Page 14 of Fractured Heart

“H-hi Charlie,” I barely manage to get out the greeting and my palms start to sweat.

Charlie’s eyes blaze in response. His midnight black hair tumbles over them, and he brushes it back with one huge hand. I don’t mean large hand, or even above average. It is huge, just like the rest of him.

When he starts to sit up, I instinctively back up, crashing into Tate again. I notice that the pain in my ribs and back isn’t as excruciating, so at least the painkillers are starting to kick in.

Then, I become aware of Tate’s hard, muscular chest pressed up against my back and quickly step away.

“Charles Harrington the Third,” Charlie finally replies. His voice burns through me like a well-played cello: smooth, deep, complicated, and overwhelming. I feel my knees grow wobbly. If Tate weren’t keeping me upright, I think I might collapse at Charlie’s feet. Then he raises that hand again, this time to scratch his chin, and I can’t tear my eyes away.

“Charles just started growing the beard.” Tate’s breath grazes my ear. “Don’t call him Charlie, by the way. He hates that.”

“He does?” I swallow nervously as the Beast stares back at me, his face impassive. I just called him Charlie! I only did it because Tate told me to, but now Charles probably hates me. Which he makes abundantly clear when he picks up his Grimm’s Fairy Tales off the floor, retrieves a pair of glasses from halfway under the couch, and turns to his book like we’re not even there.

I tilt my head up to glare accusingly at Tate and immediately realize my mistake. He’s close. Too close. All I have to do is stand on tiptoe for our lips to touch. Even with Charles the Beast in the same room, I still want to do it, and the way Tate stares down at me almost convinces me he wants it, too. Except that he made it abundantly clear earlier that he wasn’t interested in me. And even if he hadn’t, I’m covered in mud.

Flushing with embarrassment, I look down at my ripped jeans and dirty sneakers. For a few seconds, no one says anything, and the sound of Charles turning a page in his awful book echoes through the silent room. Finally, he looks up.

“So, what happened to you?” he asks, his eyes locked on me.

I swallow nervously.

“She slipped, out by the ravine,” Tate finally answers for me.

“Thought you were the only one who went running in the middle of the night.” Charles stares at me intently for a few seconds, then reaches up to scratch his cheek.

“Beard still bothering you?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“It’s for a role,” Tate tells me. “He hates it, by the way.”

“He hates the role?” I frown and look back up at Charles. The black, thick-rimmed glasses perched on his nose should make him look less beastly, but if anything, they’re even more intimidating.

“The beard.” Tate chuckles.

Charles grumbles in response. He scratches the offending facial hair and goes back to reading about hacked off toes and pecked out eyeballs. I shudder.

Happy thoughts, Roonie, I remind myself, like I do when I’m lying in my bedroom, bruised, beaten and missing Mom. My usual escape is fairy tales, but I’m too curious about the Beast’s role. Is he an actor in a play? A movie? Or, dare I hope, a musical that Tate is also a part of?

The image of Prince Charming on a stage singing is a thrilling one. I picture the Beast, tall and frightening, standing next to him. They’d both be dressed as princes, facing each other with swords drawn.

Then, they’d break into song: a duet. I can picture Tate the Prince singing tenor and Charles the Beast singing bass, their voices weaving together like a fairy tale dream.

“What’s that song?” Charles asks with a beastly growl, his eyes locking on mine.

“N-nothing. Just something I heard on TV,” I lie. My face feels impossibly hot. How could I just start singing like that? In public? In front of two guys I just met, who now probably think I’m nuts?

“She’s not a student here,” Tate adds and my heart plummets. I know I’m not a good singer, definitely not good enough to get accepted here, but does Tate have to go around announcing it?

Charles shakes his head in obvious disappointment, making me feel even worse. I try to hide my hurt feelings, but then Tate does something that distracts me. He starts to sing my song, and I forget about everything else.

I’ll ride into battle against any horde

A beast from the wild is no match for my sword

And rightly I’ll strike him down with style and ease

To rescue the maiden he’s captured - so please