The elevator doors open into the spacious top floor of the sky-rise. I own the building, using the penthouse as home and the lower floors for my business ventures. Usually, I like to take in the panoramic view of the city from the uninterrupted glass walls that surround the space and then enjoy the furniture and artwork I've carefully chosen to create this oasis. A place where I can come to just be, without everyone's judgmental stares, surrounding myself in my own space helps calm the beast and the man. But not today. Today, I go straight to one of the few mirrors still left in the spacious apartment. I've slowly been taking them down as my appearance continues to change, as the beast inside starts to show its face more and more until the man is slowly overtaken.

I stare at my reflection, at what I've become. At what I've allowed myself to become. I haven't forced myself to really look, to really examine the changes that have gradually become apparent. My long, pointed ears, shaggy hair and dense beard. Sharp, vicious looking fangs. I look down at my hands, at the thicker hair beginning to grow. I've been ignoring the slow transformation, pretending the inevitable slide isn't happening. Continuing to indulge in everything I want to indulge in, turning a blind eye to the consequences.

But today— today Isabelle Stone happened. Seeing Isa's pretty, delicate face, her softness... I stare down at my hands as they turn into fists, remembering the touch of her soft skin beneath my palms and the fear in her eyes. I look back up into my own eyes, into the heart of the beast. The beast that wants to eat up little Isa, taste her virginal body. I have enough experience to recognize the signs of a girl who’s never been touched by passion. It isn't something I'm usually particularly drawn to, I enjoy experienced females. But when it comes to Isa and her body, I want to gorge myself on it. In it. Take that innocence and mark her as my very own until she and everyone around her knows that she’s my territory. That nobody else has any right to touch her.

"Mine," I growl.

And I see my face, the avarice in it, the almost violent lust. I shut my eyes, turning away. What have I become? How have I let my inner beast come out this far, take over so much of the man I am? Even as I turn away from myself in disgust, my cock throbs as I remember Isa. Isa of the pretty face, large brown eyes, the feminine curves. Isa of the virginity I need to take. She will be mine. Just the thought of it has me groaning. Opening my pants, I pull out my rock hard erection, squeezing it roughly as I imagine everything I want to do to her. Everywhere I want to touch her.

Lick her.

Bite her.

Even the thought of how brave she was, how defiant, even while she tried to hide her fear of me, only stokes my desire for her. Would she be just as defiant, just as fearless in bed? Would she meet me kiss for kiss, touch for touch? Thrust for thrust. I start to slide my hand up and down my shaft even as I tell myself to stop. She was afraid of me. I shouldn't picture her and touch myself. It isn't right. I open my eyes and look at myself in the mirror. A beast of a man, his thick cock held in an almost painful grip. But I can't stop. Snarling, I walk further away until I don't have to confront that image of me. Avoiding it. Just like always.

I want to be better than this. I want to be someone Isabelle Stone would look at only with desire in her eyes. Not fear. I let go of myself and brace my hands against the wall as I take a deep breath, trying to get a handle on this raw, sexual need. But that's a mistake. A hint of her sweet scent still lingers from where I touched her. My cock twitches in reaction, my balls drawing up. There’s no denying myself at this point. I moan as I reach down and take a grip on myself once again, clenching my jaw at how close I am already from simply the thought of her.

I give in completely.

Will she flush just as softly if I kiss her breasts, suck on her nipples as she did when I touched her face? Will she watch just as defiantly as I pet her, kiss a trail down to the damp heat of her, the soft place between her legs? Because though I know she was afraid of me, I also have enough experience to have read the signs of arousal. She wanted me. The slight hitch in her breath, the flush to her cheek, the dilated eyes. I hold on to that thought. She was afraid. But she also wanted me.

Yes. She would be wet when I reach her, welcoming. Wet when I lick that delicate furrow. When I try to sink a finger into that tight passage.

"Shit," I growl, my balls drawing up even higher as I imagine exactly the picture she would make, sprawled naked across my enormous bed, the sheets shoved to the side.

Maybe she would be a little afraid. But she'd still like it. She'd love the orgasms I would give her innocent body, the pleasure I would be sure to drench her in until she was well and truly claimed, until the only person she would ever want is me. I make a hoarse sound as my cock jumps in my hand, the climax hitting me hard enough that I slap one hand back onto the wall to brace myself. I come long and hard, the orgasm draining every drop of out of me. Draining everything, the desire, the frustration, the anger. I let out a shuddering sigh as the last spurt finishes, my cock starting to soften in my hand. My ragged breathing is harsh in the silence.

I look down at myself, shame washing over me. How far have I fallen that I've brought myself to orgasm imagining a woman so innocent it shines from her? A woman who has put herself in my care for years in order to pay off her father's debt. A woman so selfless she would sacrifice herself for someone she loves. A woman I have more power over than I ever should. I've beckoned my beast into the light enough times that I fantasize about using a vulnerable, innocent woman. Simply because I want her.

Who am I now? I am not simply a man. Not any longer. Is this half beast all I will ever be? Am I too far gone to find my way back even if I want to? I look around at my home, at the expensive, modern furnishings, the careful color selections, the setting for a sophisticated, educated man. A Prince. And then I turn to the mirror and see this twisted version of myself against that backdrop. With a roar, I punch the mirror, shattering the glass and cutting myself in the process, but not caring about the blood I drip on the floor as I storm over to the other mirror across the room. Picking up the andiron from the fireplace, I pull it back and swing, seeing my rage-filled reflection only for an instant. The mirror now lies in a thousand pieces on the ground, the delicate tinkling of glass still echoes.

I step back, breathing hard as I take in the mess I've made of the living room. I may be an ugly beast but I don’t have to confront the truth of it at every turn. I toss the andiron down with a loud clatter, uncaring of any damage to the floor as I turn and stalk away from the evidence of my rage.

Turning a blind eye to the problem once again.

How appropriate.