Her Beast in Brighton (Bastards of Brighton #1)

Prologue

Lady Calliope Balfour rubbed her bare arms to ward off the chill, ignoring the sting of pain as she shrank deeper into the corner of the dark, dusty attic.

On her lap, curled in a ball of white fur, lay Prince, the snowy greyhound puppy she had found cowering in a flower patch beneath the library window.

He was the only warmth she had left, the only thing in this forsaken place that made her feel needed and alive.

She knew all too well what had brought her here—the latest in a string of punishments from her stepmother, Duvessa.

This time, her crime had been compassion.

Finding Prince and hiding him in her room had stirred an anger in Duvessa so fierce that the heavens nearly shook with her wrath.

But not even the sting of the cane had persuaded Calliope to abandon him.

She’d endure anything, even her growing hunger and the bruises that throbbed beneath her skin.

She would not give him up.

“I’m sorry, Prince,” she whispered, tucking her face in his soft fur. “This is the only way I can keep you.”

It was a miracle already that Duvessa hadn’t torn the puppy from her arms. But Calliope knew the puppy would be used as a tool to keep her in line, a weakness her stepmother would surely exploit when it suited her.

Still, she would fight to keep Prince by her side, whether she was locked in the attic for a week or a month, with nothing but a thin blanket and old portraits of her father and his ancestry stacked against the walls.

I shall not give in.

What was the worst they could do to her?

Her gaze fell on the proud face of her father, the late Honorable Viscount of Balfour.

What would he say if he knew his brother had abandoned her to Duvessa’s whims?

Her uncle, the current viscount, barely acknowledged her existence.

Would he care that his niece was being locked away like a prisoner?

That she should be learning to dance, cite poetry, or play the piano like other girls her age and not cowering in the shadows?

She stroked Prince’s head.

She had no family in this house. But she did have friends—silent, unseen allies among the servants, who would sneak her extra bread when they could and empty the chamber pot her stepmother had left for her.

They always offered the same words of encouragement before leaving: “Just hold on a little longer, Miss Calliope.”

And she would. Duvessa and her daughters had always been darkness to her—draped in black like the night, cold and cruel as winter winds. Even in sunlight, they cast long shadows.

They were the reason she hated the dark. The dark meant punishment. The dark meant pain. The dark always whispered their names.

She gathered Prince more tightly into her embrace.

Hold on a little longer . . .

Her gaze drifted to the small window, its glass covered by wooden planks. How much time had passed? How much longer did she need to hold on? No, it didn’t matter. She could endure as long as she needed to. She could hold on forever.

Calliope smiled against Prince’s soft white coat. She didn’t need to hold on forever—just until her eighteenth birthday.

Four years.

Only four more years. It sounded unbearably long, but still not as long as forever.

She shut her eyes, allowing her mind to drift to a future she had created in her dreams. She’d escape. She’d make something of herself. And she’d live a quiet, peaceful life in the light.

Her mother once said she had a face like morning light—soft and fair, with eyes too curious for their own good. A constellation of freckles danced across her nose, and her golden hair always tangled when she was nervous.

“A dreamer’s face,” her mother used to say, “but with a fire hidden underneath.”

She clung to those words now.

Some things could only be escaped through imagination, and Calliope did that quite well.

In her future, everything glowed bright and smelled fresh.

She wouldn’t be ridiculed or beaten anymore.

She wouldn’t have to fight for every scrap of food.

She wouldn’t be locked in closets. She wouldn’t be cold.

She’d live a peaceful life, away from Duvessa, her vile stepsisters, and the family that didn’t claim her after her father’s death.

The family that had never saved her. But most importantly, she would find a loving husband and build a true family—one that resembled a time before her father married that woman and everything fell apart.

The creak of wooden steps startled her out of her daydream, and her arms tightened protectively around Prince. She held her breath as the footsteps grew louder, stopping just outside the attic door. A few beats of silence followed before a snicker came from behind the door.

“Still not ready to give up on that mutt?” Victoria, the oldest of her stepsisters, sneered.

Calliope dug her toes into the floorboards. No. Never.

“Not speaking? How long do you think you can stay in that filthy attic this time, heh?” Morgana, her second stepsister, taunted.

However long it takes.

“Do you think she’s finally dead?” Morgana’s shrill tone asked, but Calliope still ignored them.

Responding only made it worse. They believed themselves above her because their father had been an earl, and Papa merely a viscount.

She had long ago given up trying to understand why that mattered—why they must treat her so cruelly.

“Oh,” Victoria scoffed, “the little rat won’t die so easily. Even though it would be better if she were dead, it would cause Mama too much trouble. She will still be of some use in the future.”

Calliope’s brows drew together as she stared at the door. What use? What was the use of living this way? Being treated this way? Was she truly that unlovable?

No, Papa loved you. He did.

Yet those memories felt so far away, almost as if she had dreamed them.

“Oh, right,” Morgana said. “Mama promised that old dodger she would marry this brat to him when she came of age. What’s his name again?”

What old dodger? What marriage?

“Lord Flemming or something,” Victoria answered.

Did they mean Lord Flemmington? The smelly old lord who had been calling on Duvessa in recent weeks and whose stench lingered long after he left?

He could have been her grandfather! The mere thought of being shackled to him made her stomach churn.

Surely her stepmother wouldn’t do such a thing. Surely her uncle—

“And the viscount agreed.” Victoria snickered.

Calliope’s hands balled into fists. She didn’t know if the girls were lying, but let them try to marry her off to that old man! She would rather join her father in the afterlife than allow that to happen!

The door suddenly opened, and Calliope shielded her eyes as flickering candlelight intruded into the attic and made her squint. Once her eyes adjusted, she lowered her arm to find the unwelcome sight of her two stepsisters in the doorway.

“What a pitiful creature you are,” Morgana said before laughing. “How entertaining to watch you cower.”

Just a little longer . . .

“Yes,” Victoria agreed with a sly smile. “What a pitiful creature. Shall I be merciful today?” A piece of bread was tossed her way, landing at her feet.

Calliope didn’t rise to their taunts. She wouldn’t waste her already-depleted breath on these girls. She’d save it for surviving the darkness. And for Prince. Whatever breath was left, she’d give to him.

“What are you girls doing here?” A chilling voice cut through the air like a knife, cold and commanding. Her stepsisters’ expressions faltered, their smugness vanishing in an instant.

Duvessa.

Calliope’s whole body went stiff.

She held no love for this woman who had married her father exactly one year after her mother passed away.

Within the next year, everything had fallen apart.

Duvessa became with child, her father passed away shortly after, and a few months later, the viscountess suffered a miscarriage.

Calliope didn’t know much about those things, but she understood through the beatings she’d received that she was blamed for it all.

The screeching of her stepmother still echoed in her nightmares: “You wretched creature! This is all your fault! If I could have given birth to a son, my position would be secured! You shall stay at my side until I have used all you’re worth! I shall see to it!”

The door of the attic slammed shut again, jarring Calliope out of that horrid memory.

“We merely came to see whether our little sister had reflected on her actions, Mama,” she heard Victoria answer, a sickening sweetness clinging to each syllable.

“Come.” Duvessa’s tone brooked no argument. “Don’t disturb her punishment, lest her insolence rub off on you. You have dance lessons in an hour.”

Calliope listened as they descended the steps, only breathing a sigh of relief when the shallow creaks of the stairs faded into silence once more. She reached for the piece of bread, too hard to be enjoyable, breaking off a small piece and feeding it to Prince.

“Keep your strength up, little one,” she whispered. Young pups needed plenty of food to survive, and Calliope could skip a meal or two if she must.

Her gaze turned to her father’s portrait once more. I shall survive too, Papa.

She just needed to bide her time a little longer.