The Beast & His Beauty Read Online W. Winters, Willow Winters

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Dark, Fantasy/Sci-fi, Magic, Paranormal, Virgin Tags Authors: ,
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Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 74631 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
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The stories hadn’t prepared me.

Either that, or I didn’t listen carefully enough, because I told myself I was drawn to the beast. I told myself he couldn’t be that kind of person from the lore. I told myself that the stories couldn’t be true, because if they were, he would not treat me as he has…I could not feel for him as I do.

And yet I saw with my own eyes.

More roses bloom, the stems growing across the ceiling. Buds pop out of the vines and open until they are the size of two of my fists put together. I have never seen blooms so large. It’s as if the magic is determined to impress me and thinks if it can only make the roses large enough, I will recover.

Does it not know that in my mind, my father and friends could have been massacred just the same? And I could do nothing but watch?

The roses that bloom above my head in brilliant shades of red only remind me of the blood that was spilled at the gate. There was so much of it. There seemed to be too much. I didn’t know there could be that much blood in one man, let alone the group at the gates.

I can't stop seeing it. “Make it stop.” I plead to the magic. “Please,” I whisper.

My chest aches. I miss my father now more than ever. While I lie in bed, desperate to think of anything else, I think of all the ways he had not been the perfect man. He had struggled to feed us. He had struggled to do anything after my mother died. We worried about keeping the cottage warm in the winter and about going hungry. We had many worries, but I never worried that he would run through the front door of the cottage and slaughter the people of the village. He would never harm a soul.

The pain grows until I’m crying at the thought of never seeing him again and if I do, it would be his death. It takes a great deal of energy, but I push myself upright on the pillows so I can breathe more easily. There is so much pain. There is only pain, and I cannot think of a way to ease it.

I did not see his face, but there was quite a distance between the front doors of the castle and the gate. It was dark, without much moon, and the torchlight flickered, making it hard to make out anyone’s features clearly. I knew Crawe because I had thought about him often in the days when I thought I would have to marry him. I knew the men who climbed the gate because I saw them most days in the village, and one of them would come in to buy bread every three days, always on the same schedule.

As time goes on, my memory fades and I do not know anything for certain anymore.

There are times when I search my memories and think I caught a glimpse of my father when the gates flew open, and then I spend hours trying to decide one way or the other.

I cannot decide.

Is he safe now?

Or did he die at the hands of the beast? Am I forced to mourn him because I wished to send word that I was unharmed, and somehow he guessed where I was? It is the only place I truly could be isn’t it? What a foolish girl I was.

At the front of the gate, where I stare for hours, nothing remains. There is no evidence of the horrors and that only makes it worse.

More guilt stabs into my chest. Is this all my fault? I did not think one note could possibly lead to this, otherwise I would never have sent it. I would have been heartbroken for my father, alone in the village and wondering where I had gone, but wouldn’t it be better for him to be sad rather than dead?

The question that riddles most frequently in the lonely hours is what can I do to fix this now?

I slump down on the pillows, unable to stop crying and unable to think of any way out of this grief. It might not be necessary if my father is alive, but how will I ever find out?

I cannot leave. The beast will not let me.

And the feelings I have about this are strange and growing stranger. They are growing too strong to deny, and I cannot reconcile what happened that night with the emotions that grip me at all hours of the day and night.

More flowers bloom over my head, turning the gilded cage into a prison of red.

The Prince and The Beast

I pace the halls as I’ve done the past three days. This is not what I wanted when I ran to the gate to defend my home and the woman inside.


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