Beauty and the Lyon (The Lyon’s Den)

Prologue

“Y ou wretched creature!” The Duke of Crane’s roar reverberated through the halls of their manor in London. “If I get my hands on you, I’ll wrap them around your neck and snap it right off!”

Blake Faiththorne, ten-year-old Marquess of Falconridge, pressed his back against the cold, shadow-draped wall of the hallway, his breath coming in ragged bursts. The threat in his father’s voice sent a chill down his spine. If the mad duke found him tonight, after he’d defied him, he might not survive to see the dawn. At the very least, come morning, he would be in a truly wretched state, as his father loved to teach him the “way of the world,” which always included his fists.

Blake hated those lessons.

Hated the bruises.

Hated the pats on the head the next day even more.

In fact, he loathed any touches of any sort.

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to vanish, to melt into the shadows as if he’d never been born. What was the point of entering this life if all it had to offer was pain? But what purpose did such thoughts and questions serve? They were useless. Just like he felt—a helpless creature trapped in a nightmare that never seemed to end.

“Boy!” the duke’s voice thundered again, punctuated by the sound of shattering glass and splintering wood. “If you don’t come out this instant, I’ll set this house ablaze!”

Silence followed that outburst.

He strained his ears to catch the slightest sound of his father’s approach, but his heart pounded so loudly it almost drowned out everything else. He wished the duke would set the house on fire in his rage. Then this night would end, and the shadows of the manor wouldn’t close in on him.

He wouldn’t.

Blake glanced left and right.

Terror clawed at his limbs, and he couldn’t move even as his head, his body, his everything ordered him to run. He must escape.

If he didn’t . . .

Another loud crash reverberated through the halls. Too close. Unsteady footsteps followed, each one a warning. Panic slammed into him, forcing his legs into motion. He had to make it to the gardens—his safest bet.

Blake dashed straight for the double-leaf door of the morning room.

Almost there.

But a dark shape cut off his path—a face flushed with anger, breath heavy with the stench of alcohol—blocking his escape. “There you are!” the duke growled. “I have you now, you disobedient wretch!”

Blake sidestepped past his father and bolted for the door—thankfully, this one was rarely locked—and slipped outside. He had almost crossed the threshold to the lawn when a blood-curdling roar erupted behind him. Stumbling, he fell to the ground, his head snapping back to see his father, clutching the doorframe, panting like a beast.

It’s over.

A small hand suddenly grabbed his arm, and Blake turned to meet the scrunched up face of a girl, no older than seven or eight, probably younger.

“Run!” she hissed softly.

His feet launched into action as she pulled him to the maze of hedges that twisted into a labyrinthine garden. Who was this girl? Where had she come from? Why was she helping him? But urgency swallowed his questions whole, spurring him onward as his father’s curses snapped at his heels.

Tonight, arguably, was the worst of the duke’s outbursts. But then, in the past, Blake had always made himself scarce before they happened. He had learned that if he stayed out of sight, he would not enter the duke’s mind.

Much.

The girl’s grip was surprisingly strong, though her hand was half the size of his. She never once let go of him as they darted through the tangled greenery. “We need to crawl through here,” she said, pointing to a narrow gap between the hedges, finally letting go.

He glanced at his arm, which prickled at the absence of her fingers. How strange. He hadn’t minded her touch. Blake glanced back at the gap. “I don’t think I can,” he said softly.

“Don’t worry, you’ll fit.”

His father’s curses drew closer.

Blake didn’t argue. He would make himself squeeze through no matter what. He crawled into the bushes after her, coming out on the other side and dashing to another hedge, pushing through another spot, and darted after her to a large tree with thick, low hanging branches.

“Climb up. We will be safe there.”

“How do you know?” he whispered.

“Trust me,” she whispered back.

She scrambled up the tree with a nimbleness that shocked him. How many times had she done this before?

“How do you know this place?”

The girl paused in her climb to look down at him. “I am an explorer.”

Blake stared after her, all sorts of doubt filling his mind. An explorer? But she’d said it with such confidence that he couldn’t find the words to question her claim or why she would risk herself to save him.

He followed her up, his longer limbs making the climb more awkward, but he soon reached the higher branches, settling into a sheltered nook across from her. Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant, slurred shouts of the duke. Through the branches, Blake could see the lights from the manor, but despite the orange glow, there was no warmth to be found there. He also found no glimpse of his father, and his drunken mutterings grew fainter as each moment passed.

The girl shifted, and Blake turned his gaze back to her, watching as she craned her neck for a better view over the garden. There was something almost mesmerizing about her unshaken calm, her quiet composure that made her a bright beacon in the darkness. Gratitude filled him, and in that moment, he gathered strength not just from her boldness, but also from the small victory of their escape. Her eyes suddenly found his.

Overhead, a cloud parted and moonlit pierced through the branches. He blinked. “You’re...”

She smiled, a finger lifting to hover over her lips. His breath caught for the second time that night, and this time it was not laced with the painful burn of fear.

So pretty.

Like an angel.

A miracle. A dream. A fantasy.

He couldn’t quite explain the daze, or perhaps the clarity that befell him then, but he did see one thing exceedingly clear at the moment. The man stumbling, cursing, and ready to hurt the child he sired... that man...

He no longer considered that man his father.

But his enemy.