Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning

Later that night, Nikolai’s words still played in my head. I remembered staring at his body leave the room, waiting for him to return with Beast, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

When it didn’t, I was no more at ease. Beast had said he saved Nikolai, but Nikolai had said I wasn’t the only one with secrets—what did that mean? Was he a prisoner as well? Did I have a friend? I don’t know how he knew where I was hiding the journal and as I chose a new spot—outside, under a loose brick—I didn’t feel any better. If he could see me in bed, could he see me as I put the journal under the brick?

Nikolai didn’t feel like a friend. I wasn’t able to think on it very long, though, as the reason Nikolai had come in the first place preoccupied me. The Beast had company coming. It was time for me to play royal concubine.

My dresses were changed out weekly so there wasn’t even a chance of wearing something twice. Except for the yellow dress. That one was never changed out—probably to taunt me. My fingers stroked it as I passed by the sheaf of dresses, contemplating what to wear for the evening.

There were like two rich kids at my high school. They were siblings and they always dressed in band shirts and jeans, or some variant thereof. One year we were assigned a school project together. We met up at their house and I saw their closet. I was awed. So many clothes, but they wore the same goddamn thing every day. I always wondered why they didn’t wear nice clothes, like the ones I had now.

Now I wondered if it was rebellion.

Every bone in my body wanted to show up in jeans and a Cure t-shirt, but I didn’t want every bone in my body broken so, you know, choices.

I reached the end of the row, still undecided. Each gown was unequivocally lovely. Gorgeous. A work of art, just as the yellow vintage Dior had been. I walked back down the row, expelling a breath that felt like a plea.

At last I chose a periwinkle Paolo Sebastian gown. White lace flowers sprinkled the tulle bottom. It had an open back with more flowers creeping up from the bottom and one line of pearl buttons, though they appeared to float on my naked skin. The bodice was also covered in flowers and it had long white lace sleeves that looked like they were painted on my skin.

It was beautiful. Flawless.

I hated it.

I released the bottom of the gown just as the door flew open behind me. My breath left me. Beast was there, completely dwarfing the frame. Of course it wasn’t his size that caught my breath—I’d at least become somewhat used to that by now—it was his eyes, his gaze, the intense way he looked at me.

When the silence stretched too long, so palpable it felt like it was beating inside my chest alongside my heart, I asked, “So, I assume McDonald’s is on the menu tonight.” In lieu of responding, Beast moved forward, shutting the door behind him as he went. I had to quickly step backward so he didn’t push me over.

My fingers made little rosettes in the cloth of my blue gown as I waited for him to talk. His gaze was a hot sun on my body, making me sweat and goading me to try to move out of the glare. He stepped forward and I stepped back, but the arch behind my knees hit the bed. He stepped forward again and I was pinned.

It was this—the agonizing and the waiting—that was terrible. The hot stares. The sucking breaths. The not knowing what was next. I was never allowed to get used to my prison. He disallowed me routine, constantly keeping me on tiptoes so I was like a ballerina with bleeding toes.

The Beast had the ability to make me feel more naked in clothes than when my flesh was actually exposed. His fingers danced along the embroidery of my dress. The pad of his index finger outlined the stitching, as if refusing to touch my skin. Still keeping his hands only on the fabric, he walked slowly behind me. I could feel his cool

breath against my neck.

He whispered into my ear, “You look entirely fuckable.”

I sucked in my breath as he unbuttoned the back. The Beast was too unreadable. Blue-green circles marked my body from where his fingers had gripped my flesh too tight. Now, he said those dirty words in the most raw and feral voice, but he was also unbuttoning my dress, careful not to rip the fabric.

He spun me around and my hair whipped his chest. I clenched my teeth as he lifted my chin to meet his stare. It was hard and unreadable. I hated his inscrutable gaze. At least when he was angry or lustful, I knew what to expect. With these looks, anything could happen.

He seized my mouth and I nearly buckled with the force, but he caught me. I grappled at his chest, wrinkling the fine fabric. The Beast held my back, grabbing at my bare flesh, bruising it in the sweetest way. It would have been so much easier if he were obviously evil, the way a Beast should be, the way I’d imagined him when I traded myself.

Sometimes I found myself thinking back to the kitchen and wondering how it might be if instead of putting me on the counter, he’d pushed into my mouth. I wondered if I would still be me. If I wouldn’t be so close to shattering. The way he treated me was twisted.

He pulled me closer, fingers going deep into my hair.

It did not feel good.

It couldn’t.

Yet I relished it all the same, because it made me feel alive.

One hand left my skull and gripped the bottom half of the dress, pulling the cascade of fabric up my body.

“No,” I said as I gripped the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer. I was saying it to myself. It was like a mantra, as if I could invoke the parts of myself he stole back into my body. He was twisting me, pulling me to him, and I wanted nothing more than to let go and give in. When I was with him, it felt better than good; it was pure, uncut bliss, the kind of pleasure that gives you a hangover when it’s gone.

He lifted me up, setting me on top of the vintage-looking dresser. It shook with the movement, rattling against the wall. His palm pressed against my core and I sighed as he kissed my neck. My arms wove around his neck and my legs wrapped around his waist.

A warm haze settled in my body. I was delirious, intoxicated. He pulled aside the lingerie, exposing me. Suddenly I wanted nothing more than to feel his flesh against my flesh, and I arched up to his palm. I gripped his neck, my fingers digging into his flesh, and he pushed a finger inside me.