Breaking the Beast (Seven Ways to Sin 5)

Bonita was quiet, and I braced myself to be chastised. I sent you out there to do a job, she would say. Don’t try to bite off more than you can handle.

But Bonita surprised me, as she so often did. “I think that’s a wonderful idea,” she said. “If that’s where the muse is taking you, then I think you should follow it.”

My heart thudded. “You really think so?”

“Of course I do,” Bonita said. “What kind of mentor would I be if I discouraged you from pursuing your goals? I want you to follow this wherever it takes you, with my full support.”

A wide grin broke across my face. “Thank you so much, Bonita. I really appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it,” Bonita said airily. “Just make sure you take some time to enjoy yourself out there. You know what they say about all work and no play.”

“Trust me,” I said. “I don’t think that will be an issue.”

I wrote in a deep state of inspiration for the rest of the day. Around lunchtime, Raphael quietly slipped in to place a tray on my desk and slipped out just as quickly, correctly sensing that I didn’t want to be disturbed.

There was so much here. At the very heart of it, Jacques’ story was of a young, scared, abused boy who had, against all odds, risen to great heights. He had overcome so much, only to be laid low again by one careless woman. I knew Jacques believed himself to be defeated, a broken man, but I knew that wasn’t true. During my time at Villeneuve, I had learned more about Jacques’ philanthropy—more from the other men than from Jacques. I knew that he only invested in ethical businesses, that he gave a huge chunk of his wealth to various charities every year. To me, that painted a picture of a very different man than Jacques believed himself to be.

And I was confident that readers would respond to him. Once they saw the man behind the Beast, they couldn’t help but feel as drawn to him as I was. The trick would be convincing Jacques to allow them close enough to peek behind the mask. I had promised him I wouldn’t write about anything he felt was too personal, but without the touches of personality, the story would fall flat. I needed to persuade Jacques, to help him see that the things he was hiding didn’t make him weak, they made him human. I was sure that I could do it. I just needed more time.

Dinner at Castle Villeneuve was always my favorite time of day. After a long day of writing, the scent of Isiah’s cooking would finally draw me out of my room, ravenous. Over dinner, the men would chat amongst themselves and tease me amiably. Jacques rarely participated in the conversation, but he was always there, and I could tell he took as much succor from the company as he did from the food.

Étienne generally led the conversation. Over time, I came to realize that although Vincent was in charge of the running of the household, it was Étienne who the men saw as their leader. Even Bernard, Jacques’ oldest friend, looked to him for direction from time to time.

It was hard not to compare this easy sense of companionship to meals at home, which were generally loud, hectic events. Since my mother’s death, we rarely ate as a family, choosing instead to grab meals as we needed them. My siblings, who didn’t live at home, nevertheless often raided our fridge on a near-daily basis. I was constantly reaching for leftovers, only to realize that my brothers had gotten there before me.

After dinner that night, Bernard rose to clear the table, and Alexandre turned to me. “I have to take the dogs for their final walk of the evening,” he said. “Do you want to join me?”

“That sounds great,” I said, rising to my feet.

The night air had a bit of a bite to it, and I shivered in the sudden chill. “Do you need to go back inside?” Alexandre asked.

“Oh no, I’ll be fine,” I assured him, touched by the concern in his voice.

“Just promise you’ll tell me if you get too cold,” Alexandre said. “I don’t want you to catch a chill.”

“I will,” I promised, smiling.

“Adele, Bardot,” Alexandre called, and the two big dogs of indeterminate breed fell into step beside him. Alexandre didn’t use leashes around the grounds, controlling the dogs by vocal commands only.

“Did you have dogs growing up?” I asked, ruffling Adele’s fuzzy ears affectionately.

Alexandre smiled, a faraway look coming over his face. “We had all kinds of animals,” he said. “Dogs, pigs, a donkey. I miss being surrounded by animals.”

I slipped my hand into his. “You clearly have a way with them,” I said. “I’ve never seen dogs respond to a person like this.”