The Beast in the Bedchamber

The "cage" was a master suite that spanned the entire top floor of the west wing. It was a place of opulent torment—heavy velvet curtains, a fireplace large enough to roast a stag, and a bed that looked like an altar of silk and shadow.

I stood by the window, watching the moon rise over the restless sea. The wedding dinner had been a silent affair. Girard had watched me eat with the focused intensity of a hawk watching a mouse. He

hadn't touched his food; he had only watched me.

Now, the door clicked shut. The sound of the lock turning sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through my veins.

"The dress," Girard’s voice came from the shadows. He had discarded his jacket and tie, his white shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest.

I turned, clutching the silk at my throat. "I am not your plaything, Girard. You bought a name, not a willing woman."

Girard crossed the room in three strides. Suddenly, he was inches away, his heat enveloping me like a furnace. "I didn't buy a plaything, Arielle. I claimed a mate. There is a difference."

"A mate?" I laughed, a jagged sound. "You talk like an animal."

"Because I am," he growled.

He grabbed the back of my dress and, with a single, effortless tug, the heavy silk and the pearls scattered across the floor like rain. I cried out, spinning around to cover myself, but he caught my wrists in one hand. His grip was like manacles of heated steel.

"Look at me, Arielle," he commanded.

I looked, and the breath died in my throat. The moonlight hit his back, and I saw them—scars that looked like claw marks. Something was shifting beneath his skin. His muscles were rippling, expanding. A low, guttural sound erupted from his throat.

Then, I saw his hands. His fingernails were lengthening into sharp, black talons. The hair on his arms thickened. His face... his beautiful, cruel face began to distort. His jaw lengthened, his teeth sharpening into serrated points.

I screamed, scrambling backward until I hit the bedpost. "What are you? What are you!"

"I am the curse your father invited into his house," the creature rasped.

He lunged onto the bed, pinning me down. He was heavier now, denser, his body radiating a terrifying energy. He loomed over me, his eyes glowing like twin suns. He lowered his head to my neck, his hot breath ghosting over my jugular.

I felt the sharp prick of his fangs against my skin—not biting, but tasting.

"You are the daughter of a traitor," he hissed, his tongue licking the spot where his fangs touched. "And you are the only thing that can soothe the beast I’ve spent thirty years trying to cage. Do you feel that, Arielle? That pull in your blood?"

To my horror, I did feel it.

Amidst the terror, a traitorous heat was blooming in my lower belly. My body recognized him even if my mind was screaming in fear.

"I’m going to break you," Girard whispered, his claws grazing the skin of my thigh, "until you forget you ever had a father. Until the only name you know is mine."

He lowered his head, and as the moon reached its zenith, the shadows in the room seemed to come alive. I was no longer a princess. I was the property of a monster who didn't just want my body—he wanted to devour my soul.