Beastly Beauty

Eighty-Nine

Beau knew that love had failed him.

He’d found the courage to hope again. To believe again.

And he’d lost again.

Arabella was gone. He lifted his head, steeling himself to look upon her lifeless face. But when he opened his eyes, he saw that her eyes were open, too. She was blinking them like a dreamer released from sleep.

“Beau, what time is it?” she asked, struggling to sit up.

“Don’t move, Arabella, be still.”

“Please, Beau … the time …”

Beau glanced up at the clock “Ten minutes to midnight.”

“Help me up.”

“Arabella, I don’t think—”

“The curse isn’t broken, not yet, and if I don’t—”

“We all die,” Beau said, scrabbling to his feet. He hooked his hands under her arms and lifted her off the floor.

Arabella clutched his arm, swaying woozily on unsteady legs, then said, “Where are they … the court?”

Beau looked around the great hall. “Over there,” he said, pointing toward the windows.

The ladies had congregated under them. Some stood forlornly, their heads down, their fingers fretting at buttons and cuffs. Some were clamorous—shouting, stamping their feet, breaking things.

Arabella’s fingers dug into Beau’s forearm. “I’m afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Of the beast. It feels like she’s coming. Like I’ll never escape her. Like she’ll tear me apart.”

“I’ll help you, Arabella. Just tell me how. Tell me what to do.”

“You can’t help me. I have to do this alone.”

Arabella touched his face then. She ran her fingers along his strong jaw, curled them behind his neck, and pulled him down to her and kissed him.

Beau kissed her back. And tried to hope. Tried to have faith. To believe that love would carry Arabella back to him.

“Be there for me. After,” she said as she broke the kiss.

And then she ran. Across the great hall. Away from him. She quickly put distance between them, so he could not hear her when she said, “If there is an after.”