Isabeau
The roses clung to my thoughts as I made my way back to the bedroom, the torch’s light fading along with my energy. I wasn’t special. I wasn’t magical. Just a village girl with a head full of questions and a body that men seemed to value far more than my mind. Though, only horrors troubled it right now.
The dried blood from Papa’s suspended form haunted me, along with the nagging certainty that I was somehow connected to this cursed place. The dying flames cast my shadow long anddistorted against the stone walls, like the truth I was stretching toward but couldn’t quite grasp.
I pushed open the bedroom door with my shoulder, the torch sputtering in its final moments before I thrust its contents into the hearth. The embers welcomed the fresh fuel, flaring to life and filling the chamber with flickering amber light.
Amber, like my eyes. Like Beast’s eyes. Like Mama’s had been.
The borrowed nightgown clung to my skin, damp with evening dew and perspiration from my venture to the rose garden. I peeled it off, letting it fall in a damp heap beside the bed before slipping beneath the heavy blankets. The sheets felt cool against my bare skin, a small mercy after the day’s discoveries and lingering pain between my thighs. Though, I learned I rather liked sleeping naked.
My fingers traced the invisible line where the rose vine had sealed my palm. No evidence remained of the cut, not even a faint scar to prove it had ever existed. Just smooth, unblemished skin that somehow felt different. As if the power that had healed me rested just beneath my surface, waiting to be called forth again.
Mama would have had an explanation. She always did for the strange and wonderful things in the world.“True magic,”she’d told me once while hanging bundles of herbs from our cottage rafters,“isn’t about grand gestures or impossible feats. It’s understanding which herbs heal a fever, which flowers soothe a heart, which roots will nourish when food is scarce.”Her hands had moved with practiced grace, tying twine around stems with the same precision she’d later use to stitch a neighbor’s wound or deliver a stubborn child.
I’d inherited her eyes and her lips, the amber gaze and the full, naturally red mouth that had men in our village comparing me to roses. Papa never treated Mama the way the men of the village viewed and spoke about me. He let her live her life, happy theywere paired to coexist. My life in our home was my sanctuary from the men in our town.
“What a pity,”they’d say, not bothering to lower their voices as I passed, “that such a pretty face wastes time with books and inventions. Beauty like that shouldn’t be spoiled with learning.”As if knowledge somehow diminished my worth rather than enhanced it, but Papa taught me even after my mama could not.
Beauty had never felt like a blessing. Not when it drew unwanted attention from men like Gaspard, not when it caused other women to view me with suspicion and resentment. It was a burden I carried, along with the whispers that followed me through the village square on the days I dared to leave the house.
“Just like her mother,”they’d say.“Too pretty for her own good. And we all know how that ended.”
How that ended.A phrase loaded with insinuation, with secrets no one would speak directly. Mama had died when I was fourteen, suddenly and mysteriously. A fever, Papa had said, but I’d seen the fear in his eyes, heard the whispers aboutunnatural practicesanddabbling where no woman should.
And now here I was, in an enchanted castle with a beast for a mate, my father suspended in blood-drinking roses, and strange power flowing through my veins. Had Mama known this was coming? Had she tried to prepare me in the limited time we’d had together?
My thoughts circled back to Beast’s eyes. The same amber as mine. As Mama’s. What did it mean? Was it merely coincidence, or something more significant? The color wasn’t common in our village. Most had eyes of blue or brown, perhaps green in a few cases. But amber, that rich golden hue that caught the light like honey—that had been unique to Mama and me.
And now Beast.
Was it the forest? Did it somehow mark those connected to it? Or was it something older, something in my blood that Mama had never had the chance to explain?
The door creaked open, interrupting my spiraling thoughts. Beast’s massive form filled the doorway, his fur silvered by moonlight streaming through the broken window.
Those amber eyes found mine immediately, glowing in the firelight like twin flames. He entered silently, padding across the stone floor with surprising grace for a creature of his size.
I shifted beneath the blankets, making room for him on the bed that had become ours. My body responded to his presence with a now-familiar warmth, despite the tenderness between my thighs from our previous encounters. Three times claimed, three bites marking me as his. Each coupling had been intense, primal, overwhelming in its physicality.
Without hesitation, Beast climbed onto the bed, his weight causing the ancient frame to groan in protest. The mattress dipped beneath him as he settled beside me, his fur radiating heat that quickly banished the chill from my skin. Something in his demeanor seemed different tonight. Less urgent, more watchful. His eyes studied my face as if searching for answers to questions he couldn’t voice.
“I saw the garden behind the castle,” I said softly, reaching out to stroke the fur between his ears. “The sanctuary. It’s beautiful.”
He leaned into my touch with a rumbling sound that vibrated through the mattress. Not quite a purr, not quite a growl, but something uniquely his. Understanding passed between us without words. He knew where I’d been, what I’d seen. Perhaps he’d even been watching from the forest’s edge, making sure I came to no harm in my explorations.
My legs parted instinctively as he moved over me, my body preparing for what had become our nightly ritual. A small groan escaped my lips, not of anticipation but discomfort. My innerthighs were raw from our previous couplings, the delicate skin chafed and reddened by the friction of his fur and seed against it.
Beast froze, his amber eyes narrowing as he looked down at my body. He pushed the blanket aside, exposing me fully to the flickering firelight. A low whine escaped him when he saw the inflammation marking my thighs, the tender flesh angry and swollen where it had been rubbed raw.
“It’s alright,” I assured him, my hand finding his muzzle. “I’ll get used to it. The human body adapts.”
He didn’t look convinced. His ears flattened against his skull, and something that might have been guilt darkened his gaze. Then, to my surprise, he backed away slightly, lowering his massive head until his snout hovered just above the junction of my thighs.
“What are you—” My question died in my throat as his tongue, hot and rough, dragged slowly across my tender flesh.
The sensation shocked me into silence. Not painful as I’d expected, but soothing. His tongue was textured like a cat’s, but larger, warm and slightly rough against my inflamed skin. Each careful lap seemed to draw away the sting, replacing it with a cooling sensation that made me sigh with relief.
Our eyes met, amber to amber, as he continued his gentle ministrations. His gaze questioned, seeking permission, approval. I nodded, wordless, as his tongue moved higher, closer to my core.
