Areston thinks he can shield me from his past, but what he doesn't realize is I'm already part of it.
The darkness that haunts him? It's the same one that's been chasing me for years.
I've given him everything-my body, my heart, my soul-and still...
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Sixty-five days ago, I was curled in the warm cocoon of my bedroom suite as the private jet took off from Sardinia, crying and mourning at having failed the final attempt at salvaging my relationship with the man I've been in love with since we were kids—the man I've always seen as my Beast.
I was four years old when I decided he was my Beast while watching the classic Disney flick with him. Something about the gruff exterior and concealed tenderness of the movie's Beast captivated me in a manner I couldn't fully understand back then. But I could relate.
My best friend, the 4-yo Areston, was just like him. Cold and indifferent to the world around him, his face would always carry a mask of aloofness even at such a young age. However, he would become a different person with me. His smiles were always reserved for me and sometimes Althea.
As we grew up, I started believing it more and more. I was the only recipient of his kindness, tenderness, and warmth—the only person he'd let his guard down for. The one who was my knight, protector, and my constant. The one who saw me and understood me at times when I couldn't even understand myself.
At one point of time, I slipped into using it for the times when I'd be either overwhelmed with happiness or grief. I don't even know why I did that. I just know that when I was delighted and wanted to share my joy and make him a part of it, he'd become my Beast.
When I would be sad and wanted the comfort only he could give me, he'd become my Beast. The word became an emotion for me—an emotion I was profoundly possessive about.
Sixty-five days later, I am curled in the warm cocoon of the same Beast's body–my husband now, on our bed with a stupid smile strapped to my face as I watch him read me a book.
Not just any book. A smut.
I've always had an aversion to reading porn unlike Selene and Lysandra who inhale them, and call me a prude for not reading those.
I don't watch porn either. Never watched them except a couple of times when forced by my best friends. Earlier, because I have been too prim to watch it and then I got too many live shows at the rehab for the memory to last me a lifetime.
However, now as I watch my fine male specimen of a husband—a man that's a pure crossbreed of Greek and Roman gods, reading the sex scenes written by an author whom I am assuming would be super high on cotton candy because its nauseatingly sweet, I think I wouldn't mind him reading me any crap in that sensuously low and deep husk of his.
In fact, I am now contemplating having him read my morning work briefings and news.
I've been suppressing my laughter as he goes on reading it with a straight face just to cheer me up and make me feel better.
Ever since I broke down in his arms this afternoon, he has shown me patience like never before. He has been accommodating my fluctuating moods since, which are two—either happy as I try to move on from the event or sad as I realize there's no moving on but cold acceptance.
