The Beast and his Princess

three

THE KING STARES DOWN at the fragile girl sprawled on his bed.

He had managed to arrive only just before his men had torn the girl apart, roaring at them to cease at once.

He won't forget the way she completely stilled at the sound of his voice, her head tilting in almost wonderment at the connection he was sure she felt.

This girl was as luminous as the moon, with ebony tresses and soft, silky skin, her eyes binded with a dark cloth just above her nose. Even with the angry tears streaking down her rosy cheeks, she was so achingly lovely he almost lost his breath.

And on the verge of death, the king had her swiftly transported to his castle, feeling her pulse flutter and weaken, her breathing faint and restricted.

An emotion had moved his cold, hard heart. Perhaps fear. Fear that he had finally found his princess to break the curse—and that she might be ripped away from him because of his foolish men.

It's late evening, but the entire castle is in chaos. After all, the king had brought back his bride.

Maids busy about in his room, wiping at the girl's brows and tending to her wounds. The girl sinks into his bedsheets with a comforted sigh, and the king only watches from the shadowed corner, desire overruled by concern.

"My king. She will make it through the night, but we must only hope for a full recovery." The physician bows low at the waist, signaling for the maids to step back.

"Thank you." He gives a curt nod. "Leave us be."

Even before the words are fully out of his mouth, the maids are gone, and the physician is closing the door gently behind him. The castle hushes with silence, giving their master space to be with their queen.

Quietly, he approaches the bed.

The girl shifts in deep unconsciousness, brows furrowed in distress. The king lifts a hand to softly stroke her cheek, and to his amazement, her face smooths over, back into contentment.

Whether consciously or not, the girl takes pleasure from his presence.

A little bolder than before, he runs a hand through her soft strands, marveling at her presence—marveling at her existence.

Her lips part and a soft sigh caresses the air. The girl shifts closer to the palm of his hand, sheets tangling around her waist. He automatically reaches to tuck the blankets around her.

A soft, dainty hand wraps around his bicep.

Unfamiliar sensations build in his chest. A once cold king, cracked open by the mere sight of a girl. It is an aching, lovely sensation.

He glances down, eyes softening at the imploring gaze of the girl. She is wide awake.

"Who are you?" she whispers, voice tremulous and hesitant. Her hand falls from his arm to hover over his chest. As she draws her hand back to swipe away at her curls, a sheen of sweat glistens at the crown of her head.

He cannot help it. Almost drawn by the hypnotic rise and fall of her chest, he reaches out, drawing his finger along her temple, down her cheek, tracing her collarbone.

She is made for him.

The girl trembles at his touch, back arching almost imperceptibly. But he notices, and his chest tightens with desire. His touch lingers on her skin.

Finally, he speaks.

"I am Caspian."

The girl pauses. "Caspian," she repeats softly. A flush grows on her cheek, and his world fractures. His name on her lips, the blush coloring her translucent skin, her dazed eyes locked with his—

It's too much for him. His beautiful princess.

She parts her lips to say something else. As she struggles with her words, her eyes fall shut, and she falls promptly asleep, lips still parted with unspoken words.

The king regretfully tugs his hand out of her grasp. Without his noticing, her hand had slid down to fit into the palm of his.

He is unsure of how long his eyes trace her lovely face.

He slips out of her room before dawn cracks the silver skies.