-filled forests, walking on their hind legs. Paws… God, he had black, claw-tipped paws.

His focus was already trained on me. He looked like the very devil himself.

I made sure to keep the table between us, although I knew it was foolish. This was just cloth and wood, glass and steel. It wouldn’t keep a creature like him away from something he wanted, even if right now I felt like this piece of furniture could hold back a demon such as himself.

He didn’t speak and neither did I, my tongue in knots as I watched him come farther into the room, his nails scraping against the wooden floor, seeming deafening in the closed quarters.

He stopped behind the chair at the end of the table, lifting those huge, pawlike hands and curling them around the top. His nails were so long and sharp. Like daggers.

“You are afraid,” his voice rumbled out, and I felt it in every part of my body. “I can smell the sweet sweat on you, hear your breathing pick up.”

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t.

“No harm shall come to you. That is not why you are here.”

Oh, I knew why I was here. I didn’t think he would hurt me, but sometimes death wasn’t always the worst fate.

He cocked his head to the side slightly as if examining me, as if I were the one so unusual he was having a hard time grasping that he was in my presence.

The movement of his head inclining had his thick hair moving over his shoulder. I could see his slightly pointed ears, watching as they twitched, which caused my heart to beat wildly.

“Woman,” he growled. “I can hear your heart racing. I told you there was nothing to fear from me.” He slowly slid his hands off the back of the chair, his nails scraping the wood ominously before he started walking around the table and closer to me.

This in turn had me moving to the other side, our steps parallel; the only thing stopping him from getting to me was the slab of wood that suddenly seemed wholly inadequate.

He gripped the back of the chair at the head of the table, situated right in front of the fireplace, pulled it out, and sat his heavy form in it.

He dwarfed that massive thronelike structure, leaning back so the wood creaked from his substantial weight. The firelight caught the sharp points of his horns as they arched up and backward.

“Sit,” he growled.

His voice sounded so monstrous, all guttural and harsh, that a small sound left me and I stumbled back so quickly I nearly lost my footing and had to reach out and grip the edge of the table to steady myself.

But I obeyed. I sat down across from him and realized how grossly I’d underestimated the size of the table.

At first I thought the table had seemed grand and long, enough distance separating us so that when we sat, I could still feel like I had control and safety.

But as I sat down on one end and he on the other, I realized how close we really were. So close I smelled the wolf, the primal scent that clung to him.

To occupy myself, or perhaps as a distraction from the situation, I glanced down at the large silver platter situated at the place setting in front of me.

I could hear the Beast lifting his dome, metal banging against metal so loudly I actually glanced up.

He tossed the lid aside like some kind of heathen who couldn’t be bothered with formalities, then glanced down at the entire roasted chicken before him. He lifted his gaze to mine as if he felt me watching him, and his lower tusks became more prominent as he bared his teeth.

Was that supposed to be a semblance of a smile?

At the startled sound that left me, he scolded and gestured a large paw toward me, presumably to open my lid, too.

Maybe he wanted my approval at dinner, which seemed unbelievable, but I did what he said.

I raised my fingers, trying to stop the shaking in them, and gripped the top, lifting it and instantly inundated with the scent of rosemary and butter, roasted herbs and onion. I set the lid on the table, seeing another whole chicken before me.

At least five potatoes had been cut up amidst carrots and celery and placed around the meat.