Beautiful Beast by Aubrey Irons (15)

The chord hums through the body of the guitar, lingering in the acoustics of the empty side-hallway. I let it ring until it fades completely, chewing on my lip and staring at the wall across from the one I’m sitting against. I reach for the yellow legal pad and the pencil by my side, the fleeting glimpses of the words I’m looking for quickly scrawling across the page before they’re gone from my mind.

It’s lunch, and while South Neck High is a closed campus - as in, you can’t leave during the day - you don’t have to sit in the lunchroom during lunch.

I tend to spend lunches over in the arts and music wing, camped out here in my favorite hallway. It’s quiet, the acoustics are amazing, and more importantly, no one comes down here. It’s effectively a dead end hallway - the door at one end leads to the orchestra practice rooms, and the one at the other end is an “emergency exit only” door that leads to the parking lot.

Basically, it’s peace and quiet.

I murmur the words I’ve just scrawled half out loud, nodding slowly and smiling.

They’re not bad, really. I mean, they’re not bad for me being sixteen, with all the overly dramatic, inflated sense of ego that brings. But really, they’re not bad.

I grip the beat up old acoustic in my hands and walk my fingers over the chords again, strumming in the silence of the hallway. The melody finds itself, and I’ve just started to quietly sing the lines I’ve just come up with when my sanctuary is shattered.

The door to the end of the hallway bangs open with a crash, sending my thoughts and the flow of my words scattering. I glance up, and the frown on my face turns into a full-blown scowl as I see who it is.

Bastian, his crew, and four giggling, squealing girls. Dylan Forbes has his arm over Jessica Lamonte’s shoulders, grinning that charming, pretty-boy smile at her as she giggles and bats at his chest. Tyler Van Der Haus has his tongue down some girl’s throat who I don’t recognize, and Asher Harrington has a squirming Cassie Michaels over his shoulder, one hand flipping her skirt up and grabbing her basically bare ass, chuckling when she squeals and half-heartedly bats his hand away.

And then there’s Bastian, pulling Ashley Reynolds by the hand after him as he storms down the hallway. The rest of them look happy - or at least excited and eager.

Bastian just looks pissed, joyless, and bitter as he yanks Ashley down the hallway after him.

They all stop when they spot me camped out against the side wall, and just for a second, the storm clouds around Bastian seem to part a little as that wicked, smug grin teases the corners of his lips.

“Well, well, well.” He drops Ashley’s hand, his arms folding over his tailored dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

“Skipping class?”

He makes a tsking sound, shaking his head at me.

“It’s lunch, relax,” I mutter back, squaring my shoulders and determined not to wither under those dark eyes of his as he stands over me.

“Do we need to have a talk?”

“I can’t imagine what we’d need to talk about, Bastian.”

He flashes another small, dark grin, his eyes ticking over me. I shiver, and immediately scowl to cover it.

“What do you want?”

“To know why you’re skipping lunch. Look, Texas, I know girls have a lot of pressure when it comes to looks and weight and all that, but skipping meals really isn’t the best way to go about it.”

“Har har har.” I roll my eyes, turning and lifting up the Ziploc baggie with a tuna sandwich in it.

Bastian makes a face.

“Oh, what.”

He sighs, shaking his head and taking a step back from me - back towards the girls who are looking at me like I’m a circus sideshow and his friends who’re watching like it’s a funny TV show episode they’ve seen before.

Bastian shrugs, his eyes never leaving mine. “I mean, are you really going to eat all that bread?”

Tyler snorts behind him, two of the girls giggle under their breath, and Ashley slaps at his arm playfully.

“You are such an asshole,” she says, licking her lips and letting her hand linger on his arm.

I can feel my cheeks burn, the anger simmering under my skin as I glare daggers at him.

“What are you doing sitting in a dark hallway during lunch?”

“Nothing that concerns you,” I snap, the heat blooming through my cheeks,

There’s that smug, triumphant grin that’s also half a defensive scowl at the same time. He eyes me coolly like he’s trying to peel back the walls.

Or maybe knock them down.

“We’re going back to my place for a pool party. Wanna come?”

“There are still three more periods at school.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

“I’m good, thanks,” I say flatly.

“You sure?”

“Quite.”

“No bathing suits required.”

He smirks, the other princes and the girls chuckling behind him.

My face goes red. My fingers tightening on the neck of the guitar.

“Have fun, Bastian.”

“Oh, I will.”

I ignore the stabbing feeling when he grabs Ashley’s hand again and yanks her after him as the whole crew breezes past me down the hallway toward the emergency exit.

“Hey, you can’t go out that—”

Bastian pulls a key out of his back pocket on a red lanyard with “Property of South Neck High administration” written on it.

Of course.

“—Way.”

The door opens without an alarm. Bastian turns back as the rest of them breeze out into the parking.

“What’s it about?”

My brow furrows. “What’s what about?”

“The song you’re writing.”

“None of your business.”

He grins as if amused.

“You going to play it for me sometime?”

“Why would I do that.”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“Do I need to answer that?”

He sighs deeply, leaning against the wall, looking down at me.

“I’d be a great audience you know.”

“I doubt that. You don’t even like music.”

“Clearly, you’ve been misinformed.”

I roll my eyes, thinking of the obnoxious top forty pop and cheesy radio-friendly hip-hop playlists that are the staple of his parties and the bane of my sleep patterns.

“Fine, you don’t like good music.”

“Opinions are like assholes, Texas.”

“Tell you what, why don’t we just leave it at me being confident that you won’t like my music.”

“And that’s why you won’t play for me? You think you’re just going to play for people who love your music all the time?”

“That’s the plan.”

“That’s not life.”

“Bastian, spare me the speech on the world being a tough place. I’m not sure I can take the irony.”

Something flickers in his eyes, and it almost looks like he’s going to say something when he just shrugs off the wall and turns away instead.

I turn back to my notepad, glaring angrily at the paper and reaching for my pen again when I hear him clear his throat by the door.

“What,” I mutter, my whole little sanctuary defiled by the lot of them, and the headspace I was trying to put myself into to write shattered by him.

“No squealing. About us ditching.”

I give him a look.

“Would it even matter if I did? We both know you won’t get in trouble.”

“Probably not.”

“You never get in trouble, you go wherever you want, and you get everything you want.”

His eyes hold mine, a cold fire blazing behind them.

“Not everything.”

The door swings open and Ashley sticks her head back in.

“Sebaaaaastian!”

Bastian’s eyes don’t leave mine, which sends a shiver down my back and an uncomfortably warm feeling through my body.

Finally, he turns.

“Enjoy your carbs, Texas.”

“Enjoy your venereal diseases, Bastian.”

* * *

Showers are basically my think places. They’re great for that sort of thing. No distractions, no phones, no anything except you and your thoughts hashing it out. I’ve come up with some of my best lyrics in showers, which is why, even though the enormous en suite bathroom off of my room has a sunken, gorgeous porcelain and brushed copper whirlpool tub that almost literally makes me drool, I still opt for the glass shower stall.

So I can think.

Only tonight, and the past several nights actually, it’s not lyrics or songs I’m thinking of, it’s “The Offer.”

Capitals intended.

Although that said, Bastian’s Offer is feeling a whole lot like “one I can’t refuse”, in the Godfather sense of the word, the more I think about it. I could walk away, but I won’t, and can’t, and we both know that.

And I suppose that means I’m going through with it. Somehow, the choices and twists and turns of life have brought me right back here to South Neck, to pretend to be engaged to Sebastian Crown.

Where the hell did you go wrong Anastasia Bell…

I’m going to be Bastian’s fiancée.

I groan under the spray of the hot water, rubbing my hands over my face.

It’s almost a comical situation. Laughable, really. As if anyone would marry his royal asshole highness. As if any woman ever could deal with his moody, drunken insanity. His sullen sourness.

His gruffness. His supreme, unbridled, off-the-rails cockiness.

His darkness and his demons.

His piercing, smoky eyes. His cruelly perfect lips.

His sinfully hard body. The way the grooves of his hips point like a neon arrow to, well…

I take a shaky breath, my thoughts somehow off track from where they were supposed to go with that. And suddenly, I’m thinking of what a man like Bastian Crown would do to a wife — to a woman that was his.

My breath catches as the steaming water tingles over my skin. My nipples pucker. My eyes close. My hands slide down, moving lower—

Angrily, I stop myself, yanking my hands away like they’ve been shocked and shaking my head furiously.

This house is getting to me. Being around him is getting to me.

Furious with myself for being so damn weak, I shut the water off and yank the glass door open. I reach for a big fluffy towel, and pull it to my face, burying myself in it as I groan at myself

Part of me wonders again if I should just bite the bullet and take Tyler Van Der Haus up on his “nightcap” offer.

I’m just starting to dry my hair off when the pounding on the door makes me jump.

“Texas.”

Jesus Christ.

I quickly reach over and lock the door, yanking the towel around myself and backing away from the door, as if Bastian is going to come crashing through it or something.

“Why are you in my room?”

“Your room?” I can practically hear him smirking through the door. “I thought we went over this.”

“Do you have any sense of boundaries?”

“Do I need to answer that?”

“What do you want?”

“Come out.”

Blunt as always.

I pull the towel tighter around myself.

“I just got out of the shower.”

“I don’t have any problems with that.”

The forbidden tingle from minutes before instantly teases through me, even as I try and shove it away.

“I need to go over this contract and paperwork shit with you. Get dressed and come out.”

“My clothes are in my room - my room, Bastian. If you get out, I can do that.”

There’s a pause.

“Well, these snowmen are adorable now aren’t they.”

I groan, my face flushing red. Bastian’s found the clothes I’ve laid out to sleep in on my bed. Including my old, frayed, blue underwear with snowflakes and snowmen on them.

Shut up, they’re comfy.

“I was dressing for bed, not to go out, Bastian.”

I don’t know why I’m defending myself.

“Just an observation. I do like that you feel the need to rationalize your underwear to me though.”

“Could you please get the hell out of—”

“Meet me in the library in five minutes.”

It’s immediately followed by the sound of my bedroom door closing sharply.

* * *

Twenty very purposely drawn out minutes later, I step into the library.

Bastian glares at me, like he wants to call me out for being “late,” but also knowing it’s not an accident. He swirls something brown around in his glass, eyeing me. I do notice that he’s not in sweatpants or pajama pants. Dark jeans this time, and an actual honest-to-goodness button-up white shirt rather than a ripped T-shirt.

“Sit.”

“Really?”

He growls lowly.

“Please sit.”

“Now was that so hard?”

“Excruciatingly.”

I sink into the easy chair across from where he’s standing by the fireplace, a small flame flickering over some logs. The room is dimly lit, most of it still covered by sheets.

“Nice touch,” I nod at the flames. “Trying to up your class game?”

“Have a drink.”

“I’m fine.”

He shakes his head. “It wasn’t a question, and don’t tell me you don’t drink.”

“Whatever, sure.”

He steps over to an array of expensive looking booze on a mostly empty recessed bookshelf.

“What’s your poison.”

“Whatever you have.”

“Tequila?”

My head jerks up. His eyes are locked right on me, holding me captive and forcing me back to that night.

The taste of lime and salt on my lips, the rush of something new rushing through my veins.

The knowing this is wrong, and still moving in that direction.

The knowing I’ll regret this, but not having any idea how much.

I steel myself under the iron hold of his eyes, unblinking.

“I don’t drink tequila.”

Bastian raises a brow but doesn’t say what he could say as he reaches for something else instead.

“Bourbon it is.”

I’ve got my lips pursed tight, resisting the urge to storm down that path he’s insisting on trying to lead me back down when he gives me the Swarovski crystal tumbler with the amber liquid inside. He takes a seat in the huge wingback chair across the small gilded coffee table from me.

He nods at a stack of papers on it.

“You can have your lawyer look at—”

“I don’t have a lawyer.”

“You can use mine.”

“Uh, pass.”

He grins, or at least, Bastian’s version of a grin.

“They’re just standard shit. One’s a contact for a caterer, so it looks like we’re planning a wedding.”

“What are we serving?”

He waves a dismissive hand. “Fuck if I care.”

“Sounds like a lovely reception.”

“Har har har.”

He slugs back his drink, stretching back to the shelves behind him and snagging the bottle.

“The other one is both of our medical records. You just need to initial those and then sign the last page confirming it’s all true.”

My mouth purses, and my eyes narrow at him.

“How do you have my medical records?”

He gives me a look, unblinking.

“Jesus, did you buy them or something?”

“Or something.”

I shake my head, eyes narrowed and mouth tight as I stand from my seat. I turn, taking a big sip of my drink and shaking my head again before I whirl back on him.

“You realize normal people don’t do this, right? You get that normal people don’t bribe their way into other people’s medical records?”

“Normal people are poor, and without the resources I have.”

“Do you understand that this is illegal?”

He shrugs.

“And morally wrong?”

“Eh.”

I shake my head, taking another big sip of bourbon and looking away as he keeps going.

“The third one there is a prenuptial, and trust me, that thing is air-tight.”

“And who said romance is dead?”

“They’re just papers, Ana.”

“What you’re doing isn’t legal, you know.”

He frowns, swirling the bourbon around his tumbler. “It’s a grey area. You also don’t need to concern yourself with it.”

“Uh, I think I do, actually, seeing as I could be implicated.”

“You can’t and won’t.”

I look away again, stepping toward the bookshelves next to the fireplace and leaning against them as silence drapes the room.

“So you really lose your inheritance if you’re not married by twenty-eight?”

“It’s complicated,” he growls over the rim of his glass.

“I’m listening.”

He chews on that, eyeing me.

“It’s just, I knew your parents, and—”

“Barely,” he growls. “You barely knew my parents.”

“That’s fair, but still. That’s a weird clause for an inheritance. Is that even legal?”

“It’s not a clause, it’s an ambiguity.”

I raise a brow.

“It’s a wording issue in the trust. If their lawyer was still alive I’d have him fucking flayed for the language he used.”

His brows knit angrily as he glares into his glass. Firelight flickers across the crystal and glints off the dark flame in his eyes.

“The whole wording is about me and ‘my family’ inheriting the remainder of the trust at the age of twenty-eight.”

“So?”

“So I don’t have a family.”

I give him a puzzled look, watching the cords of his neck stand out as he grinds his jaw.

“Franklin is making the case that since the language stipulates ‘me and my family’, it’s null without adhering to those bylines.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“On this, we can agree.”

“So this is where the fake fiancée thing comes into play.”

“Very perceptive.”

“Look, I’m signing up for this, but I really don’t see how—”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he growls sharply. “Let’s just get these papers signed.”

“Well, you brought it up.”

“Well, I’m done with it now,” he mutters.

And there’s that anger. There’s the animal inside, the beast. This is Bastian - this has always been Bastian. Just charming enough to lure someone close, before the teeth snap shut. I’ve watched this happen for years, always from a distance.

And now I’m the one walking right into the jaws.

I look away, bringing the glass to my lips. “Whatever.”

I jolt at his voice, cutting through the stillness of the room.

“Anastasia.”

Goddamnit.

How the fuck does that still have this effect on me?

I glance back at him, my eyes flicking quickly over the surprisingly neutral look on his face.

“Sorry.”

I snort. “That’s a new one.”

His look hardens before he seems to catch himself, softening.

“I—” He clears his throat, his brow knitting. “I do appreciate you doing this.”

“I’m doing it for the money.”

He shrugs. “Still. Thanks.”

“I’ve already agreed, you know. You don’t have to try and butter me up.”

He grins - a rare, genuine, non-smug smile. Just for a second, and then it’s gone.

Slowly, I make my way to my chair and reach for the pen and stack of documents. The signatures come easy, especially the last one with the prenup. As if there’s any single part of Bastian I’d want to hang onto when the time comes for us to part.

I slide the stack of papers back across the table when I’m done. He nods, raising the bottle.

“A toast?”

“To committing inheritance fraud?”

He scowls. “I told you—”

“Relax, Bastian. I’m just kidding.”

He raises a brow at me, his eyes switching across mine a whip.

“Sure, I’ll take one more.”

He pours for both of us and lifts his glass as he sinks back into his high-backed chair.

“So why haven’t I heard that guitar yet.”

I look up from my own glass at the subject change. I shrug.

“I haven’t heard your stuff. Shit, I haven’t heard you play since…”

I glare at him.

That’s another night I’d like to forget. The night Bastian didn’t hear me play.

“Where are you going with this.”

He chuckles darkly. “Not a trick, I promise. I’m just curious what your music is like. You should play your stuff for me sometime.”

“You don’t really want to listen to me.”

“And why not.”

“Because you don’t.”

“Prove me wrong.”

I roll my eyes, sipping the bourbon. “It’s not even your type of music, trust me.”

He smirks, reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the side table next to his chair.

“The fuck do you think I listen to?”

He lights the cigarette with an ornate, silver lighter, his eyes still on me.

“I don’t know, death metal? The sounds of war playing lightly in the background?”

He laughs a deep, low, gravelly laugh. “Cute. Bet you can’t guess the last thing I listened to.”

“The theme music from ‘Jaws.’”

“You have a very low opinion of me don’t you.”

“Oh, dear, was I obvious?” I grin, the bourbon warming its way through me.

“So enlighten me then.”

“Joni Mitchell.”

I snort. “Bullshit.”

Bastian pulls his iPhone out of his pocket, waving it.

“I’m still calling bullshit.”

He shrugs, cigarette perched between his lips as he holds the phone up, face out towards me, and hovers his finger over the “play” button on the home screen.

“Care to wager.”

I chew on my lip, feeling the room getting warmer.

“What are we wagering.”

His lips curl into a hungry smile, his eyes flashing something fierce.

“Before you say something disgusting—”

“I want to hear you play.”

My brow furrows. “That’s it?”

“That’s it. Besides, taking whatever money you have left would just be cruel.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine.”

He grins. “Better warm that voice up, Texas.”

“Bastian, the day you’re actually listening to Joni—”

His finger presses the button, and instantly, acoustic music strums from the speakers on the wall.

My jaw drops as “A Case of You” by Joni Mitchell, fills the room.

You have got to be shitting me.

Bastian’s face is neutral to my shocked one as he eases back into his chair and clasps his hands together.

I stare at him. “This is my favorite song.”

“I know.”

I swallow, shivering under that gaze.

“You get that the same way you got my medical records?”

“No, that I just know.”

“How?”

“Because you used to listen to it all the fucking time.”

I take a shaky breath, the gorgeous lines of the song I love filling the room.

“How do you know that, Bastian.”

“You did live on my property, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Trust me, I haven’t.”

I did play this all the time, on headphones. I played it when I was alone - mostly when I was sad, mostly when opposing thoughts of him went to war inside my head.

“Maybe I was listening more than you think,” he says quietly.

“What, spying on me?”

“There wasn’t much to spy on.”

My eyes narrow. “Meaning?”

“Meaning it’s not like you had an active late night social life.”

I blush heatedly, fingers toying with the crystal tumbler. For no discernible reason, I stand, still fidgeting with my glass as I move away from him, back toward the bookshelves along the wall - like being around him, with this song, is too much.

“Well, we can’t all be bringing home a new person every single—”

“I like that you didn’t,” he purrs.

The room goes quiet except for the song — soft, melancholy, gorgeous and haunting. It’s a song of love and hate — of past and future, of what was and what might be.

Of what won’t be.

My head swims — from the drink, the song, the memories.

…From sitting three feet from the man who used to fill my mind when I listened to this song almost a decade ago.

The track comes to an end, and the room is silent.

I look up, and Bastian’s looking right at me.

He’s not scowling. He’s not grinning smugly, or cruelly. He’s just looking right into me.

The glass shakes in my hand as I quickly put it down on the shelf behind me.

“I should go to bed.”

He nods. “You should.”

I stand and quickly move to the door, my hands balled into fists and stuffed into the front pocket of my hoodie.

“Ana.”

I stop short of the door, the breath hitching in my throat.

“Look at me.”

I shake my head, closing my eyes, and steeling myself.

“Anastasia.”

And I’m wet. There, alone with him in that dark, warm, slowly shrinking room with the haunting song playing through the stereo, I’m suddenly and undeniably soaking right through my panties.

“Look at me.”

His voice is deeper, more growling, and coming from right behind me this time.

I swallow, my breath stifling in my throat as I shake my head.

“No.”

“Why not.”

He knows why not.

He knows as well as I that if I turn around right now, he’s going to see it all over my face. He’s going to see the need, and the want, and years of self-denial written all over it.

He doesn’t care.

When his hand closes tight over my elbow, I jump, but it’s also like I’m not surprised. When he growls and turns me around, I want to resist, but I also want him to shatter the rest of my defenses. He pulls me close — so close that we’re almost touching and so close that I’m speechless and breathless as I look up into his dark, brooding, dominating dark eyes. His hand slides up, cupping my jaw possessively.

His thumb brushes across my bottom lip, and when he opens his mouth, his voice is all edges and steel.

“I know your favorite song because I know everything when it comes to you.”

He leans in past the last of my defenses, his lips crush against mine, and everything shatters.

The heat of the room, the thickness of the air, the song pulling at my emotions — all of it sends every part of me smashing into a thousand little pieces all over again.

Just like it did before.

And then, it’s over. Then it’s me pulling away, my hand going to my lips, and my eyes looking everywhere but Bastian.

“I have to go.”

I’m gone — first avoiding his eyes and forcing myself to casually walk out the door, and then running to my room the second it closes behind me.

* * *

I drop my forehead to the bedroom door, my breath coming fast, my pulse roaring in my ears. I lock the it with shaky fingers, backing away from it and eyeing it, again, half expecting him to come crashing through.

I can’t tell if I’m relieved or disappointed when he doesn’t.

I brush my teeth in a daze and crawl into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin and hugging my knees beneath them. The phone dings next to me, interrupting my thoughts with a new email sound. I sigh as I reach for it and swipe it open.

I swallow.

The new email is from Jack.

Whoa.

I actually freeze, staring at that last line, glowing on my phone.

I blink, re-reading the whole thing a few more times.

Jack wants to meet.

There’s a wincing feeling that comes with not mentioning that I’m practically in his backyard right now. But then, living out here on Long Island for the next few months sort of goes against my whole bullshit story about having a new job in LA. I also have no idea how I’d explain that I’m currently living in the opulent estate of an eccentric, brooding, asshole millionaire who may or may not be both the bane of my existence and also my horrible secret fantasy.

Even to a man with a fake name who I’ve never met, that’s a hard one to explain.

And then there’s also the guilt - the very weird, very confusing guilt that comes with thinking of Jack when Bastian just kissed me.

Jack who signs emails “Love, Jack”.

It’s the sort of guilt that throws into stark perspective our strangely platonic relationship where we don’t ever mention our love lives. Talking about Bastian to Jack feels like betrayal or cheating, as insane as that sounds.

But then, explaining Jack to Bastian sounds even less appealing - for worse and even more confusing reasons.

I re-read Jack’s email twice more, biting my lip until it’s sore before I turn my phone off and push it away. I can respond later. Between everything with my dad, and being back here, and negotiating the legal and morally gray area of this inheritance thing — oh, right, and the devil himself deciding to kiss me — the idea of meeting my email pen pal for the first time and explaining to him all the falsehoods about myself I’ve kept up over the years can wait.

I turn off the lights and slip deeper under the covers as if they’ll keep away the whirlwind storm of feelings threatening to rain down on me. As if they’ll keep away the lingering, bruising, electrifying feeling of his lips on mine not ten minutes ago.

They won’t, and they don’t.

But it’s not until I’ve been tossing and turning for half an hour or so that the real guilt sets in. Not about lying to Jack. Not about agreeing to a possibly legally incriminating arrangement.

It’s the guilt that being kissed by the man I should hate sends something electrifying through me that nothing else in my life has ever come close to.

It’s the guilt that kissing Sebastian Crown makes me uncontrollably, undeniably, irrationally, and incredibly wet.