Chapter 14 Isabeau #2
“I should tell you what happened,” I said suddenly, the words tumbling out before I could consider them.
“About me. About how I ended up here.” Beast paused mid-snap, those intelligent eyes fixing on me again.
“My father was taken as the sacrifice during the Harvest Moon ceremony. But it wasn’t fair, wasn’t random like it was supposed to be.
” My hands twisted in the fabric of the nightgown, knuckles whitening with suppressed rage.
“Gaspard—he’s the village hunter—he arranged it all.
Killed, well is being killed, Papa because he wanted me. And Father Simon helped him.”
The words tasted bitter on my tongue, but there was relief in speaking them aloud. In naming the betrayal that had shattered my world.
“After Papa was gone, Gaspard took me in. Claimed he was being charitable because I could not inherit my father’s estate as a female.
” A harsh laugh escaped me, nothing like the surprised sound from earlier.
“He kept me chained, locked away. He...” I couldn’t say it, not yet, but Beast’s darkening expression suggested he understood regardless.
“He was going to force me to marry him. To breed, as he called it.”
Beast’s growl vibrated through the floor beneath my feet, his lips pulling back to reveal rows of gleaming teeth. Not directed at me, I realized, but at the men who had hurt me. At Gaspard, mostly.
“When he tried to do it, some source of power emanated from me and thrust him across the room. That’s when he accused me of witchcraft because I.
..” I hesitated, unsure how to explain the strange power that had saved me from drowning.
“Because of the power I don’t understand.
But they tried to drown me in the river, and when that failed because of that surge of energy, they would have burned me had I not chosen the other side of the river.
” My voice softened. “That’s when I ran into the forest. When I found the castle. When I found Papa…”
Beast’s ears flattened against his skull, his growl fading to something that sounded almost like a whimper.
“The roses have him,” I whispered, the image still raw in my mind.
“He’s trapped there, feeding them somehow.
And I don’t know if he’s truly alive or dead or somewhere in between.
” I looked up, meeting those amber eyes that seemed to hold more understanding than should be possible in a beast. “Do you know what they are? The roses? Why they need blood to bloom?”
He made no sound this time, but his gaze dropped, unable or unwilling to hold mine. There was shame there, I realized. Guilt. As if he knew exactly what the roses were, what they did, and bore some responsibility for their gruesome appetites.
Before I could press further, he returned to his task, attacking the branches with renewed vigor. Each crack of wood between his teeth sounded like bones breaking, like my heart splintering with every unanswered question.
My chest hurt. It wasn’t the language barrier preventing him from telling me. He chose not to, or maybe his curse prevented him from telling me about it. From what I’ve read in the books Papa gathered for me while oft away on his journeys, curses held the tongue of the cursed.
So if he couldn’t tell me, I’d need to find a way to figure it all out. It wouldn’t happen right now, not with it being rude of me to leave my position in the room with him while he worked to feed me. So I would once breakfast was done, which meant we needed to get this process running smoother.
I stood suddenly, the blanket slipping from my shoulders as I moved toward the pheasant. Beast’s head snapped up, a warning growl rumbling from his chest.
“I’m not leaving,” I assured him, bending to retrieve the bird from where it lay. “But if we’re having pheasant, it needs plucking. And you’ve got quite enough to do with all this firewood.”
His growl deepened, clearly displeased with my presumption. I laughed again, the sound coming easier this time after all the tension.
“Oh, stop that. You’re not frightening me.
” I settled back into the chair, the bird in my lap, and began the familiar task of plucking feathers.
“Besides, there are parts of this you wouldn’t want to eat.
The innards need to come out, and the feet aren’t much good unless you’re making both for soup. ”
Beast watched me work for a moment, his expression unreadable.
Then, with what might have been a resigned huff, he returned to breaking branches.
We fell into a strange companionable silence, the only sounds the crackling of the fire he’d already lit in the hearth, the snap of wood between his teeth, and the soft rustle of feathers as I prepared our meal.
I stole glances at him as I worked, noting how methodically he approached his task. He wasn’t just breaking enough wood for today’s fire. The pile growing beside him would last for days, perhaps longer. He was preparing for my continued presence, for my comfort beyond this moment.
“Thank you,” I said again, softly.
Beast froze mid-motion, his massive frame going utterly still.
He turned to look at me, and something in his expression made my heart twist painfully in my chest. When was the last time anyone had thanked him for anything?
When was the last time he’d had anyone to care for, anyone who saw beyond his fearsome exterior to the intelligence within?
He dipped his head in what could only be described as a bow, the gesture so formal, so human, that tears threatened again. Then he returned to his work, and I to mine. This mundane task brought me peace.
Not safety—not quite, not yet—but the beginning of understanding. The seedling of trust. The possibility that in this castle of dust and shadows, with this creature of fur and fang, I might find something I’d thought I lost forever.
Home.