He stoops to the fireplace, flicks his arm sideways to move the heavy chains out of his way so he can light a fire. “So you finally got the courage,” he says.

“Y-you know who I am?”

He chuckles, more of a scoff. “Oh, I know.” He turns and I see his profile, backlit by the fire. He has long wooden stick in his hand to tend the fire; there are no iron pokers in this room. Nothing he could use to free himself. “You think I don’t hear your sniveling voice every month? You think I don’t smell that disgusting sewer water you call perfume all over my home?” He shoves to his feet and I flinch.

Worse, he notices. Though I cannot see his face clearly, I … sense his amusement.

“I hear the servants talk about you like some goddamned salvation. They all think you’re a saint come to do battle with the Devil himself. Well?” He snaps the chains like a silken train and comes around the massive bed, into the light. “What do you think of him?”

Dark golden strands of hair fall over the face of a fallen angel. Strong jaw, proud nose, dark brows and a hard, twisted mouth. But his eyes… They aren’t what I expected to see. They are empty. Cold. Eyes of a true monster.

Promise me.

I promised. And I can see it now. This is not my Beast.

He sneers. “You’re no savior. I know exactly what you are. You’re the bitch who thinks to banish me. From my own house, no less. Harridan,” he accuses, his fury rising with each word. My Beast could never be so cruel. “Trespasser. Interloper. Whore!” No, this is not my Beast.

But this was my Beast.

Before he became cursed.

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