"Well, well, well." I felt the entirety of my body stiffen. "Pray tell," the masculine voice murmured as his chin rested down onto my shoulder, "what has made them send such a fine lady such as yourself?"
A Beauty and the Beast Retelling in which Be...
WE HAD PARTED ways at the door of his bedchamber—he to greet his guests and I to welcome them. Raoul hardly made mention of his intentions—little more than a tilt of his head and murmur of something or other. But he need not do so, for I was well aware of my own. It was only proper that if they visit the so-called Beast's castle that they pay their respects to the critters in the West Wing.
My feet flitted forward, the dull twinge of pain slowly returning to my ankle. It seemed the good rest and snow had done long faded and left me with a stumble in my step. I ignored the throb—pushed it to a small, forgotten chamber in my mind and focused on where I was. The stairs before me seemed as if they had gone still—it was as if the curse fueling this castle was beginning to waver. And if that was so...
I wove my path through the castle, urged faster by the sounds emerging from the floors beneath me. They had met—and it was not to remain peaceful. Of course it would not have, not with Jacques and his blind rage. He would need a distraction, one that I would gladly serve.
Soon, I halted before doors laden with sheets of frost. Though I had not even neared the entryway, I could hear the starved growls emanating from those creatures, waiting restlessly to make their escape. I ground my teeth and clenched my jaw—and opened the doors.
It only took a moment before all hell broke loose.
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Smoke stained the air, smearing it in a hazed veil I could not see through. "Raoul!"
It was as if he had vanished in the chaos of the West Wing's beasts and the madness Jacques had brought to the castle. Worry surged within my chest and I found myself squinting through tendrils of smoke.
"Raoul!" Jacques must have set fire to some chamber of the castle, given the smoke seeping through the cracks beneath doors and rolling along the hallways—an act I knew the village men had turned to in their desperation. I held my sleeve to my nose and sprinted back to where I had last known Raoul to be.
I descended the stairs and ran through the corridors—then froze.
Blood stained the floor, smothered it in a trail that drew north of where I had expected him to be. My fingers clenched. Mon Dieu...please don't let it be his.
I followed the trail, tracking it into the charred remains of what I had known to be the library. It had become a mess of fallen shelves and crumbled books, soaked with the smell of ash.
And there, betwixt the grounded shelves, sprawled in a puddle of blood...
"No...No, no, no..." My hand went to muffle my words. I rushed to his side, fingers quick to undo his chemise and examine him for the wound that had him bleeding so fiercely. Breathing. He was breathing. And then a groan escaped him as he began to face me.
"No—don't move!" It took frighteningly little effort to set my hand upon his shoulder and press him back down. "Where is the wound?"
He groaned harshly, wincing as he grasped my hand as to still it.
