Chapter Two
The Beast prowled the halls of his riverside mansion, inconsolable and furious beyond comprehension.
He knew his staff huddled downstairs in fear, but he didn’t care. Charles Atwood was dead. The only man alive that could break the curse the Beast had lived with for nearly thirty years.
Born Lincoln Barone, the Beast had been cursed for the sins of his father, Stanford Barone, by Agatha Atwood, Charles’s mother.
According to Agatha, Stanford had seduced her only daughter, Charlotte. After learning that she carried his child, Charlotte had approached Stanford with the news, only to be turned away and told never to contact him again.
Unable to bear the pain of losing him, Charlotte threatened to go to Stanford’s equally pregnant wife. Needless to say, Charlotte disappeared that night, and her body was never recovered.
Agatha had gone into a rage, ranting about revenge and voodoo curses. A week later, a card arrived on the doorstep addressed to Stanford’s unsuspecting pregnant bride. It read, maledictus. Latin for cursed.
Stanford had chalked it up as the ramblings of a grieving mother, until the day his hideous son screamed his way into the world, and his beautiful young bride closed her eyes forever.
“Stiles!” the Beast roared, spinning toward his darkened bedroom. He could hear the butler’s footsteps rushing up the stairs.
“Sir?” Stiles breathed, obviously nervous and out of breath.
Satan, the one hundred-forty-five-pound gray wolf lying near the foot of the bed, growled low in his throat as Stiles came barreling into the room.
Keeping his back to the butler, Lincoln pulled the hood of his cloak over his head, unclenched his teeth, and spoke in a voice more beast than man. “Are you sure Atwood is dead?”
“I-I spoke with the coroner,” Stiles stammered. “The daughter has identified him.”
The Beast stilled, every muscle in his body taught with tension. “Ruby is here?”
“Y-yes sir. She arrived in town around noon today.”
Letting that piece of information sink in, Lincoln moved to the window to stare out at the river beyond. “Call Templeton. I want him here within the hour.”
“Right away, sir.”
The Beast waited for the door to close behind Stiles before turning to peer down at what was left of the rose encased in glass, resting on his nightstand.
Four more weeks, Lincoln thought, lightly touching the fragile glass, and the hell he’d been born into would forever be his fate.
Stalking across the room to sit on the side of his bed, Lincoln lifted his gaze to the covered mirror in the corner, and a growl similar to Satan’s rumbled in his chest. He wouldn’t look. He refused to.
The mirror continued to mock him the longer he sat here, calling to him and taunting him with its inhumanity.
With a snarl of surrender, the Beast jumped to his feet, strode across the room, and ripped the covering away from the mirror.
A howl rose up, but he swallowed it back as he stared into the eyes of the man he would never be.
He lifted an unsteady hand to his face, afraid to touch it yet unable to stop himself. The feel of the skin beneath his fingers told a different story from the man he saw in the mirror.
But he wasn’t a man, he acknowledged, feeling the dusting of hair on his cheeks and nose, the slants to the corners of his eyes, his larger than normal forehead. And his teeth. He didn’t even want to think about his teeth. He’d seen less frightening teeth on Satan.
Yet the man staring back at him from the reflection of the mirror had a square jaw, full lips, electric blue eyes, and straight white teeth.
“Damn you, witch!” the Beast cursed, batting the mirror away from him. “Damn you to hell!”
The sound of glass breaking did little to soothe his rage. Even if he never looked into that damnable mirror again, the image of his true form would forever be burned into his brain.
A soft knock on his bedroom door brought Lincoln’s head up. “Come.”
“I brought you some dinner,” Mrs. Tuff announced, opening the door and stepping into the room. She held a large covered tray in her hands.
The Beast barely spared her a glance. “I’m not hungry.”
“I’ll just leave it right here for you in case you change your mind.”
Feeling slightly annoyed that he’d allowed his temper to surface, Lincoln waved the housekeeper forward. “I’ll take it.”
She hesitated.
“I said, I’ll take it!” he snapped, holding out his hand.
Mrs. Tuff scrambled forward, her eyes wide with uncertainty, and handed him the tray.
Lincoln noticed that she wore makeup and her hair appeared different. “Are you going out?”
Clearing her throat, she stared at a place beyond his shoulder, an obvious attempt to avoid looking upon his hideous face. Not that he blamed her.
“Stiles and I are having dinner together in the dining room,” she whispered while wringing her hands. “Would you care to join us?”
It was no secret that Stiles and Mrs. Tuff were sleeping together, and had been for years. A normal person wouldn’t have heard the soft sounds they made in the middle of the night, but the Beast wasn’t normal. Far from it in fact. His beastly ears could hear as well as his wolf, Satan. If not more so.
“I prefer to eat in my room,” was all Lincoln could manage.
Mrs. Tuff continued to stand there, staring over his shoulder. He assumed she was waiting for him to dismiss her. “Go eat. And be sure to send Templeton to me the moment he arrives.”
With a quick nod, the housekeeper scampered from the room as if Satan had suddenly bounded to his feet and came after her.
The Beast glanced over at Satan in envy. The wolf had not a care in the world other than his next meal and finding a tree to hike his leg on.
The giant wolf lifted his head and pawed at the floor in front of him. He didn’t care about Lincoln’s looks or the raspy growl of his voice. The wolf loved the Beast unconditionally. And Lincoln was more than aware that it would be the only love he would ever have.