Beautiful Beast

Chapter 3

KALISTA

"You are late," I announce coolly, consciously loosening my grip around the stem of my wine glass. He must not know how nervous he makes me. "Please, sit." I motion to the place across from me—as far away from me as possible.

Slowly he stalks past, although his eyes remain upon me. He is like a predator, assessing his prey and waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. In response, I sink further into my copse of shadows, as if hoping they will swallow me and erase this horrific nightmare.

Rigidly, he takes the seat across from me and I examine his features. His hair is short but curly and, in the candlelight, appears to be a light brown. He has sharp cheekbones, a slightly crooked nose, and perhaps he has full lips, but they are so tightly pinched together that I cannot tell. I also notice that he wears the same clothing in which he arrived. He is stubborn. I know for certain that Cedric and Pierre would have attempted to fit him in a suit worthy of a prince. But I am partly glad for this because it tells me something about him. His garb is plain—a leather doublet, white linen shirt beneath this, breeches, and tall leather boots. A forester, perhaps. Or a soldier.

Despite the feast before him, my guest makes no move toward the food. His trust is clearly not easily won. But truly, I should expect nothing less.

"There is no poison in the food." I motion to the excessive fare. "Please eat."

"I am not hungry," he growls.

"You must be, you've had a long journey." I beckon with my fingers to the invisible figure I know is nearby. "Cedric."

He is by my side in an instant. "Yes, my lady?"

"Serve our guest," I direct, keeping my eyes upon the man across from me.

"As you wish." Cedric complies, and a plate is lifted into the air. It is soon filled with various foods and lands softly before my guest who shifts uncomfortably at the display.

"Is that all, my lady?"

"Yes, thank you, Cedric," I say, dismissing him. He departs and next to me, I feel the briefest stirring of air.

"Was that necessary?" My guest asks rigidly.

"You were being stubborn. And besides, I cannot have you starve to death."

"Not like you would care."

I clench my jaw and force myself not to lash out. Trust will never come if I cannot exercise some semblance of patience.

"What name do you go by?" I ask, hoping to distract him from his hatred.

"What does it matter to you? Do you keep the names of your victims in a book? Will mine fill the place next to my brother's?" His words cut through the space between us.

"Your brother," I whisper, knowing how the needles of grief are pricking his heart.

"Yes, my brother," he growls. "You are a beast, a murderer."

Shards of icy grief slip into my body and I look away from him and into the flames of the hearth. He does not understand; he is blinded by ignorance and despair. Just as I was. And because I know how he feels, I pity him despite his hate.

Suddenly, in one swift movement, my guest reaches across the table, snatches a carving knife from a display of roast beef, and throws it straight at my heart. Time seems to slow as I turn toward it and my magic leaps to my fingers. With a deft gesture, I swat the knife from the air. No sooner does it clatter to the floor than a dull butter knife is spinning through the air, following the path of its comrade. This one, I catch by its blade a mere breath away from tearing into the fine lace of my gown. Pain burns across my palm and blood seeps through my fingers, but I pay it no heed.

"Enough," I shout, as he reaches for a fork. Does he think he can kill me with my own silverware?

Silence shrouds the dining hall and I stare furiously at my guest. His chair has toppled over behind him and his eyes are wide with horror. No human can snatch a knife from the air like I did. In his eyes, I have just confirmed my status as the beast.

Attempting to control my rapid breathing, I move about the table and toward my guest. Blood has begun to seep through my fist, and it drips onto my gown and upon the stone floor. I halt a few meters away from him and stare directly into his smouldering eyes. He hates me. He loathes the very air I breathe.

"Enough," I say again, softer this time, and let the knife fall from my fingers. It clatters against the floor, then lies motionless, glowing in the firelight.

I want to say more, I want to scream the truth, but his bitter glare chokes the words before they can reach my tongue. So, I simply spin about and silently glide from the room, clenching and unclenching my stinging hand as I go.

I was foolish to think his murderous intentions changed during the few hours since our first meeting. It will take much more than a comfortable room and a lavish meal to change this man's heart. He believes me to be a murderer, a beast. I could attempt to tell him the truth, but I doubt he would believe me. Only witnessing the truth will change him and I cannot risk that; at least, not yet.

Despondently, I return to my room where Beedy immediately flits to my side. "Back so soon?"

I fall onto the settee and hold up my bleeding palm. "Beedy, he tried to kill me."

"Oh, mistress, how awful." She rushes over with a handkerchief and ties it about my hand. "But don't be disheartened, he will come to see you as you are. I know he will. Now, you stay here, and I will fix you a nice cup of tea."

I give a half-smile, "Thank you, Beedy." She leaves the room and I pick up a book to read. Yet, as much as I try, all I see are his angry eyes and all I hear is his voice. You are a beast. You are a beast.