Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning

You’ll still be a princess if you run away, you’ll just be a princess without a kingdom.

I knew something had just happened. Something I could never run away from.

Something irrevocable.

Twenty

“Governor Dubois is in league with the mafia and this new senator is just a puppet. This whole place is corrupt!” Anteros gripped Frankie, fingers curling around her forearm as flashes went off. Senator Hatch was finally fucking dragged away, but the damage was already done. The stares of his Wolves were hot on his neck, like fire branding him, a searing reminder of his incompetence.

All the work he’d done with Rhys the past few months was for nothing. He could bribe some of the reporters, but not all of them; there was always the noble one. As Hatch got dragged around the corner, Anteros’s grip on Frankie tightened momentarily then loosened before he shoved her off and went to find Rhys. Time for damage control.

“Wait,” she called, and he paused as if the cadence of her voice commanded him. “The reporters are coming toward me. What do I do? What do I say?” With a frustrated growl, he spun back around. This was just another reminder of his fuckup. No one should know about her. She was his goddamn slave. What business did he have dressing her up, bringing her to events like this?

Grabbing her arm, he dragged her from the dance floor. Frankie stumbled after him, struggling to keep up with his pace. Lucio Pavoni’s home was massive and anterooms lined the entire ballroom. No one ever went inside the rooms—most had been empty since the day Lucio bought the place—which was exactly why he was heading in their direction. When he’d arrived at one, he curled his fingers around the doorknob and pushed it open, shoving Frankie into the empty room. As he was shutting the door, her indignant voice stopped him once again.

“You’re just going to leave me in here?” she yelled after him. “For how long?” He paused, hovering over the porcelain doorknob. He looked back and their eyes locked. Her sea glass gaze was frightened, unsure, and he wanted nothing more than to rush in and take her in his arms. Instead he shut the door without an answer. The dance floor was still a mess of press and excited chatter. The band wasn’t playing any music.

How the fuck had this happened? How had he not seen this coming? This should have been a great night. Anteros should have been reveling. After years of planning, months of stringent timelines, he’d finally placed a man in the government—but that was all fucked now. His eyes scanned the room, looking for Rhys, but instead they caught the gaze of Crazy A.

Crazy A didn’t look surprised by the events; he looked knowing. Taking a sip of his drink, Crazy A’s harsh, clinical glare never wavered from Anteros. Ripping his stare away, Anteros scanned for the man he’d intended to find, finally doing so a few seconds later. Rhys was standing next to the steps, sweating and rubbing a handkerchief across his bald head. Anteros pushed through the tittering crowd, elbowing them out of the way, ignoring shouts.

“How the fuck did this happen?” he demanded, grabbing Rhys by the collar.

“I, uh, tried,” Rhys sputtered. “I tried to tell you. I told you he was upset and I was concerned about damage control.”

“You didn’t try hard enough,” Anteros said, letting Rhys go. He stumbled back and rubbed the handkerchief even faster across his bald head. Anteros stared at him, wondering what had happened to the man who had turned his gun on him in the alley. It was like he had used up all of his grit in that moment years ago.

“He’s still senator,” Rhys pointed out weakly.

“There’s no point if he doesn’t get re-elected.” Anteros was talking mostly to himself. He knew this wasn’t Rhys’s fault—it was his, and that’s what made it so fucking awful. He’d never made a mistake this catastrophic before—never really made a mistake ever. His eyes wandered to the door he’d just shut. He’d been planning on staying up on the stage with Emilio, but his focus had strayed, eyes wandering to the woman with perfect brown curls and striking blue eyes.

Frankie.

She’d been on the floor, looking sad and forlorn, and he’d had to know why. That ended up being yet another mistake in what was an endless stream of them. It was like a pressure inside him, the desire, and it was only sated when he was near her. He knew Crazy A and his Wolves were right. None of this would have happened if Frankie wasn’t in his life. Even after everything, though, he wanted to go to her. He wanted to open that door.

With a frustrated grunt, he ran his fingers through his dark locks and shirked his gaze from the door. Across the ballroom, his Wolves watched him. Unlike Crazy A, their expressions were a mixture of everything he was feeling inside. Anteros gripped the banister and turned from them, from Rhys, from the entire fucking thing, and then walked up the stairs.

He’d fucked up.

For the first time in years, he’d fucked up.

The frenzy was dulled, the sounds muted. In this room of death, Anteros could forget what had just happened for a moment. The man in the bed took rickety breaths like he was trying to pass rocks through his lungs. Slowly, Anteros walked over to the bed and sat next to Lucio. He was getting worse and worse, his coloring sallow. It had only been a few weeks since Anteros’s last visit, and his condition had worsened astronomically.

When Lucio first started showing symptoms, it was slow at first. A stumble here, a trip there. The occasional slurring of words. Then one meeting, he fainted. After that, the boulder rolled down the hill. Not even a year had passed since his illness had taken hold, an illness

doctors had yet to diagnose beyond dementia, but it was obviously going to kill him.

Anteros gripped his hand and stared into his face. He wouldn’t be surprised if Lucio was dead by the end of the week. This was the man who’d taken him from Venice, who’d given him a new life. Lucio wasn’t kind and had often reminded him of the fact that he wasn’t a Pavoni, but there were much worse things to be than an outsider.

“I bet you feel great about yourself.” Anteros snapped his head up to see Dario laugh behind him. Pulling his hand free from Lucio’s, Anteros turned to the councilman, keeping his face blank. Standing like a shadow in the doorway, The Cuck regarded Anteros with a look of pure satisfaction and a drink in his hand.

“Is something on your mind, Cuck?” Anteros asked. Dario scowled at the less than friendly nickname and walked farther into the room.

“I wondered what you were up to with Emilio all these months. Now I know,” Dario said. “Absolutely nothing.” Dario laughed again, his body rolling with the movement. Anteros narrowed his eyes for a moment then responded by laughing as well. His laugh was mirthless and cold, menacing in its rumble.

Dario could laugh all he wanted; in less than a week, he would be dead.

Anteros stood up and walked over, patting the councilman on his shoulder. He kept his palm on Dario’s shoulder a little longer than necessary so Dario would have to slide out from under him. With distaste, Dario wiggled his way out from Anteros’s massive grip. Dario then walked to the bed, setting his drink down and taking his seat next to Lucio, pulling the clammy hand between his own, brassy ones.