I AWOKE TO the sound of my maidservants whispering erratically from outside my room. Their hushed voices vaguely seeped into my mind, little more than a figment of my imagination. I pushed my covers away, my interest aroused.
"Ten livres she will be the one." Madame Dubois's voice. "Little girl, are you blind to the way he looks at her?"
It was Aurore who responded with: "But he acts like such a prick!"
"The lord is enticed by her, of that we are aware," an unfamiliar, feminine voice said, seeming to ignore Aurore. "But the lady, she is only interested in butchering him and therein lies the problem. I wager twenty livres he—and with him, the whole lot of us—will die at her hand."
"He can put up with a nick or two," Madame Dubois hissed sharply. "That is a small price for her company."
I sat up, sliding my legs along the silken sheets so that my toes pressed into the carpeted floor. Slowly, making sure that my steps were quiet, I neared the door and held an ear to it.
"Have you listened to them bicker and threaten each other over dinner? Or last night, in this chamber? Or—" She cut herself off and said, rather loudly, "Is it not time for her ladyship to dine with her husband?"
"Is it not inappropriate for my husband's servants to wager on his wife killing him?" I returned, pushing my door open. "But I must thank you, for believing that it will be I who kills him, and not the other way around."
"What made you decide to be punctual tonight?" I asked as my eyes fell upon the masked man seated at the head of the table. Prior to this night, he had arrived before me only once.
"It is you who is late this evening," he said calmly, raising a glass of swirled shades of red to his lips.
His gaze lingered in my direction as I approached my place and seated myself. Like him, I decided that it was the flavor of wine that I wanted to taste on my tongue. Hesitantly, I raised a glass to my lips. Last time I had drunk too much I awoke with my head in a bucket. To hell with it. I let the wine trickle down my throat, drained the glass, and set it down.
"You are rather quiet tonight, dear," his voice whispered in my ear, settling along my neck.
Unshaken by his sudden nearness, I said, "My apologies your lordship. I am much too fatigued to partake in our dinnerly banter." In truth, I did not want to put up with it tonight.
"And why is that?" he questioned, still standing beside me.
He spoke with a softness that I almost mistook for concern. I knew better. My eyes drifted, avoiding looking in his direction. "I have not slept all that very well." Indeed, the majority of last night had been spent in both his and the guard's company.
"Oh?" His hands were placed on my seats' left armrest. "And what kept my dear bride up so late, I wonder?" His fingers met the hand folded in my lap. "Were you missing me?"
I scoffed. "Of course not."
He stroked a finger along my knuckles, something slow and gentle. "Ismae LaBelle," he mused, "do you wish to guess how many years I have lived?"
"I would rather tell you how many years you have yet to live." I pulled my hands from my lap and crossed my arms. My head was tilted upwards to meet his gaze and I found myself pressing into my seat. "I am sure there are not that many more."
"On the contrary, I believe there would be fine and many years if spent in your company." He paused pensively, and I thought that if he were not wearing a mask, then his brows would be furrowed. "Goodnight." He patted my shoulder as he stood. "Please do get some rest, my dear."
My eyes remained on the untouched dinner plate before me, my ears focused on the sound of his steps as they echoed away. Eventually, I completed my meal and returned to my rooms. Without much thought, I had undressed and put on a nightgown that, though comfortable, was far too revealing for my liking. I wore a robe over it.
Sleep was the last thing on my mind for I had woken up late and wasted much time. I was glad that I had been relieved of the dinner—that gave me time. I made my way to the library, glancing at the instructions the guard had given me in writing. It was dusty and dark, neglected, but not deserted as the West Wings were.
I ignored the rows upon rows of dusty books whose cracked spines and feathered corners called my name—there would be time for that much, much later. I headed towards a small bookshelf propped against the wall, one that was dedicated to the writings of the Beasts' former wives. There were not very many, which was to be expected given that the illiterate and enslaved had been sent here. But of the existing journals that I could read, many of the pages were left ink-stained or empty.
A majority of the writings were a day-to-day account of each event that had taken place. I read every single one of them thoroughly, distancing myself from the thought that the writer of this journal had died at the hands of a man I was married to.
Eventually, my hands came across a thin and blotched stack of papers that smelled of dirt and rusted metal, held together by twine. The first passage read:
Today, I asked my husband if he would let me murder him. I had hoped he would punish me for those words and rid me of my pathetic life, but instead, he did quite the opposite. I had been given rooms fit for a queen and eaten food prepared for a king and dressed in clothes meant for the noblest of royalty. I accompanied him to his bedchamber after we had dined and it was just wonderful. He gave me the choice to keep my chastity, but I had chosen not to. He was so gentle and so intent on taking his time with me, not at all as I had reckoned. He is far more kind and affectionate than people say he is. He has announced that he is besotted with me and so severely desires that I return his fondness. Secretly, I do not think it will be so terrible to be his wife.
I frowned, wondering why she would think such a thing. Furthermore, how had she died if she had not killed herself? She had not written anything that suggested the man she called affectionate killed her, either. I took the thin pages with me and sat at a nearby couch, reading by the light of the candles as I searched for any hints.
To no avail, however, for she only implied absolute passion in their encounters until suddenly, there was an empty page splotched with blood. Half a sentence was written, but I could not decipher a single word beneath the darkness of stained blood. She must have been killed while she was writing. I stood and repeated the process, walking from the elm shelves and back to my velvet seating.
It was odd that these journals had been saved and shelved here, rather than burned. It was as if his lordship or his servants wanted them to be read by me—wanted me to discover something. I felt my brows knot together, focusing on the words etched into the sheet of paper before me.
As I read more of the diaries, I came across similar depictions. An empty chill worked its way into me, and so, I tucked my knees into my chest as I read. Many of the wives were enamored with him, surrendering themselves eagerly. Others saw it as a duty and wordlessly surrendered their maidenhood, later describing it as quite a bit more than pleasant. Barely any of them refused the events of their wedding night and some of them even requested it, which I had not expected. None of the diaries disclosed suspicion at what would be the cause of their deaths either.
It seemed none of the women heard death knocking on their door.
Annoyed at the fruitlessness of my searches, I selected the thickest of the journals and flopped down, the back of my knees chilled by the gilded metal framework of the chair. By the warm light of the candelabra beside me, I read on until my head slumped and my eyes drooped.
Darkness engulfed me, I noticed as my eyes parted and closed. It seemed that a fire had been lit for the library was now warm and pleasantly heavy like my blankets. Heavy? My eyes were fully open as I shifted, horrified to feel the weightiness that is unlike that of my duvets. I was in my rooms—in my bedchambers.
And there was a man beside me.
Hesitantly, I reached back over my head. Dread filled me as my hand made contact with an ice cold steel. Keeping calm, I slid a finger beneath the edge in an attempt to unmask the man lying behind me.
A heated hand clamped around my wrist and the chest pressed against my back stirred to life.
"What—" My throat seized, drier than brittle bones. There were only so many reasons for a man to seek his woman in her bed. "What are you doing in my bed?"
"A husband," he groaned, his ever so familiar voice laced with the hoarseness of sleep, "would naturally lie in the same bed as his wife—especially one that shivers while asleep."
"But I am no wife," I whispered, regaining evenness in my voice.
With every word he murmured, I felt his warm breath as it settled along my neck and the shell of my ear. "We could change that if you so desire, my dear."
"No," I breathed, feeling the arm draped over my waist sidle down to my hip. My own arms were pinned to my chest due to how he held me. "Not ever. I am perfectly content with being your bride."
"Of course you are, my dear," he replied with a hint of laughter. "But if you will not open your legs for me," he drawled out slowly, "then you will have to put up with lying beside me."
My heart continued to beat quickly and harshly. His hand moved calmly, drifting across me until it settled over my side. "I will not ever spread my legs open for you," I promised.
"But you will for my guard?" he asked, nuzzling the back of my nape with the cold mask.
A shudder went through me and his prior threat flashed in my mind. "Yes, but only to spite you, my lord husband."
I would do anything if it meant pushing him towards his death, of that I was certain. His hand shifted to the plane of my stomach, warm fingers leisurely trailing down my abdomen. I fought to keep my intakes of breath soft and even, struggled to keep myself from flinching. His hand stilled, fingernails etching circles along my bared skin. A tightness grasped the space beneath his touch and left a breath caught in my throat.
"Am I so very repulsive to you, Ismae?" he murmured, and I curled further into him and away from his fingers. His mouth met my neck in a tender kiss.
My breathing quickened. "I-indeed, yes, you are." I bit my lip, taking a moment to compose myself. "I do not appreciate your company. Kindly stand from my bed and leave my rooms, your lordship."
He laughed, the sound a rivulet flowing directly to my ear. "Are you dismissing me, your husband and lord of this castle, from his own bedchambers?"
My breath hitched at his words, coming to the conclusion that I was not laying in my bed sheets but in his. But I realized the lie he had spoken—perhaps to intimidate me—when my toes brushed against a brush I had left in the covers.
I remained stiff in his arms. "I am," I stated insistently. "And you should release me this instant."
He suddenly shifted, leaving my back bared to the rush of the cold. His hand met my shoulder and pressed it to the bed so that I was left facing him. With his arms and knees braced on either side of me, he leaned in and whispered, "It is a very dangerous game that you play, Ismae." He brought a finger to the side of my face, brushing the hairs from my eyes. My lips quivered, allowing my breathing to grow shaky. He cupped my jaw and quietly murmured, "Do you wish to continue playing this game with me?"
"Tell me how this game ends," I breathed, staring at the mask that floated before my eyes. It stared back, bleakly. "Who will win?"
"The game will end as we begin; you, beneath me," he murmured quietly, teeth finding the shell of my ear. My breath hitched and I suppressed myself from reacting. "But in the end, you will be writhing, begging for my touch."
His lips brushed the skin of my neck and he pressed a kiss to the spot thrumming with blood, just beneath my ear. It sent a tremble through me and I had to clench my jaw as not to reveal that pride-shattering fact. My fingers curled around fistfuls of the sheets.
"And mark my words, my dear Ismae, you will spread your legs for me." His tongue slid out as he kissed my neck, trailing a path from the corner of my jaw to the center of my throat. "Well, my darling bride? Do you want to play this game with me?"
It was then that he grazed the edge of my collarbones and despite my attempts, I shuddered with the sensation. I kept my lips pressed together and stiffly muttered, "No, I will not play with you."
He paused and pulled away, looking upon my face. "Are you...afraid?"
I froze for a brief moment. "No, I am not." My eyes fell back on his mask, barely visible in the dimness of the room. The barest of moonlight trickled in, enough that I knew he was watching me. "I know to pick my battles and this is not one of them."
"Liar," he whispered so softly I was not sure I had heard him. He placed a hand above my left breast, his palm hot against my skin. My body went rigid with that touch. "You are trembling beneath me and your heart is beating faster than that of a frightened bird." He paused. "You are not afraid. You are terrified." He rolled off of me, wrapping his arms around me so that I was enveloped between his arms and his chest again. "But of me, or what I may do to you?"
"Both," I whispered softly, my back pressed into his firm chest.
"Ismae," he spoke sternly, an edge to his voice. "I will only make you my wife when you are willing." With a returned softness he said, "For now, shut your eyes. Lay beside me."
I remained rigid. "Not unless you return me all of my knives and gift me with a sword and shield." I added, "Does a proper husband deny his brides' requests?"
"Does a proper bride request weapons to slaughter her husband?" He rubbed my arm gently, in a soothing manner.
"Only if her husband is a beast such as yourself," I retaliated.
"I cannot be killed my dear," he reminded me with a yawn.
"Then there is no problem," I reasoned, my voice panicked as he tucked me closer and pulled the cover over the both of us. "Surely you can give me my knives back. Even just one," I pleaded. I contemplated falling to my knees and begging. It would be well worth it even if he returned my knives in crumbled pieces
"Sleep. We will discuss this in the morning," he mumbled, his voice muffled in my hair.
"I cannot sleep." It was true. Not with his lips brushing against the shell of my ear with every word he uttered. Not with his arm splayed over me lazily. Not with the quivering of my trembling heart.
"Pretend that I am someone else then, if that will make it any easier for you," he murmured. "Go to bed," he added, the words barely coherent.
"Like who?" I asked, knowing that I would eagerly take any man over the one currently in my bed.
"Your lover," he groaned hoarsely. "The guard standing outside the door."
I chewed on the inside of my cheek. "You have probably long dismissed him from his post," I pointed out.
"I did not want him hearing my bride moan." His words, though riddled with sleep, were full of promise.
"I'm not going to," I said, though my words did not sound certain even to myself.
"Ismae," he growled, making something within me go taut. "Even if you choose to deny it, there will be a day that you indulge in your desire and plead for me to take you. And I will gladly oblige to that." When I opened my mouth to argue, he pressed a finger to my lips. "If you do not shut your eyes and sleep this instant, I will clout you," he threatened, sounding aggravated. His arms slackened around me and he murmured, "Sleep."
"You would do no such a thing," I insisted, my words tight and riddled with restraint.
"Do not doubt me, my dear." He nuzzled my neck, his nose pressed along my shoulder.
"My lord husband would never clout me, lest he harms his dear bride," I said to him, distancing myself from the sensation of his lips against my skin. I refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing me stumble over my words again. Rather than let my mind grow occupied with that, I focused on the truth I spoke. He has yet to make an attempt or implicate his ability to kill me, but I knew it was only a matter of time.
"Goodnight, Ismae," he mumbled, ignoring me altogether.
With a sigh, I begrudgingly nestled into his chest for warmth. Softly, not wanting him to hear me, I whispered, "Goodnight."
I was certain, however, that sleep was far coming. I could and would never be able to fall asleep in the arms of a man I intended to kill—in the arms of a murderer. Any moment, he would rise from the bed and decide to be done with me. I remained rigid, prepared to react to the subtlest of movements.
But he only continued to run his fingers through my hair, stroking it soothingly. His hands made no shift in intention, for they only ran along the sides of my body with warmth and genteel and tenderness.
I had thought the night where I would need to endure his touch would be far worse. As the minutes passed, he did not make a move to claim his rights as my husband. Instead, he kept to repeating the gentle stroke of his palm along my arm and hip. He remained pressed against me, calm and relaxed. His callused thumb found my wrist and he gingerly cupped my hand in his.
After long, my heart finally began to calm and I allowed my head to ease into his arm. His breath heated my neck and with every inhale I took, the scent of his soap washed over any worries and doubts. Without realizing it, my body slowly surrendered to the calls of sleep, to the warmth of his body, and to the sound of his chests' soft beats against my own.
And so very gradually, my eyes slid shut.
Author's nonsense
I hope you found this chapter to be satisfactory. ;)