Beloved Beast

Chapter Eighteen

Shock bled into Don's expression as he gazed into eyes burnished a golden brown by the sensual firelight; likening them to a favored whiskey depicted with traces of warm honey as they anchored nigh side of his chin.

Releasing her, he retreated a few paces and rubbed at the base of his neck, his expression marred with unease. "You don't know what you are saying..." he muttered gravelly, "What you are inviting."

She raised her chin to an obstinate angle, the inherent gesture courting his hungry stare as it grazed the graceful column of her slender throat. "I know precisely what I am saying," she began in a voice softened with reflection, "That day on the seaside, I surrendered my staff in lieu of your hand – I trusted that you would lead me without fail."

"What does that have to do with anything?" he snarled, although he had a strong suspicion as to her implication.

Clearing her throat, "I am asking you to do the same. To trust me."

That velvet, unseeing regard shifted in a nervous sweep about the room, landing on nothing of knowing interest, alluding to that immobile blindness he had come to know and admire, as it did little to thwart her in the walk of life.

She moistened her lips with a reply, and as if attuned to her every perfunctory beat, his eyes fixed there. In a subdued and breathy tone, she said, "I'm not afraid to admit that I ... like you."

Don stiffened, her hushed and lilted declaration falling on incredulous ears as it all but drove the breathable air from his jilted lungs. Aghast, he could do no more than gape at her with wide, dubious eyes. "You can't."

Her brows pleated on a frown, "And why not?"

"Because I am inclined to remind you that I am exactly the kind of man that discourages fondness."

"I would hardly say that is accurate."

He gave a dry, brusque laugh, "And how have I inspired this unlikely sentiment?" he queried, shock and confusion warring on a blurred crest of incredulity.

Her candid responses shifted the frigid hailstone in his chest. A twinge of sorts that slipped beneath the icy cracks. A dull but discernible ache that had him rubbing at the muscle above his heart. Don had met his match in her. She, this unforeseen force of light and goodness, was the shattering quality to his fortitude of darkness and resistance. It was a most unsettling and staggering feeling, to be the recipient of such unguarded innocence and beauty, especially when abhorred and feared by all else. He could get lost in her, forgetting the things he had done, the things he could easily do again if given the right incentive. And she was grounds for perfect incitement.

"A few grudging acts of kindness hardly boasts compassion, nor does it absolve a man of his sins. Lest you forget, I adhere to no strict moral compass. Touching me changes nothing – if anything, it garners horror. It may perchance rid you of this alleged fondness."

"You don't sound like a monster to me." Elle returned gently.

Stunned, Don stared at her for a space of several crashing heartbeats, his chest filling with rough drags of oppressive air, the muscles of his arms quivering in direct response to a swell of dark, conflicting feelings.

He thought he had known suffering, but suffering was wanting a woman impartial to your darker side, for Elle was the crux of Seraphine's curse. It hurt in the hollow gaps that made up his heart. He wanted her. He wanted her with every gritty, smothering breath that scraped from his lungs. But those damaging, definitive parts that kept him a thing of the dark, were quick to corrode all his pleasant thoughts and hopes. They settled like waste in the lining of his stomach. They catalogued all the legitimate reasons why she deserved better. You are hideous. You are a monster. There is blood on your hands. You would ruin her. She will hate you for what you have done. How could he put into words the fear of losing her esteemed opinion of him? The fear of losing her?

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Elle urged her hands into the folds of her satin skirts, hoping he would not catch the shaking that belied her calm, when her heart sang a melody of wild and mystifying emotions. She had nearly lost her nerve when confessing her likeness for him, but she could no longer deny that her rife of intrigue had matured to something more.

          She was drawn to him. Fascinated by the shadows in his voice and the rancor in his soul. Admittedly, she delighted in their heated squabbling. No one had ever engaged her the way Rossetti did. It was invigorating to have her opinions heard, to be regarded as an intellectual rather than some invalid. All her life, she had endured disparaging remarks. She had suffered strained whispers and uneasy silences racked with rebuffs and pity – whether it be for companionship or simply an attempt at meaningful conversation, she had always been viewed as an unlikely candidate. But on this tiny, deserted side of the world, with a man renowned for being dangerous and ruthless, she had unearthed a sense of belonging, having encountered a soul whose inner workings were massed of similar sorrows and pain much akin to her own.

          Elle knew she was cavorting danger, for she sensed his inner turmoil. Heart thundering against her breast, she drew closer, her heightened ears echoing the ragged hiss of his indrawn breath. Saying in a tone of trembling syllables, color surging beneath her skin, "You tolerated my touch once before."

          Seconds dragged by in agonizing slowness as she steeled for a gruff response, then – the rough pad of his fingers whispered across her cheek, followed by the deep, husky drawl of his voice. "Your touch is a far cry from tolerated, nymph." And then, "For one so lovely, you should never want for ravage. I am sure to wilt you, little one."

          Grasping satin in her hands, Elle willed an emboldening breath to fill her lungs, to replace the one subdued beneath the splintering tenderness of his touch. "Perhaps," she offered in a gentle tone, "You are not the ruin that harms the flower, but the thorn that protects it.

A harsh exhale sounded on the air, something primitive and male, snagged by some unfathomable emotion. For a fraction of several held breaths, Rossetti said nothing, but her skin prickled in awareness to his intense gaze, convinced it moved over her in a hot, unhurried manner.

"Thorns are known to draw blood." He admonished harshly.

In the tense silence that ensued, Elle braced for his cynicism. Instead, there was a rustling of clothing and then the whisk of cool air against her flushed face.

"Let's see if I feel like a monster."

Strong, lean fingers closed around her wrist and with a startled cry, she was hauled into a pair of thick, unyielding arms. A gasp wedged in her throat as her hands came against a warm, massive chest fitted with nothing but hard, chiseled muscle. The shock of his naked flesh cued in her an innate response to break free, but the gesture simply forced her hands to fumble over thick, bulging tendons.

The charged air rocked with a deep, rasping breath as his gravel tone vibrated against her ear. "So small," he groaned, sending a delicious thrill through her, "You fit just right."

Her legs nearly buckled at the unbridled heat roughening his voice. Heart raving in her ears, she had a dizzying awareness of his mouth pressing to the sensitive skin between her neck and shoulder, and his hand spanning her back, the callused tips catching on the delicate material.

That possessive appendage at her spine flattened, rocking her into the shocking hardness against her navel. It brought a deep flush to darken her cheeks and her body flooded with a liquid heat that beat a feverish path to her female regions.

"I've hurt people." His admission was so soft that it took her a few unsure beats to process his words.

"Tell me why." She whispered.

His arms slipped away from her and just when Elle believed he would turn away and deny her a response, to her astonishment, her hands were seized in his much larger ones. "A man would do just about anything for the woman he loves."

"And what did you do?"

His fingers squeezed hers gently and then he brought her hands flat against his chest, pressing them hard to the raised and jagged scars there.

"I killed her."