Beast and Beatrice

Chapter nine - Beatrice

  Beatrice dared not take her eyes off the hulking brute. If he so much as twitched, she wanted to be prepared. She had no idea what she had done to trigger such an attack upon her person. She could only be thankful he had relented and released her.
She swallowed hard against the solid knot of fear in her throat. Her heart was still fluttering helplessly inside her chest and she could hardly catch her breath. She was shivering and yet, she felt far too warm. Perspiration was dripping down into her eyes and rolling down the side of her face.

  Unconsciously, she swiped at it as she anxiously shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She didn't know exactly what to do. She only knew she could not simply stand here and wait for him to attack again.
Beatrice chanced a quick glance at the big wooden door and contemplated escape. But again, where would she go? She didn't even know where she was. Getting lost in the middle of nowhere held no appeal. Not to mention the dangerous wildlife she might encounter out there. And yet could it be any worse than the danger she faced in here.

  The huge lout of a man had already proven he couldn't be trusted. Luring her into a false sense of ease, almost comaraderie and then leaping on top of her like that. Now just sitting there so quietly, as if he was completely innocent, just watching her every move. No doubt planning how to have his way with her. Gloating to himself how well he had her under his control. He knew she had no choice but to remain here, trapped with him in this derelict stone monstrosity.

  She wanted to scream at him in frustration but her throat was sore from all the screeching and crying she'd already done. How could she ever trust him again? He had literally just pinned her to the floor and held her there, despite her frantic struggles. She had been helpless beneath him, scared out of her wits and frantic, struggling with all her might to free herself. She was furious with him for treating her so callously but she was even more furious with herself for ever daring to trust him.

   How could he be so funny and nice one moment, such a callous beast the next? Just when she'd begun to relax, he'd shown his true colours and pounced. She'd been certain she was about to be raped. He was a man after all. A virile male who expected all females to bow to his every wish. Just like that horrid Mr. Narwhal.

  He was breathing hard, drawing her attention to that broad chest of his. Despite the fact that he'd covered up, she could still picture him in all his naked glory. The man could have modeled for Michelangelo, even with all those scars. Angrily she shook away the stupid admiration. It didn't matter how glorious his muscled form. Obviously he used his God-given perfection to his advantage. Distracting her from his dastardly intentions. The man hadn't even had the common decency to cover himself before returning to the room, knowing a lady was present. Probably counting on that to distract her from his intentions. That should have been her first clue that this hulking monster had nefarious plans for her.

  And then he'd shushed and petted her, like she was some kind of frightened animal. She'd been so shocked and confused that she'd ceased fighting. With each breath her panicked terror had faded.  She was still frightened but no longer blind with panic. She'd become aware of the fact that, while he'd had her completely at his mercy, the man had not actually done any real harm. Once she came to herself again, she realized that, yes, he had her pinned to the floor beneath his massive frame but he was not hurting her. In fact, he had not moved a muscle other than the hand that tenderly stroked her hair from her face. He'd even avoided eye contact with her, keeping his gaze focused on the floor beside her head. She was completely confused and as she puzzled over his strange behavior, her panic receded. Then, when she'd ceased her frantic struggles, he'd slowly risen, gradually relieving her of his weight, until he was no longer making any contact.

  Even now, he knelt there, on the hard stone floor, unmoving. He was just sitting there, watching her, as if he was waiting for her to do something. His hands were placed deliberately on those solid stovepipe thighs where she could see every flex of his callused fingers. Callused and scarred and rough with proof of hard physical labour, something she had not noticed before. His brow was furrowed. She couldn't decide if he was concerned or merely frustrated.