The bird’s pure delight brought such joy to Corabeth that she could not hold back the laughter that bubbled up inside her. How good it felt to laugh for the first time in seemingly forever! And how absurd it was that it happened in the dreary garden of the Beast.
The raven repeated its slide again and again, as if it was spurred on by Corabeth’s light laughter. And if Corabeth had paid attention to Rooke, she would have noticed how his breath hitched in those moments.
“I didn’t know they do that,” Corabeth admitted, looking to Rooke when the bird finally tired and flew to a nearby tree to clean its feathers.
“Many don’t,” Rooke said. His eyes were on the bird. There was a fondness in his gaze when he looked at the ravens.My ravens, he had called them. Corabeth added it to the things she didn’t understand about the man before her.
Everything she had been told about the Beast was meant to scare her.Don’t stray into the woods, the Beast will eat you. Don’t stay out past dark during the Night of the Beast, he will feast on you. Should you encounter the Beast, say your prayers, for you will not survive.
Yet here he was, offering her shelter, reading to her, playing with his ravens. The contradictions made Corabeth only more curious.
“Can I ask about your curse?” she said, mustering up the courage.
Rooke took a moment to think about it. Perhaps to prepare himself. Then nodded.
“Why were you cursed?”
Rooke propped the rake against the edge of the dry fountain and leaned back on it, facing Corabeth. “Funny thing, the curse wasn’t even intended for me. It was for the head of the Ashford family—my father. Unlucky for me, my father had died just hours before the curse was unleashed, making me the head of the family.”
“Why was your father cursed, then?” Corabeth asked, brows furrowed.
“My father,” Rooke said with a sigh, “was a cruel man. Centuries ago, he lorded over these lands, over the villagers. Despite his own riches, he let them go hungry and suffer. One of the villagers sought out a witch to curse him, to make him feel the hunger of a hundred people.”
“That’s terrible,” Corabeth gasped. She had gone hungry plenty of times. But the hunger of a hundred people? She could not even begin to imagine it.
“He would have deserved it,” Rooke said, a sharp edge to his tone now.
“What exactly did the curse do to you?” Corabeth kept prying, afraid that each new question might anger him. She was still treating Rooke like an unpredictable wild animal, even though he had not lashed out at her. Something told her that if she lost her vigilance, it would only end badly for her.
Rooke stretched his arms to his side as if showing himself off before dropping them again. “It changed me to my very core, not to mention my features. I was a gentle soul. My father hated that about me and tried to beat it out of me plenty of times. I wouldn’t hurt a fly. Now… I’ve killed more times than I can count.”
“The curse compels you to kill?” Corabeth asked and swallowed hard.
Something twitched in Rooke’s face. “It compels me to feed. I feel a constant hunger, and only blood can take that away.”
“Human blood?” Corabeth’s voice was barely audible.
A bitter smile spread across Rooke’s face before he answered. “I can feed on animals. But it’s like craving a sweet and eating an apple.”
His eyes scanned Corabeth, who was suddenly sitting very rigidly.
“You’re scared of me,” Rooke noted.
Corabeth looked him straight in the eye. “Am I wrong to be? Did you not throw me behind bars for my own protection? Because you yourself thought you might attack me?”
“I have yet to apologize for that. I’m sorry,” Rooke said to Corabeth’s surprise. “But you need to understand, I can’t even recall the last time I was in the company of another person. I’m confined by these woods. I was afraid to lose myself to a frenzy. I now know that I still have my self-control, despite living as a beast for centuries.”
Corabeth softened slightly as a realization hit her. “You’ve been alone this whole time?” she asked. The pity in Corabeth’s eyes made Rooke avert his gaze.
“The curse gifted me my ravens. The witch must have had a twisted sense of humor,” he said, looking up at the now-empty tree where the bird had previously perched on a branch.
“How so?”
“My father’s name was Corvus. He named me Rooke. He had an obsession with them,” he said with a shrug.
“But,” Rooke said and pushed himself off the edge of the fountain, “I hunt these woods and I feed on the animals. There’s no danger to you. You don’t need to be afraid.”
Corabeth took some comfort in that. After all, had she not already begged him to kill her? Had she not been denied?
