Belle returned wearing a pair of pajamas that had Santa all over them, and he couldn’t help his smile. Beast ran his hand down her arm. “I like these,” he said. He actually liked them more than he should.
“Thanks,” she said. “I didn’t go crazy decorating for Christmas. I just have the tree,” she said, nodding to the Christmas tree that sat in the back corner of her small family room. As they stood there, Beast paused and looked down at her. She looked scared out of her mind, and he couldn’t fault her for that.
“You okay?” he asked. It was a silly question, but one he felt necessary to ask.
“I don’t feel safe in my own home. I wouldn’t be able to stay here—not alone,” she admitted.
“You’re not alone,” Beast said, voice dropping lower. “Not tonight, and not until this is over.”
Belle’s breath caught, her fingers brushing his jacket sleeve in a small, hesitant touch. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Beast didn’t move, and he didn’t dare breathe. He refused to look away from her. “You don’t have to thank me,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.” He had no plans on leaving her—not tonight, and not while she needed him. And maybe—not for a while after that.
BELLE
Her house felt different with someone else inside it—especially someone like Beast. He filled so much of her tiny home with his big body, and he made her feel safer than she had any right to feel.
She didn’t expect him to look at her space the way he did. He wasn’t judging her space. He was just absorbing it as though he’d stepped into a different world. Her little house wasn’t much, but it was hers. Her grandmother had left it to her when she passed, and it was paid off. And even though it had made her life easier, she hated the house. Belle was always so lonely in her home, but she was pretty sure that had everything to do with the cold woman who raised her after her parents died.
The walls were light lavender that she’d painted herself last spring. A soft throw blanket that her grandmother had crocheted before she died. It was one of the only things that she made for Belle, and for some reason, she loved that old blanket. Photos of her and a few of the girls from town, all mid-laugh, all full of a life she hadn’t felt lately, hung on the wall. The faint scent of vanilla and sugar hung in the air from her candle on the counter,the one she always forgot to blow out until the wick drowned, but she just couldn’t bring herself to throw it away.
Having Beast in her home helped her to realize that the place was slowly starting to feel like home—her home. And somehow Beast made it feel even more like one.
She locked the front door behind them, then checked it again, and then again. Then, she went to each window and made sure the latches were tight. She could feel Beast’s eyes on her back the whole time, warm and heavy. When she finally turned around to face him, she caught his raised brow and felt heat crawling up her neck.
“Habit,” she muttered, rubbing her arm. “When he started stalking me, I began the routine of checking all the locks on the windows and doors. It’s pathetic, I know.”
He shook his head. “No, it’s a good habit,” he said in that deep, steady voice that could calm a storm. “It means you’re being careful.” Something in her chest loosened, just a little. It was enough to be able to breathe.
“I know that we haven’t had dinner yet, but I’m tired. Do you mind if I get some sleep? I haven’t slept well in weeks,” she said.
“Of course,” he agreed. “Do you mind if I catch some shut eye, too?” The thought of not being in the same room as him wasn’t one that she liked. He nodded and took his hand into hers, once again causing her stomach to do a little flip-flop from the contact. They walked to her bedroom together—slow, careful steps like they were carrying something breakable between them. And in a way, they were. Belle stopped at the edge of the bed, her fingers twisting the hem of her shirt. Her heart thudded in her throat.
“You can take the couch. I mean—I know you said the bed is safer, but?—”
“Belle.” His tone was gentle but firm enough to stop her rambling, as he stepped closer, she didn’t move back.
“You’ll sleep better if I’m right here. And I’m not going to make anything weird. Or push you for anything you’re not ready for.” She looked up at him, as though searching his expression for even a hint of pressure or expectation. She found none. Bell only found warmth, strength, and safety she hadn’t felt in so long that it almost hurt.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Stay.” His breath caught. It was so faint that she almost missed it, but the tiny sound made her chest ache. They climbed into the bed awkwardly, like two people trying not to spook each other. She stayed on her side, curled up at the edge of the mattress. While Beast lay rigid on his back, arms behind his head, shoulders so broad they nearly swallowed the room. The silence felt thick and deliberate as Belle stared at the ceiling, then him, then the ceiling again.
“You can relax, you know,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not made of glass.”
Beast let out a low, soft huff of a laugh. “Sweetheart, I’m the problem. I’m trying not to take up half the mattress.”
“You already take up half the universe,” she teased before she could stop herself. His head turned towards her, and she turned to face him. Their eyes met in the dark—steady, warm, and electric. Her breath hitched.
“Good night, Belle,” he said, his voice rough in a way that made her toes curl.
“Good night, Beast,” she whispered. They lay there, pretending sleep would come easily, but it didn’t. Not at first, but the room stayed quiet, the bed warm from their body heat. His presence was solid beside her instead of lurking outside like a shadow that didn’t belong.
Eventually, slowly, her body relaxed. Her eyelids grew heavy, and exhaustion finally carried them both away.
Belle woke slowly—first to warmth, then to weight on top of her body. The realization that she was not alone in her bed hit her like a bucket of cold water. She didn’t know what time it was or how long she’d been asleep, but she knew exactly how close Beast was before she even opened her eyes.
She was practically wrapped around him. Her thigh was slung over his hip. Her arm was locked around his waist like she’d been afraid to let go of him. And her cheek rested against the side of his throat, her breath brushing the warm skin there in soft, uneven puffs.
And his hand—God, his hand was under her shirt—his rough palm spread over the bare curve of her waist, warm and firm and protective in a way she didn’t know she needed until that moment. Heat swept through her, not fear, and definitely not embarrassment. It was something deeper. Something that made her chest feel tight, and her stomach flutter.
