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They dined in formal grandeur, just as any husband and wife of their station might. The Beast took pains to entertain her, and for a time Amarantha forgot about their ill-fated marriage and his doomed existence.
The Beast drew her out of her chair long before the dreaded stroke of midnight. He led her to the ballroom. It occupied an entire wing of the empty manse and looked out over the nighttime gardens through floor-to-ceiling windows with inset French doors. Candles and torches lit the vast room with white and gold brilliance.
Tall vases ringed the room, spilling with the Beast's red roses. Garlands of roses draped from the chandeliers, dripping from the wall sconces. The room smelled of hot roses and wax.
“These doors open onto the terrace,” the Beast told her. “When we had summer balls, we'd open the doors and set torches out in the gardens. People danced among the rose bushes. The women always looked like flowers to me.”
With that, torches all over the gardens sprang into life, glittering warm against the snow, and a waltz swelled through the room from invisible musicians.
The Beast swept Amarantha into a giddy dance. His green eyes never left her face as they swirled around the room. Indeed, she thought, he'd barely taken his eyes off her since they'd married.
She gave herself over to it. Being held against his strong body as he spun her around the room. Just as she'd given herself over to him. Her body throbbed for him. Came to life only for him. Amarantha let the rush of his desire overpower her as they whirled around the room.
When the clock struck midnight, the music stopped, and the Beast halted them in midstep. He kept her clasped in his arms, his fingers tightening on her waist.
“Amarantha, I must ask you a question.”
She waited.
“Amarantha, my bride, will you beg me to collar you, chain you to my bed, and fuck you?”
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Could she? She had begged last night. Could she kneel down and beg him to treat her like that? Betray both her dignity and her family? Forever destroy her chances forever of living a glittering life as royalty in one of the cities and make herself a slave to a beast?
She couldn't. Life was about more than desire. Even the sticky-sweet web the Beast wove for her. Amarantha just couldn't lose herself to it. The real world continued out there. Waiting for her to return.
“No.”
“Very well, then.”
Amarantha opened her mouth to say more, but the music crashed over them, and he swooped into yet another wild waltz. The Beast danced her in mad circles, faster and wilder. When she had lost her breath entirely, he stopped them at a white table that appeared in the middle of the room, directly under the massive crystal chandelier.
Grasping her by her narrow waist, the Beast stood her on the table.
“Hands behind your neck,” he growled, and she obeyed, still panting to recover her breath.
He extended his wicked claws and began to shred the delicate gold cloth.
Amarantha concentrated on keeping her balance, and he slowly stripped the gown from her in ragged tears.
The mirrors around the room reflected them: his dark figure circling her, changing the glamorous belle into a naked girl pulsing with her uncontrollable need for the Beast.
He laid her down on the table, fastening her wrists over her head to each corner and spreading her legs wide to tie her ankles at the bottom. Amarantha writhed under each glancing touch.
The Beast left her there to stare at the surreal drapes of roses, the candles burning above, glinting off the crystal prisms.
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He returned with an armload of roses, which he placed between her spread ankles.
The Beast placed one stem in her mouth, well back into her teeth, and bade her bite down on it. She closed her lips over it, wincing at the sharp prick of the thorns.
“Be careful not to pierce yourself,” he said. “You'll find you must be still and quiet.”
Taking one long-stemmed rose, the Beast trailed it over Amarantha's quivering white flesh. She hmmed at the petals' velvet brush, then moaned full-throated when he dipped the turgid blossom into her dripping sex.
Then he resumed brushing her skin with the now-sopping petals, coating Amarantha in her own musk and the redolence of the roses. The Beast kept at it, painting every bit of her skin this way. Time blurred and dilated.
It seemed dawn would never come.
The Beast then began dropping rose petals onto her. One by one he plucked the crimson petals and let them drift to her skin. So sensitized was she that Amarantha whimpered as each one fell to stick to her. The Beast watched her with his glittering green eyes. She wanted to beg him to finish it, but the rose in her lips muted her.
When she drowned in petals, he climbed up on to the table, crouched over her on all fours. His black velvet vest brushed her aching nipples, as red as the rose petals. Amarantha lifted her hips helplessly, all at once wishing she could offer herself in full.
The Beast bent over her, plucked a single rose petal in his teeth, and dropped it to the floor. Then placed a kiss where it had been.
Amarantha closed her eyes, unable to bear the slow dissolution of her senses.
By rose-petal increments, the Beast kissed every bit of her. From the helplessly turned-up palms of her hands, down the insides of her arms, to the 72
trembling hollows under them. He kissed the soles of her feet, between her toes, with little cat licks that left her tossing her head. The Beast took his time over her breasts and belly, removing each sticky petal and replacing it with the sweet benediction of his kiss.
Until only a mound of petals remained, twined through the black hair of her sex.
He crouched between her spread legs on the white marble table, a salivating beast ready to devour her. And Amarantha wanted him to.
“Shall I remove the rose from your pretty lips?” he asked, and she nodded frantically.
The Beast leaned up over her and looked deep into her violet eyes.
“Remember this, my love. Remember me.”
He drew the rose gently from her mouth. Amarantha tried to reply, but he'd already driven his slavering mouth into her, and she could only scream her wild pleasure.
His strong hands clasped her bottom, holding her hips up as far as her tethered ankles would allow. The Beast feasted on her, drawing cry after cry from her. She lost track of what she said, what she promised as he pulled every last petal from every fold.
When he had exhausted her, the Beast untied her and lifted her to her feet.
Trembling and weak from pleasure, she stood naked in his arms, leaning against his rock-hard chest while he held her, his cheek turned to rest on the top of her head. A soft, sad song started up, and he moved her into the dance. They turned, soft and languid, in a sensual dance all their own.
As the notes faded on the last waltz, they slowed and stopped. They stood there, gazes locked, until the Beast dropped his head to slide a kiss along the side of her throat. He inhaled her scent and lifted her into his arms.
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He carried her to her chambers but set her down outside her door. He gathered her slim hands in his furred ones and kissed the back of each.
“Good-bye, my bride. I wish you happiness. I am grateful for all the gifts you've given me.”
“My lord Beast, I…”
He gave her his twisted smile. “Hush, Amarantha. This is a game that could not be won.”
“I'll come back,” she said impulsively. “I'll just visit my family for one night, and I'll come back the next, and maybe we—”
“Hush. Go and live your life. Just…remember me. Be kind to the beasts of the forest.” He cocked a wry eyebrow. “You never know when it might be me.”
Amarantha went to bed alone and wept herself to sleep, uncertain whom her tears were for.
* * *
Then their joy turned to horror, and her father and Angelica accused her of running away in fear, while Anastasia pocketed a few coins. Worse, they shrieked, she'd stolen from the Beast and had not only ruined their fortunes, but would bring his wrath down upon them.
But Amarantha told them the story she had crafted on the ride home. How she'd refused the Beast her virginity, and he'd let her go. How he planned to give her his wealth and leave the country. Not so much of a lie, after all.
They asked her about her trials, but Amarantha found it easy to divert them with tales of the Beast's wealth. Her father launched into plans to sell the roses and 74
horses while Angelica waxed on about the balls she would throw in the coming warm season.
“I'm just thankful we can find you a proper husband,” her father said.
“A real man.” Angelica tittered. “That Beast might have growled a show but clearly had nothing between his legs, or he wouldn't have let you go like that.”
“Perhaps his curse extended to his mind,” Anastasia suggested. “He's delusional to have given up before he even tried for a full week.”
“Or Amarantha is more of an ice queen that we thought!”
“Don't mind them, baby girl.” Amarantha's father patted her hand. “You're back to your normal life. We'll always take care of you.”
The funny thing was, she'd never noticed before how blandly she lived her life.
Amarantha spent the evening in restless boredom. Dinner seemed like an empty ritual, devoid of pleasure.
The following day stretched out empty and without meaning. Amarantha walked in the garden, looking for spring buds, and found herself watching for the Beast, listening for his voice. The healing scratches stung and itched under her modest gown. Amarantha listened to her sisters prattle about their impending wealth and felt the longing swirl through her to feel the Beast's touch just once more.
Over dinner, Angelica and her father debated potential suitors for Amarantha.
She tried to imagine lying beneath them and could think only of the chains the Beast had promised her. Could think only of the thrill the thought gave her and how her sex pulsed in answer. Thought of his strong hands and how they stroked her and his horses with equal skill and gentle love.
“He saved your horse, you know,” Amarantha said.
Her father blinked at her. “What horse?”
“The one you rode to his house that first night. She's looking quite well.”
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He waved a dismissive hand. “That nag? I thought her lost to the blizzard, and good riddance too. I'm surprised a monster like him would bother.”
You people are the monsters.
At first, Amarantha had thought she said it out loud. But they went on as if she didn't exist. Only the Beast had really seen her. Only he had really loved her.
And she had walked away, a fool intent on her pride and false loyalty.
She spent another restless night fitfully dreaming of riding the big cat through the gnarled forest. Then the cat lay at her feet, rolling over to show its tawny belly.
Amarantha drove a jeweled dagger into its heart and stood laughing while the blood flowed out and stained the hem of her gown.
In the morning, she dressed herself in one of her old gowns, as Anastasia had helped herself to the one Amarantha had worn home. She giggled, thinking of the hidden charms of some of the other gowns the Beast had dressed her in and her sisters' shock were Amarantha to don one of those.
Her father had already sold the carriage with the matching team of horses to satisfy some of the debtors crowding his door, promising the irate Angelica another just as fine from the Beast's stables.
So Amarantha walked into the forest. She'd left at first light and hoped she could make it to the Beast's manse by nightfall. But the way wound long and the day chill, and her cloak was fine for riding in carriages, but not for walking in winter. The woods twisted deep and dark around her.
When it began to snow, the snow settled on her thinly clad shoulders, soon soaking in. The snow grew thicker, swirling around her in shivering gusts. The light grew dim. A shape loomed before her, a denser white shadow amid the flakes. And whuffed in greeting.
Amarantha gratefully climbed onto the old mare and rode her to the manse.
Finding the stables warm and cozy, Amarantha tucked the mare into her usual stall, feeling oddly at home. She trusted the ghosts would take care of the horse.
Perhaps the Beast would teach her how to care for them too.
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Maybe how to grow roses.
She ran through the gardens, clambering through the deepening snow. At first the terrace doors to the gardens didn't give. Amarantha tugged on them, desperate to open them. Unlike the stables, the manse loomed entirely dark. Was he gone already?
“Please!” Amarantha called out. “It's me. It's the last night, not yet midnight.
There's still time.”
The locks gave with a click, the doors opening outward. A single candle lit, and the pink light appeared, bobbing urgently in front of her. She followed it through the dark and silent house to the atrium.
The Beast sat in his chair, staring at nothing.
“My Lord?”
He didn't move.
Amarantha laid a tentative hand on his arm. He felt cool but not cold. Not dead, then.
“My Lord Beast!” Amarantha shouted, and something in him flickered, then fell into dimness again.
“Candles!” she called out, and a few whispered into feeble life. “Look, my Lord Beast! It's me, Amarantha, your bride.”
Nothing.
Frantic, Amarantha flung off her cloak and gloves. With shaking fingers, she struggled with the laces of her dress. Impatiently she stripped, tearing the fragile fabric in her haste. Fortunately she'd dressed herself that morning and so wore no corset. She kicked the dress and her underthings aside. Naked, she pulled at her braided hair and combed her fingers through it until it tumbled around her the way he liked it.
Amarantha stood nude in front of him. She spread her legs and put her hands at the back of her neck, under her hair, thrusting out her breasts.