Petals and Thorns Copyright © July 2010 by Jennifer Paris

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eISBN 978-1-60737-817-4

Editor: G. G. Royale

Cover Artist: Christine M. Griffin

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The wedding ceremony took place deep in the woods.

The chapel looked innocent in its white prettiness, as if a normal wedding took place there instead of this monstrous farce.

At first Amarantha had wept. When her father had arrived home on the magnificent stallion, his arms overflowing with luscious red roses and saddlebags full of gold coins, and told the wild tale of the Beast who wanted Amarantha and only her, she'd been at first astonished, then enraged. She'd thought of running away, but her father and sisters had talked Amarantha around. The Beast had promised wealth to restore her father's fortunes and more. They assured her that the Beast wouldn't kill her.

“He saw your portrait and finds you beautiful,” her father crooned. “It will be a marriage in name only. You need not lie with him”—he snickered—“if the creature is even able to perform as a man. Likely he is too deformed and wants only a pretty wife to look upon.

“Remember”—the merchant took his youngest daughter's slender hands in his as they stepped down from the carriage—“if the marriage is not consummated within one week, then he has agreed to have it annulled and to settle upon you half of his fortune! All you must do is retain your chastity for one measly week, and any ninny can keep her legs closed that long. Remember it every day, and the week will fly by. Soon you'll be at home again with us, our fortunes forever secured.”

“He only has to take her by force,” Anastasia scoffed.

“No,” a deep voice rumbled behind them. They started like finches when a hawk flies over. No one had heard the Beast arrive.

2

He stood back, tall and broad shouldered as her father had said, watching from the depths of his cloak. The winter wind caught the black folds, whipping them tight against his massive body, but never stirred around his face. Amarantha couldn't make out his features, though she thought perhaps she caught the gleam of a white tooth. And was that the shadow of a muzzle?

She shuddered, looking away quickly.

“No, Amarantha,” the Beast said, “I will never take you by force. I will only take you when you ask me to. That one choice, at least, will always be yours.”

Amarantha stirred uneasily inside the confines of her corset. Something about his words seemed…unwholesome somehow.

Angelica laughed brightly and clapped her jeweled fingers together in a graceful flutter. “Then we are saved! For, Sir Beast, though we cannot see you clearly, we understand that you are so hideous that no woman would willingly have you. Perhaps your beastly exterior reflects a similarly feral and corrupt heart?” She waved a languid hand at Amarantha. “Else why resort to blackmail to obtain a bride?”

“Indeed”—the voice sank into a near growl—“sister of my bride. You are undoubtedly correct. But since blackmail has, in fact, won me a bride, I'm anxious to take possession of her. Shall we?”

Amarantha gasped and stepped back when the Beast moved toward her, dark and sinuous. But he only offered her his arm to escort her into the chapel. She took a deep breath, as deep as her tight corset allowed.

After the short ceremony, Amarantha kissed her father and sisters good-bye.

She couldn't seem to hear what they were saying to her, only that she had promised to obey this man. This monster.

“Do you take this man, Sir Beast… Do you promise to love, honor, and obey?”

the chaplain had asked.

The word seemed to reverberate in her skull. Obey. Chased by the image of how his eyes had glowed at her sparking amber from the depths of his hood. Love

3

and honor seemed to pale before the other word. Amarantha possessed enough cleverness to avoid shaming him, and she could pretend to love him. Obedience might not be so simple. She almost felt his sigh of satisfaction at her promise, as if something that had pained him suddenly eased.

Amarantha wished she could feel the same.

In his carriage, they rode facing each other, though Amarantha gazed steadfastly out the window as the forest deepened and thickened. The trees grew more gnarled, the roots thrusting up from the soil only to twist away again, diving into the moist ferns covering the soil. Still, it was easier to keep her eyes on the strange landscape than look at her husband's shrouded form and wonder what horrors it might contain.

“Am I ever to see you?” she asked.

“Do you wish to?”

Amarantha glanced at his black silhouette. Looked away again.

“It occurs to me it might be easier to see you and”— get it over with—“learn to become accustomed to you.”

“Consider that I might be so frightening to you that you would be unable to bear coming near me again.”

Amarantha trembled.

“No”—the Beast chuckled darkly—“these things are best done in stages. I intend to win you over, lovely Amarantha.”

“I don't see how that's possible.”

“Because you are innocent,” the Beast said, his voice nearly a growl. “And you have not discovered how I can make you feel.”

“I have. You make me feel fear. And revulsion.” She looked out the window.

“Despair, perhaps.”

“None of those are real, Amarantha.”

4

She forced herself to look at him. “I must tell you, I don't see how I can ever be your wife in truth. I cannot imagine asking you to—”

“To take your maidenhead? To rend you with my cock so that you scream in agonized pleasure?”

The shock drained Amarantha's cheeks of color. Even as the image somehow stirred her.

“Sir Beast, you cannot say such things to me.”

“It seems, my bride, that we must stretch your imagination as well. The only thing I may not do is take you by force. Everything else is open to me.” He settled back in a very masculine satisfaction. “If you intend to keep the bargain that saved your father's life, that is.”

Amarantha bit her lip. Her father had wept even as he handed her into the Beast's carriage. Had he realized? Her virginity wouldn't matter at the end of the week if she was dead.

“Amarantha.” The Beast leaned forward. She shrank back, but he only laid a gloved hand over hers. “I swear I will not injure you. Your beauty is precious to me.

I would not see it marred in any way.”

She restlessly moved her hands out from under the black leather of his glove.

A mistake, since his hand fell to her knee instead, a heavy weight through the thin cloth.

“I will wish to see it, however,” the Beast said, gravel in his voice.

Amarantha's heart stuttered. “See it?”

“You, in your naked glory. When we reach the house. In exchange, I will not touch you just yet.” He leaned back again. “I mention it now so that you might mull the idea over.”

Amarantha drew in a breath. “I do not think I shall become peaceful with the idea in that space of time.”

“You mistake me, my bride. Peaceful is not how I want you.”

5

If he'd intended her to think about it, to imagine herself naked and vulnerable in front of his black-cloaked figure, then he succeeded.

For the remainder of the drive, she couldn't erase the idea from her mind.

Amarantha tried to think of other things, but every image led her back to that one.

Worse, it seemed the Beast knew. She could feel his scrutiny, felt certain he noticed every twitch of her skin. She stared at her folded hands, restraining the urge to cover her breasts with them. As if he could already see all of her.

By the time they arrived at the manor, Amarantha felt feverish. The Beast held up a hand for her to alight and then offered his arm as he had at the chapel.

“I…I'm not feeling well,” she said.

“Then we must proceed with the viewing that much sooner, so you may rest.”

Amarantha glanced longingly back at the carriage. Her boxes and trunks were stacked on top, undoubtedly transferred by her father's few remaining servants during the ceremony. Now, for the first time, she saw there was no driver.

She gasped.

The Beast glanced over his shoulder. “You will become accustomed to it,” he said. “All the servants here are invisible. But, as your father discovered, you will want for nothing here. Whatever you wish for shall be given to you. Except”—his voice grew velvet smooth—“those few things I choose to deny you.”

“Why would you do that?” She whispered it.

“For my own pleasure, of course. Never forget that I am a beast, my dear.” The great wooden doors swung wide as they approached. Amarantha could see they were as thick as the length of her forearm. She shuddered when they boomed closed behind her. The Beast patted her hand, the black leather cool and slick against her skin. “Apropos of that, let us proceed directly to the atrium. It has the best light for me to see you.”

He didn't drag her along, but neither did the Beast release her hand. The grand house blurred around her as she frantically tried to think of a way out.

6

“I'm dizzy.”

“Excellent,” he purred.

“Truly, Husband.” Amarantha stopped, placed a trembling finger to her temple, and stared steadfastly at the black cloaked chest before her. “I have a pain in my head and—”

“Amarantha.”

His tone slammed through her. All stern disapproval and warning.

“Yes?” She barely got the word out.

“You may address me as „my lord' or „Sir Beast.' If you call me „Husband' again, I will assume you are ready for me to assume my full husbandly rights.

Understood?”

“Yes. My lord.”

“Then let us proceed.”

She once again struggled to keep pace with his long strides, until the dark hallway opened into the most glorious atrium.

Woes temporarily forgotten, Amarantha gazed in wonder at the glass walls and ceiling sparkling in the midday light. Sunshine flooded the room from three sides and roses, bloodred roses, filled every corner. Here and there, graceful sculptures peeked between the blooms.

Velvet crimson spills, mounds and waterfalls, the roses tumbled out of urns and thrust up from beds built into the floor. The roses Father had brought surely came from these.

Amarantha realized she stood alone in the middle of the floor. The Beast had settled into a wooden chair, massive as a throne, studded with iron rings in various places. It was perfectly situated so that he might survey the room.

And everything in it.

“I enjoy beauty, as I mentioned.” The Beast leaned his cloaked head against one fist. “I am ready to savor yours.”

7

She could run, perhaps. Bolt back down the hallway. Then what?

“Amarantha, I want you to take down your hair, remove all of your clothing, and set it on the floor. When you are done, you will place it all—the clothing, your hairpins, whatever jewelry you might be wearing—on that press over there.” He waved a languid hand at the far end of the room, where a wooden stand stood among more roses. “You will find a pair of shoes over there. Put them on and return to me.”

She froze. Surely this couldn't be happening.

“My bride,” the Beast said with utmost gentleness, “every moment you hesitate earns you punishment.”

“You promised not to injure me,” she stammered.

“And indeed I will not. Punishment does not mean injury. In fact”—he leaned forward in the chair—“I shall let you in on a secret. I not only excel at punishing a beautiful woman without injuring her, but I love every moment of it.”

Amarantha shuddered.

“Were I you”—he settled back in the chair—“I wouldn't give away opportunities for punishment. But that's entirely your choice. You've earned one punishment for your hesitation. Proceed with my instructions.”

With trembling fingers, Amarantha reached up to pull the pins from her hair.

Drawing out the process, she set them one by one on the floor. The Beast, however, did not seem inclined to urge her to move more quickly. His head once again propped on his fist, he watched her from the shadows of his hood.

Amarantha ran out of pins. She ran her fingers through her hair, shaking out the formal coils her sisters had twisted in.

“Continue.”

His rasp spurred her. Though it wasn't easy on her feet, Amarantha worked loose the buttons of her little boots, kicking them to the side. She reached under her skirt to undo the garters.

8

“The dress first.”

So that she would be only in her stockings and corset?

“Are you hesitating, Amarantha?

She quickly reached up to the back of her neck, undoing the tiny buttons. This wasn't easy. She couldn't reach them all. Her fingertips slid off the cool pearl surfaces. What would the punishment consist of? Amarantha caught her breath in a sob.

“Wait. I am not an unreasonable beast.” She could hear the humor threading his voice. “I forgot how proper ladies need assistance with their dress. Hold still.”

He heaved himself out of the throne and moved toward her. Amarantha closed her eyes, unable to bear it.

“I shall not touch you. Still yourself.” She felt him move behind her. A soft curse and a curious plopping sound. Amarantha cracked open her eyes to see the leather gloves lying beside her little boots and the pile of hairpins. The Beast's fingers brushed her skin through the parted folds of her dress as he unfastened the remaining buttons. His breath flowed hot against her bare shoulders. The dress sagged away, and she clutched it to her, feeling desperate to keep it over her. Maybe at least until he moved farther away.

“No,” he said, “let it fall.” And she obeyed.

“Step out of your dress and turn around so that I may see you.”

She did, stepping forward for a bit of distance, then turned.

“Petticoats.”

She slid them down and stepped out of those too.

“And bloomers.”

Amarantha had comforted herself that he wouldn't be so close for this moment, but she didn't dare hesitate. She slid down the bloomers and stood naked but for her stockings, garters, corset, and the bit of chemise beneath.

9

She heard the Beast sigh out a breath. Behind his looming black figure, the roses rioted in uncaring glee. Her head swam with the scent of them.

“Turn around again and hold still so I won't cut you. Put your hands behind your neck and hold your hair out of the way.”

Amarantha felt the cool glide against her back— was that a claw?—sliding between her chemise and her skin, slicing the corset laces and the chemise so that both fell away from her in a tumble.

“Stay as you are, Amarantha. Eyes forward.”

She heard the slight grunt as he bent to pick up his gloves. He moved into her field of vision and then back to the throne. Amarantha stood there in the folds of her clothing, arms behind her neck, naked and on display. Her breath shuddered through her, her heart pounding hot blood into her cheeks.

She stood there forever, it seemed, impossibly frozen while he gazed at her.

When he spoke, she thought she might shatter.

“You may keep the stockings and garters for now. Proceed with your instructions.”

For a wild moment, she couldn't remember what they were. Then, in a relieved rush, she gathered everything up and headed for the press at the far end of the room.

“Slowly.”

She slowed, acutely aware of his eyes on her naked bottom. The tips of her hair brushed it as she walked. She felt exposed and vulnerable. And, in excruciating detail, she experienced every small sensation. The sun-warmed marble felt smooth under her stocking feet. Blood pulsed through her, pounding in her breasts and pouring down through her groin.

This must be what terror feels like, she thought.

Amarantha placed her pile of clothes on the press and set her little boots next to the shoes that were waiting for her. They were red, with high, curving arches and 10

pointed heels. It would be as if she was walking on her tiptoes. She held on to the press and turned so her bottom was away from the Beast, whose hot gaze had never wavered from her. She didn't want him seeing between her legs as she bent over.

She slipped the shoes onto her feet.

Now for the walk back.

She teetered a bit on the heels. The way they made her arch her back and thrust out her bottom and breasts seemed obscene. The skin of her naked breasts tingled as her arms brushed against them.

“Slowly. Place one foot in front of the other. Allow your hips to move with each step. Hands by your sides. Eyes on me.” The Beast gave the instructions with patience. And great interest. He continued to coach her as she approached and then stopped before him.

“Shoulders back. Your breasts are gorgeous, Amarantha—so full and round.

Thrust them forward. Place your hands behind your neck again, under your hair. I love your nipples. Red like my roses. I'm impatient to try some tricks to make them an even deeper red. By the time I'm done, you'll be able to do nothing but think of how your nipples feel.”

Amarantha trembled violently, hot tears suddenly spilling down her cheeks.

“Why do you weep? Turn in a slow circle.”

She complied but didn't answer the question.

“Amarantha, I asked you a question. I expect an answer.”

“You're so cruel,” she cried, “treating me like this.”

“All beasts are cruel. It is my nature. And for now I merely admire. Wouldn't any bridegroom expect to see you so?”

“I don't…I don't think so.”

“I do.”

She had no answer, and he lapsed into quiet contemplation. The sun slanted more, falling on her skin and warming it.

11

“There is the matter of your punishment,” he finally said. “Would you prefer it now or after our evening meal?”

“I thought…I thought you said you wouldn't trouble me further tonight.”

“We will sup together every night. Surely that is no trouble to you. It seems any bride would expect that as her part of the deal she'd made.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“As for your punishment, I hadn't anticipated that you would need correction so soon. But I think it's best for you to learn quickly, don't you?” His gloved finger tapped thoughtfully against where his temple must be. “There are merits to both.

Punishment immediately after your transgression. Or after we dine, which will give us both time to think about what it might be. Which do you think would teach you most effectively?”

He might have asked her if she preferred beast or fowl for her meal.

Amarantha's thoughts whirled like frightened birds.

“I don't wish to be punished at all.”

“Ah, but I wish it. And I think you'll find it's good for you. You've been petted and spoiled. While I intend to pet you, my sweet, you'll find that I'm most interested in your character. You don't wish to deny me my few pleasures?”

“No, my lord.”

“I shall decide for you, then. It shall be tonight. You may lower your hands and find your chambers. Return down the hallway and follow the light that guides you.”

Amarantha gratefully lowered her arms, the blood rushing back into her hands. She turned toward the press to retrieve her clothes, then thought better of it.

“May I dress?”

“Very good, my bride.” The Beast's voice was warm with pleasure. “You learn quickly. No, you may leave your clothes there. I think you will find that you will need little from your previous life. We dine at nine o'clock. You will find a gown in your chambers so you may dress for dinner.”

12

She must walk through this huge house like this?

“Would you prefer your punishment now, then?”

She nearly ran for the door, as much as the wicked heels would allow, the Beast's amused chuckles chasing after her.

* * *

Amarantha had found the rooms by following a light, indeed. A little will-o'-the-wisp had popped out of the woodwork in the hallway. She followed its pink bobbing path, soothing herself by pulling her hair over her breasts to shield them and holding her hands over the place between her legs. She didn't dare remove the shoes, however, until she reached her room.

There was no promised gown.

Instead Amarantha found a short, silk robe lying across the foot of the immense four-poster bed. The fine white silk was so translucent that it hid nothing.

After putting it on anyway, since it was meagerly better than being completely nude, she glimpsed herself in the full-length mirror. Her black hair tumbled in coils.

Her eyes looked huge in her face, the dark centers edging out the violet-blue.

Amarantha could see her nipples pressing taut against the silk and the deep V at the juncture of her thighs. This is what the Beast had seen.

The innocent girl who'd dressed for her wedding that morning had disappeared. This girl looked ravished already. In a way, she supposed she had been.

And this was just the beginning.

To soothe herself, Amarantha wandered through her extensive chambers. The four-poster, draped with lace curtains gathered to the posts with wide satin ribbons,

13

dominated the bedchamber. A marble dressing room with a great tub followed a sitting room with more windows, a writing desk, shelves of music, and a variety of musical instruments.

Everything she could wish for lay before her.

She fiddled with the things but couldn't settle. She curled into the leather armchair by the cheerful fire with a book she'd longed to read but couldn't focus on the story. The relentless slanting of the light toward evening distracted her. A curious restlessness ran through her blood. Amarantha kept remembering the feel of the Beast's gaze upon her naked body. She dreaded what would come tonight and yet couldn't help feeling a strange sense of anticipation.

Finally she decided upon a bath. Wondering how to summon the invisible servants to fill it, she explored the dressing room for a pull. Finding nothing, she turned to examine the tub and found it already full of hot water. A glass of wine stood on a little table next it.

Amarantha retrieved her novel, hung the robe on a hook, and slid into the water. The light had become a bit dim, but the sconces and candles surrounding the tub suddenly sprang to life. Feeling snugly alone, she finally relaxed and fell into the story.

As the little jeweled clock ticked its way past half eight, the candles began winking out. First one, then the next. Clearly the invisible ones knew of her dinner date. No delaying, then, unless she wanted to sit in the dark. And Amarantha felt sure she didn't want the Beast to come looking for her.

A warm towel awaited her on a rack, along with fresh stockings and a pair of ribbon garters. Not the ones she'd worn this morning—these were sheer red and softer than rain. The crimson ribbons matched the boned scarlet satin corset.

Amarantha could don the stockings herself, but she was dubious about the corset.

When she slipped it on, though, invisible fingers tugged the laces into place.

Tightly.

14

Amarantha ended up grasping the edge of the tall table with the washbasin to brace herself. When they released her, she saw herself in the full-length mirror, the thatch of glossy dark hair where her thighs met framed by the red stockings. The scarlet corset that fitted down over her hips, cinched her waist tightly and rising to a shelf under her breasts, cupping them as if they were some sort of pastry, her nipples nearly as red as the satin.

She looked away. Looked for the gown. Only the red heels awaited, mysteriously transported from the other room.

“He promised me a gown,” Amarantha muttered to herself. “Perhaps it's in the other room.”

But when she started toward the bedchamber, the dressing-room door flew closed, even as a chair in front of a vanity mirror slid out invitingly. The shoes slid in front of her.

“Oh, is that the way of it?” She was a bit giddy, perhaps from the wine. Or general hysteria. Just to test, she tried the doorknob. Unsurprised when it refused to turn under her hand, Amarantha obediently stepped once again into the arch of those shoes and sat in the vanity chair, thighs pressed tightly together. A glass of wine appeared on the table. Ah, her reward.

The unseen hands set to work as Amarantha had no choice but to gaze at herself, at her breasts so obscenely displayed. They took down her hair from the knot she'd tucked it in for the bath. At first it was strange to watch the hairbrush floating through the air, but the vigorous brushing felt like any chambermaid's. If she closed her eyes, Amarantha could imagine her maid grooming her for another ball, the corset pulled tighter than she liked, on Angelica's instruction.

Cosmetics feathered onto her face.

When they stopped, Amarantha opened her eyes. The subtle makeup highlighted her violet eyes. However, her hair still fell in a waterfall down her back.

“I need my hair up,” she said.

No response. Amarantha sighed.

15

“Very well. Another thing that is not my choice. But you can tell your master that he promised me a gown, and I'm not going downstairs like this.”

The dressing-room door swung open, and Amarantha stood, careful not to look in the mirror again. She looked for the robe to at least cover herself while she sought the gown, but it had, of course, vanished. Self-conscious, she edged out into the windowed dressing room, brightly lit so that anyone might see her from outside.

The forest was uninhabited, she reminded herself.

The scarlet gown billowed across the foot of the bed, and Amarantha sighed with relief that it appeared to be a full gown.

“Likes red, does he?”

The gown floated into the air, the skirts belling out. Obediently, Amarantha raised her arms to slip into the sleeves as it settled over her. The full satin skirts rustled into place as the hands drew the back together, lacing it into a perfect clasp around her waist. The brocaded sleeves fitted tightly against her upper arms and shoulders, the satin a modest sweep across her bosom. The cuffs, however, fit all wrong.

“The seamstress has made an error,” she said with stern disapproval. “The cuffs are sewn closed. This must be repaired.” Indeed the tight sleeves pressed into her skin all the way to her fingertips, ending in a point, almost like gloves. Or mittens, since her fingers and thumbs pressed together. She couldn't bend her arms all that well, for that matter.

Instead of answering, the pink light appeared and bobbed before her, clearly anxious to lead her downstairs.

“You don't understand. I can't dine like this. I can't even grasp a fork.”

The light bobbed urgently, even as the clock chimed nine o'clock.

Amarantha thought again about not going downstairs at all, but her father's tear-filled eyes flashed through her mind. She would have given her life for his.

Playing the Beast's games was hardly worse than death.

16

She followed her pink guide through the magnificent house. Lit by candles and torches, wood gleaming and red roses spilling out of vases in every nook, the house seemed more welcoming. She just hadn't seen it before.

The Beast awaited her in a parlor. He stood before a roaring fire, wearing a black satin cloak, the folds of the hood, as always, deeply shadowing his face.

“Amarantha, you look lovely tonight. How fare you? Are your chambers suitable?”

A bit taken aback by his solicitous tone, Amarantha paused. “My chambers are more than suitable. I… Thank you for thinking of my wishes.”

The Beast inclined his head. “Anything you wish for, just ask.”

Amarantha held up her brocade-confined hands. “I'd like a proper gown.”

He chuckled. “In this, you will indulge me. That gown suits my purposes.”

“It will make it most difficult for me to dine, my lord.”

“I shall be delighted to assist you. Shall we? Unless you'd prefer a glass of wine before dinner.”

She shook her head and slipped her muffled hand through his arm.

“The gown suits you.”

Amarantha felt sure he studied her bosom. She glanced down and saw what she had thought a modest drape of satin now rode low over her pushed-up breasts.

The cloth barely clung to her nipples, which stood out, turgid and sensitive. With her hands confined, she couldn't adjust the gown either. The rules of this particular game were becoming more and more clear.

“I might as well be naked still,” she remarked.

“Oh no, my dear.” The Beast chuckled as they entered a formal dining room.

Two places waited, one at the head of the long table and another to the right of it.

Dishes laden with food filled the center of the table. “While you are most lovely naked, there is a certain enticement to a gown that shows your flesh in glimpses.

17

Besides, there are specific rules I must follow also. Anticipation, you'll find, is a sweet sauce.”

“Perhaps for you,” she returned.

“We shall see.” The Beast pulled out her chair with a gallant bow. Amarantha sat gingerly, careful not to pitch the gown under her so that the bodice wouldn't drop farther. Uncertain what to do with her hands, she let them rest in her lap.

Indeed, the stiff sleeves wouldn't allow her much else. The Beast sat at the head of the table. He filled her wineglass and began serving her from the various platters, always politely inquiring as to her tastes. Amarantha noticed that the dishes she didn't care for immediately vanished. Probably never to appear again.

“You won't eat?” she asked.

“Doing so would require that I remove my hood. Also, I do not dine…neatly.”

The Beast's voice carried a bit of wistfulness. “It is nothing to subject a lovely young woman to. In anticipation, I dined earlier. Wine?” He held the glass of deepest red to her lips so she might sip from it and taste the smoke and spice.

“And yet you subject me to this indignity. I'm not allowed to feed myself.”

“You may feed yourself at other times. For our first meal together, I prefer this.”

The Beast held a forkful of beef to her lips, and Amarantha had to lean forward a bit to clasp her lips around it. The delicious juices of the meat ran hot down her throat. The Beast murmured in approval, and she blushed to feel the satin of her dress fall off one nipple. She wanted to sigh in exasperation, yet an exquisite sensation ran through her. Shivers of pleasure flowed from her nipple—exposed to the cool air and warm candlelight—down to her groin.

The Beast dabbed her lips with an embroidered napkin, then offered her a small bite of bread, solicitously buttered for her. Sweet and light, the bread carried the sunshine thrill of the butter into her.

“Your dining method will take all night.”

18

“We have all night,” he murmured, and she could hear the pleasure in his voice.

Bite by luscious bite, he fed her the meal. Amarantha fell into a sensuous dream. With each tidbit, the Beast murmured to her, telling her how much enjoyed watching her. Both her breasts gleamed bare now, framed by the red satin. The candles burned down. After a last sip of brandy and the final bit of chocolate melted in her mouth, Amarantha declared she could eat no more.

“Then we shall move on to dessert,” the Beast said. The dishes vanished, leaving the glossy wood clear of all but the elaborate candelabras.

“I thought we just had dessert.” She giggled.

“My dessert,” he clarified, and Amarantha lost a bit of the giddiness. A clock chimed midnight, echoing through the house.

“But first I must ask you a question.”

“Oh?” she asked a bit faintly.

“Amarantha, my bride, will you beg me to collar you, chain you to my bed, and fuck you?”

The room spun, not just from the wine.

“No!” It came out harshly. But then, he deserved that, speaking so crudely.

Amarantha looked away, afraid to see his response.

“Very well,” he said, his voice even. Not at all surprised, Amarantha realized.

“I shall ask you again tomorrow night.”

Amarantha turned back to him. “My answer will still be no. Words like that will never pass my lips.”

“We shall see.”

Amarantha shifted in her chair, wishing she could draw up her gown.

“Come here then. It's time for your punishment.”

“You would punish me for saying no?” she whispered.

19

“No, this is the punishment for your hesitation this afternoon, recall? It was your first transgression, and I shall keep the punishment light. Now come here, or I shall have to punish you for resisting me.”

All dreaminess gone, Amarantha got up. The Beast slid back from the table and indicated that she should stand in front of him. Taking her by the waist, he lifted her to sit on the table. Drawing a silver chain from under the table's edge, he hooked it into a loop she hadn't noticed, sewn into the cuff just under the tender part of her wrist. The Beast drew the chain tight, pinning her hand to the table. He did the same with the other hand. Then he carefully swept her hair behind her shoulders so none of it hung forward.

Amarantha began to cry. “I'm frightened,” she whispered.

“Are you? You know I won't harm you.”

“Do I know that?”

The Beast settled himself back into his chair, shrugging his cape back and moving up so he trapped her dangling feet between his muscular thighs on the sides, the chair in front and the table behind her rounded calves. His chest, broad under the black suit he wore, didn't appear deformed.

The Beast slipped a black gloved finger into the swag of satin still clinging to the undersides of her breasts. With a sharp tug, the fabric pulled free. He let it flutter to the floor and, from the depths of his hood, seemed to be surveying her naked breasts, now conveniently at eye level for him, offered up by the stiff corset like yet another platter of delicacies. Amarantha tried to still her breath, but her heart pounded, and her anxiety made her tremble. She could see how her panicky breaths only made her breasts bounce for him, but she could not stop it.

“We need music,” he murmured, and it began to play, dark chords sifting eerily up from the depths of the manse.

The Beast raised a gloved finger. Amarantha caught her breath. And gave a little cry when the cool leather touched her skin. With one fingertip, he traced 20

concentric circles around and around her breast, coming ever closer to the nipple.

Then stopped.

He repeated the pattern on her other breast.

Amarantha squirmed, tugging on the little silver chains. The Beast chuckled, then transferred to the other breast again. Incoherent whimpering sounds struggled out of her as he repeatedly tormented one breast, then the other. The music crashed and swelled around them, but the Beast never lost patience with his game. In the distance, the clock struck one.

The Beast seized her nipples in his gloved fingers and squeezed hard.

Amarantha screamed.

She pulled at the little chains, but they wouldn't give. She tried to kick, but the Beast's massive thighs imprisoned her. He simply maintained the pressure, pressing her nipples between his fingers until she subsided.

Then he began to roll them. Amarantha's breaths sobbed out as he massaged the nipples, pinching them until they throbbed. Had her breasts felt swollen from the relentless teasing? Now her nipples seemed as if they might explode from the blood filling them.

When he stopped, she sat quietly, panting. Her nipples stood out, dark crimson arrows.

With one gloved hand, the Beast lightly slapped the side of her breast. Then the other. The next slap bit in harder. Then they began to sting.

The beast would focus first on one breast, slapping it between his hands so that the round globe of it swung between them like a ball. Then he'd switch to the other, leaving the one he'd just tortured to flush and sting in the cool air.

Amarantha wept in earnest. Her sobs and wails rising and falling with the throbbing chords of music, she thrashed under the Beast's hands. It took her a while to realize he'd stopped. Gradually her sobs trailed off. Through the blur of

21

tears, she could see her breasts, bright red and trembling with each shuddering breath.

The Beast sat and watched.

“You delight me beyond measure, my Amarantha,” he told her, his voice rough, full of dark chords like the music.

“I can't bear this!” She nearly screamed it.

“Oh, but you can. And more. This is just the beginning, my love, of the games we can play.”

“I hate it! I hate you!”

“You may well hate me. Despise me. Feel horror for my cursed appearance.

But this, you love. Allow me to demonstrate.”

The chair grated a harsh noise as the Beast rose and kicked it back.

Amarantha cried out as the Beast flung her gown above her knees and wrenched her legs apart. She flailed, but he ran a gloved finger up her thigh and into her core.

Amarantha nearly convulsed when he touched her.

The Beast held up his gloved hand before her eyes. The leather shone slick with the moisture that frothed between her legs.

“This, my love, tells me more truly how you feel than the silly things you say.

For this next bit, I must remove my gloves. The sight of my hands may disturb you.

Would you prefer to be blindfolded?”

“Oh, please…”

“Please, you would like to be blindfolded?”

“Please… Isn't this enough punishment?”

“Only I can decide that, Amarantha. Now, blindfold or no?”

She imagined not knowing what he did to her. Trapped and without sight. She shivered.

“No blindfold, please.”

22

“I can see the idea arouses you. But we shall save that particular spice for another night.”

The Beast stepped to the side, out of her peripheral vision. Amarantha heard the slide of leather and tried to steel herself. Her skirts still rode high on her thighs.

Her breasts throbbed, painfully swollen, echoing each hard thump of her heart, her nipples contracting in sparking counterpoint. The music built again, the minor strains moaning beneath the surface chords.

When the Beast's cloaked form stepped in front of her, Amarantha closed her eyes. He chuckled at her. Hot hands clasped her breasts, and she moaned. Her sensitized skin throbbed in pleasure-pain as he massaged them. Now digging deeply, now moving in lighter caresses. Amarantha found herself leaning into the touch, the heat, and strength of his fingers.

His movements changed. The Beast spread his fingers to encompass the full globes of her breasts, holding them fully in his hands. Then he drew back, squeezing her breasts between the points of his fingertips until they reached the nipples, then popping off with a last pinch. Amarantha cried and writhed with each squeezing.

Then she felt the claws.

Amarantha's eyes flew open. The hands on her throbbing breasts were covered in light golden fur. Though she could feel the finger pads of a man underneath, catlike claws curved out from the tops and lightly scored her tender flesh.

Amarantha choked on her breath.

“Sorry you looked?” the Beast asked, his voice gravelly with self-mockery. He finished the stroke with a pinch and a prick of his claws. Then settled his hands—

paws?—over her breasts again, squeezing deeply, the claws falling in a delicate arc to trace a new set of lines.

Amarantha moaned.

“Horrifying, isn't it? You wondered about the creature under this hood.

Perhaps now your curiosity will be stilled.”

23

Once more he drew his claws across her furiously red breasts, leaving fine crimson lines. The Beast stood, watching her sag inside the boning of her corset, completely undone. He reached behind her and pulled on his gloves.

“Lie back, my sweet.” Holding her shoulders, the Beast laid Amarantha on the table, tenderly arranging her hair behind her head. Unable to think past her fiery breasts, she stared blindly at the vaulted ceiling, wrapped with images of the claws and the arrows of lightning in her groin.

“Love lies bleeding,” the Beast observed, and she whimpered. He brushed a gloved finger across her cheek. “Ah, I shouldn't tease you. You can see I took utmost care with you. There is no blood. We can't allow any scarring of your beautiful flesh.

And now I shall soothe you.”

Straddling her legs, the Beast bent over Amarantha. The draping satin hood brushed against her, cool against the fire. She groaned when his tongue touched her, soothing and laving the tormented flesh. He kissed and quieted her. The gentle rasp of his tongue stroked the sparking pain away.

Amarantha felt like the melted wax of the dying candles. The music had subsided into soft, weeping strings.

The Beast seemed finally satisfied, as he gently drew her up and unfastened the silver chains from her wrists. With a last tender kiss to each trembling nipple, he again lifted her by the waist as if she weighed nothing and set her on her feet.

When she swayed, he swept her up into his arms and cradled her against his broad chest.

The Beast carried Amarantha up the stairs. Looking up into the deep cowl surrounding his shadowed face, Amarantha thought she could see a flash of white.

Something that indeed looked like the fang she had thought she glimpsed at the wedding

“No,” he whispered and turned her in his arms so that she pressed more against his chest, “don't look for what you can't unsee.”

24

He brought her to her chambers, brilliantly lit with candles, though the dawn pinkened the sky outside. Setting her by the great bed, the Beast wrapped her hands around one post to steady her. He loosened her gown, then helped her out of the sleeves and slid it all to her feet. She drew a grateful breath when he sliced the laces of her corset. He led her by the hand to the bedside, the covers turned down in invitation.

Once again she stood before him in only her stockings, ribbon garters, and the red shoes.

The Beast lifted her to sit on the bed, slipped the shoes off her feet. He pulled at the crimson ribbons and placed kisses on her thighs where they had dented her flesh, then rolled the stockings down. Each kiss seemed to travel to the place he'd touched her between her legs.

She wondered if he would touch her there next and if it would occur to her to resist.

Amarantha watched through a blur. He eased her down on the silken sheets.

Taking her wrists, he drew them above her head and tied them gently with the wide, powder blue satin ribbons streaming from the wooden headboard.

The ribbons didn't pull too tight. She could bring her hands down a bit, but not to cover herself. When the Beast drew up the covers, Amarantha sighed in relief.

The Beast chuckled.

“Just so that you can continue to stew in your juices. We have many nights ahead of us. That was enough for this one. We can explore further delights tonight.

Good night, my love. You have pleased me beyond expectation.”

One by one the candles winked out, and he moved to the door.

“My lord?”

The Beast turned back to her.

“Which part was play and which part my punishment?”

25

“Why, Amarantha, darling”—she could hear the broad smile in his voice—“if you don't know, how can I?”

With that he closed the door, and Amarantha fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

* * *

The way the Beast had tormented her, his relentless attention and reverent stimulation of just one part of her. Even as Amarantha flinched at the brush of the sheets against her tender skin, she found herself wondering what the night would bring.

She couldn't possibly look forward to it.

To put an end to her thoughts, Amarantha dragged herself out of the delicious bed, just realizing the ribbons had fallen away from her wrists. The short robe waited for her, and the invisible servants had whisked away her scattered clothes.

On a table under the window sat a platter with tea and sandwiches, pastries, fruit, and cheese. Suddenly ravenous, Amarantha grabbed a sandwich square—which proved to be a savory cress with cream cheese—and wolfed it down as she poured a cup of tea.

Curling one leg under her, Amarantha sat in the cozy armchair, soaking up the sunlight and trying each pastry and sandwich. Her mind drifted back to how the Beast had fed her dinner the night before, bite by bite, for hours on end. She opened the window, and sweet, fresh air—unseasonably warm—flowed in like a blessing.

It helped to clear her mind of the frightening, sensual cobwebs.

26

Brushing crumbs off her hands, Amarantha went to clean up and dress for a walk in the garden. Not much of the day remained, and if the Beast intended to spend the entire night playing his games again, she'd best get her head as clear as possible.

Shucking the robe, Amarantha took a deep breath and faced herself in the mirror. Her invisible friends had cleaned her face during the night. She could only imagine how the cosmetics had smeared and blurred with her thrashings and tears.

Her breasts…didn't seem all that bad. They no longer looked so red, though the nipples stood out in crimson irritation. Her skin was pale and smooth except for the long scratches curving out from the bases of her breasts and converging on her nipples, as if pointing them out.

Which Amarantha suspected the Beast had intended all along.

A jar of cream sat prominently next to the washbasin. Amarantha took the hint and smoothed it into her breasts. It felt lovely and wonderfully cooling. And smelled of roses.

A lavender gown that seemed reasonably modest hung on a hook in the bathroom. No underthings, but at this point, she wouldn't quibble. As long as she didn't have to walk in the garden naked, pretty much anything else seemed just fine in comparison.

She drew on the gown. No invisible help presented itself, and she didn't need it. The skirt flowed long and clean, clinging to her hips. The sleeves and bodice drew up softly around her shoulders, the soft silk soothing to her sensitive skin. She brushed out the snarls from her hair and finding no pins to put it up, left it hanging loose. Soft kid slippers appeared, and she gratefully slipped them on.

Amarantha made her way through the manse, which loomed dark and quiet.

She hadn't noticed its glory when they first arrived because the place clearly slept by day. It, and everything in it, really only lit up at night.

Including her.

27

Could she bear it? Amarantha supposed she would have to. Her father deserved that much from her. Every vase of roses, redolent and tempting, accused her.

She wandered awhile, passing room after quiet room, feeling like a ghost. A parlor followed a library. She supposed a ballroom and kitchen lay in other wings somewhere. At the end of one wing she found a cozy reading room with a sunny patio accessible through French doors. Steps from the patio led down into the gardens.

The formal garden paths led her past quiescent rose beds and quietly flowering herb clocks. Spring would take hold before long. Amarantha hadn't thought to bring a wrap, but she hadn't seen one. The sun shone warm enough, and the gardens slept sheltered and still.

Amarantha allowed herself to mull over the events of the day before. Even Angelica had never hinted that men and women did such monstrous things. The Beast had promised not to harm her but instead devoured her just as her father had feared. Only in a different way.

At least she understood why he couldn't have wedded normally, besides his appearance. Any girl not bound by a dreadful bargain would have run screaming for home just from what happened in the atrium, much less the rest. Who knew what would happen tonight?

Amarantha shivered. Anticipation. She heard the Beast's gravelly voice in her mind.And then he stood before her.

The Beast's large, black-cloaked form filled the pathway, odd amid the weeping-willow grove, their fairy-thin, leafless limbs dusting his shoulders.

“Good morning, my bride,” the Beast said with a bow.

Amarantha raised her eyebrows at the slanting sun. “More like afternoon, isn't it?”

“As you wish, my love. When one is forced to keep to the night, the partitions of the day mean little.”

28

“You don't appear to be confined to the night.”

“I roused early so I could spend time with my lady.” He extended a courteous arm. “Shall we walk?”

Bemused, she took his arm and listened while he pointed out the delights of the hibernating garden. He could have been any young man courting her favor, but for the obscenities of what had passed between them. Amarantha flushed at the memory.

“And how do you feel today, my sweet?”

As if he'd read her mind.

“Fine. Thank you for inquiring.”

“Your bindings—they did not chafe your skin?”

“No.”

“Your breasts? How do they feel?”

“Um, a bit sore.”

“The scratches—none too deep?”

“No… They… I am not really comfortable discussing this.” Amarantha blushed furiously.

“Are you not?” The Beast thought for a moment. “Then you shall have to show me.”

“Yes, my lord.” Amarantha imagined he'd take plenty of opportunity in the coming night, if the last night provided any indication.

He chuckled. “Now, Amarantha.”

She stopped, aghast.

“Here? Outside?”

The Beast gestured to the empty garden. “There is no one here to see but me.

Put your arms straight by your sides.”

Amarantha sighed and obeyed, feeling her sense of helplessness spiral.

29

“Ah, she's learning.” The Beast sounded smug, and Amarantha resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She wished she could find a way to resist him, but she seemed doomed not to. She held herself still and stared steadfastly at the Beast's wide chest as he stepped in front of her and tugged at the ribbon holding the gown around her shoulders. The silk whispered down, not quite falling off her bosom. Amarantha could hear the Beast's deep breath as he hooked a gloved finger into the crevice between her breasts and pulled the fabric down to her waist.

Her skin tightened in the chilly air, and her nipples puckered further.

Amarantha didn't look down. She knew what he saw. And from his stillness, the Beast appeared completely transfixed.

“Tell me, Amarantha. Did you succumb to the desire to touch yourself?”

“My lord?”

“Your sex, my sweet, between your legs, which was so deliciously wet for me last night. Did you pleasure yourself…when you awoke or dressed, perhaps?”

“No,” she whispered.

“Not even a little bit?”

Unable to answer, she shook her head, her hair sliding over her naked shoulders.

“And are you wet now?”

“Oh please, Sir Beast…”

“Very well, you may show me instead.” When Amarantha's eyes flew wide in horror, he laughed. “No, I shall not ask you to strip here. Though when the weather warms, we might do that. I might stretch you out amid the flowers, flushed and naked. Simply reach under your skirts and touch yourself. Then show me if your finger is wet or dry.”

Her fingers scratched restlessly at her gown. Amarantha looked about empty gardens.

“Amarantha…”

30

She heard the warning in his voice and inched up her skirts, just high enough to slip her hand under. He knew she wore no underthings, and she blushed at it.

Amarantha dipped a hesitant finger into her private area, finding it slick and swollen. She nearly hummed at the sensation.

“Now show me.”

If possible, she flushed more deeply, that he might have thought she lingered.

She held out a trembling hand for him. It gleamed slick in the sun. The Beast bent over. She felt his hot breath whuffing over her hand.

“You move me, Amarantha,” he finally murmured, his voice rough.

She shifted, reddening further.

“You may replace your gown. I might be clumsy with the bow.” He watched her. Not knowing what else do to, Amarantha dried her fingers on her hem and pulled up the silk over her bosom with trembling fingers, then retied the ribbon that held it up.

The Beast held out his arm, and they resumed their walk. As if he hadn't asked her to strip in the garden and stand there half-naked while he scrutinized the marks he'd left on her flesh. As if he hadn't made her touch herself and show him the result.

She tried to think of something to break the silence.

“Why wear your gloves? I've already seen your hands.”

“You are not the only one who finds me horrifying to look upon.”

“But there is no one else here.”

“I refer to myself.”

“Are you not accustomed to…the way you are?”

He was silent long enough she thought he might not answer. He'd turned them back toward the manse. It stood at the top of a rise, graceful, stately, the pinnacle of the gardens.

31

“I have not always been thus,” the Beast said, his rough voice quiet. “As much as you hate my appearance, I am more monstrous to myself.”

“I might find you less a monster if you did not…do these things to me.”

“You think you wouldn't? I am a monster, Amarantha. Never doubt it. These things are baby steps and nowhere near where I plan to take you. In time you will understand. Whine to me if you like, though I might choose to punish you for it, so take care. And do not pretend that our games do not arouse you, or I shall go to greater lengths to demonstrate what your body yearns for.” With that, he released her arm. “It's time for you to prepare for our evening. I have special plans.”

Her mind awhirl, Amarantha turned to walk up to the house. She didn't think she could bear any more of this.

“Amarantha, my love,” the Beast growled after her. She stopped but did not look back. “You may touch yourself if you wish, but only a little bit. Save plenty for me. I shall be…hungry.”

Though she didn't quite know what he meant, Amarantha fled, his deep laughter chasing her up the steps.

* * *

The corset came down over her hips as well, with stays that attached to opaque white stockings that rose nearly to her crotch. The nest of her nether hair looked startlingly black in contrast. White leather, lace-up boots awaited her. By the time Amarantha had finished with all the hooks and ties necessary, they rose to knee height and undoubtedly would take some time to remove.

32

Why this made her uneasy, she didn't know.

Except that she felt precariously off balance. Her body seemed no longer her own. As if the Beast somehow commanded how it felt and she lived in it only as a helpless occupant. Simmering in her own juices indeed. She felt like a stew, slowing heating over the fire.

“I shall be quite hungry,” he'd said.

Would he kill and eat her after all? If she refused him again, would that be her fate? The place between her legs had begun to ache. Amarantha had heard her sisters' coy remarks about a man quenching a woman's fire there. If she agreed, would the Beast assuage that longing? Moisture pulsed from her sex, as if it wept in answer.

Amarantha hadn't before, but now she slipped one finger into her sex to feel it.

Hot and slick. She quivered at the sensation, rubbed a little, and caught her breath.

Too much. And not at all natural. Quickly she washed her hands and took up her hairbrush. The invisible hands slipped it from her grasp, however. With a sigh, Amarantha sat at the vanity again. Though mostly covered, her breasts plumped high over the white satin, the red scratches in symmetrical stark relief.

His mark on her.

Tonight the ghosts braided her hair in elaborate coils, piling it well off her shoulders. The sleeveless gown and the square neckline framed her branded bosom.

The belled skirt of the gown swept full to the ground, though her heels added height. White satin ribbons fell from the waist in long sweeps. To tie her hands with? But no, white kid gloves that rose over her elbows and tied with ribbons also.

Amarantha would be hard-pressed to remove them herself. The wrists had little silver rings sewn in. Though she'd known to look for them tonight, the sight still flustered her.

One by one, the candles began winking out. Her cue to move along.

She wondered what would happen when she simply couldn't bear any more of what the Beast did to her. Last night she'd thought she might break apart. Perhaps

33

the Beast wanted just that, to scratch and torment her until she came apart and he could feast on her remains.

He had set her in place of his dinner plate.

“I shall be quite hungry.”

When the fairy light bobbed in front of her, Amarantha took a deep breath, her still-tender breasts pressing against the dress's restraint. She turned her back on the light and sipped her wine.

The light whipped around in front of her, bouncing like a mad thing.

“Just give me a minute!” she snapped at it. “Besides, I can find my own way.”

Mercifully, the light went away. Amarantha refused to look at the clock. Then she couldn't, because only a few candles lit the room. On impulse, she stepped to the washroom doors, closed them, and turned the ornate brass key in the lock. The last of the candles went out, leaving her in the dark room, lit only by the silver moonlight pouring in the window.

“Amarantha? Are you well?” The Beast's deep voice echoed through the doors.

“No,” she answered, making her voice weak and pitiful. “I'm afraid I'm most unwell, Lord Beast. I must beg off the evening with you. Please forgive me.”

She held her breath and listened to the ominous silence.

“Amarantha.”

Nothing more.

Amarantha gulped the last of the crimson wine. The sudden bite added a convincing croak, she thought.

“Yes, my lord?”

“Open this door for me.”

Amarantha froze.

And the doors crashed open with a scream of splintering wood, and all the candles blazed into light. The Beast stood in the doorway. Roaring bounced off the porcelain tile.

34

“Never deny me!”

Amarantha cowered back against the wall. The Beast strode in, towering over her, black boots crunching on the shattered remains of her wineglass, bits of wood clinging to his formal cloak. His cowled hood had slipped back, and a golden muzzle with a slavering jaw thrust into her face. Weakness sapped her limbs. She imagined the white tiles spattered with her blood.

He stood over her. He said nothing for a long time as Amarantha quailed.

“A lesson, then,” he said, the words so distorted Amarantha almost couldn't understand.

“Sit.” The Beast pointed at her vanity chair. When Amarantha couldn't move, weak with terror, he stepped back and offered her a gallant gloved hand. “Allow me, Lady Amarantha.”

Years of social training took over, and she accepted his hand and rose from the floor. The Beast led her to her vanity and settled her at it, ever the gracious gentleman. Amarantha smoothed the white skirt, now marred with a trail of red wine. The Beast stood patiently behind her, waiting.

At last Amarantha laid her hands on the armrests and looked up. He hadn't adjusted his cowl, so she could still see glimpses of that feline snout through a black mask.

Without speaking, the Beast took her right wrist in his gloved hand and drew her arm behind her. He clicked the circlet in her glove to a hook on the back of the chair. He did the same with her other hand. With her arms pulled tight and her shoulders pressed against the high back, her breasts thrust forward, straining, Amarantha sobbed a little.

“I won't allow you to resist me, Amarantha. You may choose whether I fuck you, yes. But only that. You will find that this is less difficult for you if you stop trying to fight it. Give over to it.”

The Beast took two of the ribbons dangling from her dress and tied them around the back of the chair, so that her waist fit snug against the chair.

35

Amarantha watched him in the mirror. He reached over the side and turned up her hem near her right ankle, finding the end of a ribbon beneath. She hadn't realized the ribbons went down the inside also. He tugged it up, and Amarantha's skirt rose with it, exposing her white leather boot and her slim thigh. Black gloved hands tied the snowy ribbon to another at her waist, the fabric collapsing between so her skirt rose to above her hip on that side.

Amarantha whimpered when the Beast did the same on the other side. Only a small apron of material and a few dangling ribbons guarded her modesty. The Beast laid his gloved hands on her shoulders, then slid them over her tightly encased breasts, kneading them in his hands. She watched him handle her and thought she might be some other girl, if her blood weren't pounding, rising to the surface with his rough touch.

The Beast slid his hands down her waist to her exposed thighs. Amarantha pressed them together, but he only took one of the ribbons.

“Watch, Amarantha.” A soft growl in her ear. She could see the feral gleam of his eyes inside the cowl, reflecting the blazing candlelight. With excruciating patience, the Beast drew the ribbon up. Amarantha pulled at the ties on her arms but couldn't budge. A breath sighed out of the Beast as her black thatch came into view. She moved her legs restlessly but could do nothing to cover herself.

He tied that ribbon too, securely to another at her waist. Cascades of white silk framed Amarantha's delicately curved hips. The Beast adjusted the folds of her dress so they swept back and over the arms of the vanity chair. She could see all of herself in the mirror, from the pointed tips of her boots to the menacing black figure in the mirror.

“Now, Amarantha, you have earned a number of punishments this evening, as I'm sure you're aware.”

Fat tears welled in the pretty violet eyes of the girl in the mirror and spilled down her cheeks, but the Beast paid no attention.

“How many transgressions do you think there were?”

36

“I did not come down for dinner,” she whispered.

“That's one.”

“I locked the door.”

“Two.”

“I, um, lied about being ill and then didn't open the door when you told me to.”

“Three and four.”

“And I didn't get in the chair right away when you told me to.”

The Beast chuckled and stroked the upper curve of her breast. “I will allow you that one as you were frightened by my horrible appearance. And I am gratified that you understand the rules so well. Now tell me why you disobeyed.”

Amarantha swallowed.

“I was afraid.” She said it so quietly she could barely hear herself.

“Of me?”

“Yes. Of this. Of what will happen to me when you push me and I-I break.” Her voice broke with it.

“I want you to give something to me, Amarantha.”

“I've given you everything.”

“No, so far I've demanded and taken. Which I enjoy. I intend to take more. But I will make you an exchange. You have four punishments awaiting you tonight.”

Amarantha shuddered at that. “I will cut them in half if you will do one thing for me.”

She eyed him doubtfully. “What is it?”

“You must agree first.”

“I don't want to agree unless I know what it is.” Amarantha knew that much about negotiating.

“Very well. Then we shall move on directly to your four punishments.”

“Wait!”

37

“My patience grows short, my bride.”

“I will.” Amarantha sighed and dropped her head. “Tell me, and let's get it done.”

“Your legs are free. On either side of you are armrests. I'd like you to lift your knees and hook them over the armrests.”

“But then I… You…”

“Oh yes.” The Beast's voice came out as a purr.

Amarantha stared in horror at herself in the mirror. She would be splayed open to them both, the glass reflecting her most private tissues in ruthless scrutiny.

“The offer expires in a moment, Amarantha.”

She steeled herself. She lifted one knee and raised it up over the arm of the chair. The curve of the armrest held it there, the arc of it perfectly suited to the purpose. Was everything in this house designed to bind and display her?

The answer seemed to be yes.

Amarantha took a deep breath. So far her other thigh still shielded what little modesty she had left. She thought the Beast might urge her along, but when she glanced in the mirror, she could see he only waited with catlike stillness.

Anticipation.

She focused on her leg. Moving it into place. This side posed more difficulty, and she had to scoot her bottom a bit to adjust. After some wriggling, Amarantha managed to hook her knee around the outward curve of the armrest. The chair held her in place, and she relaxed.

“Most delightful,” the Beast said on a breath. “You are beyond beautiful, my bride.”

He moved around the bathing room, collecting candles and setting them on the vanity, all the better to light her most intimate self. Amarantha tried not to look, but the pink and crimson folds of her sex drew her eye, so starkly did they throb against the pristine backdrop of her thighs, stockings, and skirts. The folds and 38

petals gleamed with the moisture the Beast had taunted her with, like a glossy tropical flower her father had once brought home.

The Beast stood behind her again, watching her closely.

“Soon we shall eat, as you will need your strength tonight. But I wish to show you something first. Oh, and to be clear, you must leave your legs open like this until I give you permission to close them.”

Amarantha didn't tell him that her legs were too spread for her to move at all unless he untied her.

The Beast reached over and plucked one of her makeup brushes from the table. Making sure he didn't block her view, the Beast trailed the long-handled brush over her belly and through the black hair surrounding her sex. With delicate precision, he drew the brush's tip across the topmost part. Amarantha shivered.

Repeatedly he drew the brush tip over her flesh as if painting her. Dipping it into the well of moisture that seemed to bubble out of her without end. She squirmed and panted as he continued. Unable to tear her eyes away, she watched as he drew the silky bristles through the valleys and tickled the peaks.

“A lesson,” the Beast murmured in her ear. He pointed the brush's tip into the little hood near the top of her sex, and Amarantha cried out. “This is your pearl. The seat of intense pleasure.” He drew the brush down and swirled it in the font of fluid below. “This is the portal of love, which guards your virginity and which I may not breach until you beg me to.”

“Unless I beg you to,” she gasped.

She heard the smile in his voice. “Until, my bride. This,” he continued, drawing the brush down between her splayed cheeks, “is your nether passage.” He reversed the brush in his hand and slid the rounded end into her puckered opening. “This, Amarantha, has been mine to take from the moment you vowed to obey me.” He pushed deeper, and Amarantha moaned at the invasion. “I am a monster, yes, but a patient one.”

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The Beast stood, taking the makeup brush with him and tossing it into a receptacle.

“Would you care to dine, my love?” he asked with great courtesy, and Amarantha tried to gather her wits.

“Yes, please. My lord.”

“Very well. You wait there and don't move.”

With that, the Beast left the room, left Amarantha splayed open, staring helplessly at her sex. Her father had told her that any ninny could keep her legs closed for one week, and here she sat, legs impossibly spread, filled with restlessness and feeling oddly desperate to give a monster whatever he asked of her.

On the second night.

The Beast strode back in, carelessly crunching over the bits of broken wood and glass. He carried a plate in one hand and a chair in the other. Reversing the chair, he set it behind hers, straddled it, and sat. He speared a bit of meat with a silver fork, brought it around her cheek, and held it to her lips.

The Beast's voice held amusement at her surprise. “I thought we'd dine here, as the view is so lovely.” Amarantha squirmed uncomfortably, but he only chuckled.

“Eat, Amarantha.”

She obeyed, taking the tidbit from the fork. While she chewed, the Beast got a piece of roasted potato ready and set the plate on the floor. He held the potato to her lips and let her take it.

“I've been thinking about what you said,” the Beast mentioned, as if they were having a casual supper. “It is foolish for me to keep these gloves on when you've already seen, and felt, my hands.” She watched in the mirror as, behind her back, he stripped off the gloves and tossed them to the floor. “It's a vain indulgence that has become unwieldy, since it prevents me from feeling your beauty as well as watching it.”

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He leaned over and forked up several pieces of meat and vegetables. She would receive no leisurely feeding like the night before. The Beast seemed impatient to get her fed and on to other things tonight.

Her punishments, no doubt.

He fed her the food, then set the fork on the floor and draped his hands over her shoulders. A man's hands, yes, but covered in golden fur with retracted curved claws where his nails should be. The Beast's fingers trailed over the upper curves of her bosom, tracing the scratches he'd placed there.

Noticing she'd finished that bite, the Beast fed her another, resumed caressing her cleavage with one hand, and dropped the other to her raised knee, stroking the stocking that rose from her laced-up boot. Amarantha stopped chewing. She wanted to pull away, and the Beast must have felt her muscle twitch under his touch. He chuckled and began trailing his fingers up the inside of her thigh.

“Have you finished eating?” He sounded eager, which did not bode well.

“No! I mean, I'm still hungry. May I have more, please?”

The Beast fed her another bite and resumed stroking her inner thigh. He caressed the gentle curve and dropped into the hollow between her leg and her sex.

She couldn't look away. She quivered, wondering how long he'd tease. The Beast's fingers pushed under the fabric at her breast and began toying with her nipple.

Amarantha gasped.

In the quiet manse, a clock chimed midnight. The Beast withdrew his hands, leaving her trembling and bereft.

“Amarantha, I must ask you a question.”

She tried to gather her thoughts, frowning into the mirror. At her elaborate hairstyle and formal makeup with the obscene display of her sex. She almost couldn't quite wrap her mind around both at once.

“Amarantha, my bride, will you beg me to collar you, chain you to my bed, and fuck you?”

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Ah, the question. Impossibly, she'd forgotten.

“No.” Amarantha tried to make it sound firm and clear, but even she could hear the hesitation.

“Very well,” he said, voice even. “Would you care for more to eat?”

Amarantha shook her head mutely. Even to delay her punishment, she couldn't eat any more.

The Beast sighed in satisfaction and slid his left hand into her bosom again, cupping her breast and tweaking the nipple. She whimpered.

“Sore?”

“A bit,” she confided, and he gentled his touch.

“But I think that's not all that makes you cry out.” The Beast placed his other hand on her knee and recommenced the relentless slide up her inner thigh.

Amarantha's breath caught. He swirled his fingers over the velvet-soft flesh high on her leg, feeling the trembles running through her. “Is it, my love?”

With wide violet eyes, she gazed at the cowled figure in the mirror, helpless to form an answer.

“Watch, Amarantha, and feel.”

As if hypnotized, Amarantha watched the Beast's fingers trail through the black fur framing her sex. He petted her, murmuring of her softness, then slid his fingers into the folds, spreading them wide with his first and third fingers.

Amarantha moaned at the sensation, the tension filling her in unbearable waves.

The Beast's middle finger hovered over her virgin portal, dipping into the moisture pooling there.

Then he pressed and dragged his finger in an arrow of pleasure up to her pearl.

Amarantha convulsed under his hand.

Her head fell back as her stroked her. Her body quaked, building with impossible pressure.

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“Please,” she moaned.

“What do you plead for, my love?”

“I-I don't know… Something…”

The Beast swirled his fingers around the outside of her pearl, listening to Amarantha's mewls of pleasure and need.

Then he released her and stood. Amarantha raised her head, bleary and confused, the need riding her.

“That's enough for now, I believe. The craving you feel will help you through the next hours.”

Amarantha gave a wordless cry of protest.

“Tut-tut, my sweet.” The Beast lifted her thigh from the armrest and lowered it to the chair. Her joints protested, stiff from being in such an unaccustomed position. He lowered her other leg too, and she pressed her thighs together gratefully, feeling the slick slide of her arousal.

With efficient speed, the Beast released her arms and waist. Amarantha brought her shoulders forward, groaning with the stretch of it.

“Can you stand?” The Beast held out a courteous hand for her. Amarantha took it and allowed him to help her to her unsteady feet. “Here.” He led her behind the vanity chair. “Hold on to this.”

She clung to the chair. The dazed girl with violet eyes gazed back at her, flushed and disheveled, her skirts tied up with fanciful bows at her waist, framing her slim thighs and the dark V of her sex with cascading silk. The Beast knelt behind her, and Amarantha realized he sought out other ribbons under her hem. As he'd done with the front, he drew up the back of her skirt with the ribbons, neatly tying it so the dress fell only along the sides of her legs, leaving her bottom as bare as the front.

“See?” he asked, obviously pleased. He gestured to the full-length mirror behind her. Her rounded bare bottom peeked out from the frothy folds of the lifted

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skirt. “It will look better,” he assured her, “once I've reddened your bottom.” The Beast gave her a playful spank, and she moaned. He chuckled. “I confess, my sweet Amarantha, that I'm disappointed to have an opportunity so soon for this punishment. Bend over the back of the chair, please, and lay your forearms on the armrests.”

She did as he told her, wincing as the high back dug into her belly. The Beast grasped her hips and eased her up on her toes a bit, so she bent from the hips more.

“Is that better? I suppose the boot heels should have been higher. We'll see to that next time.”

“Or the chair lower.”

The Beast laughed and caressed the uplifted globes of her bottom. “Now where's the fun in that?”

He attached her wrists and elbows to the vanity chair armrests with little hooks. Then he slid her legs apart so that her ankles were outside the chair legs.

The beast used laces from her boots to secure her ankles to the chair.

“Look up, please.”

Amarantha looked at him in the mirror. The chair obscured her straining body somewhat. Not from him, of course, but at least she didn't have to see everything.

“I had thought to leave your breasts covered tonight so they could heal, but I think it wouldn't hurt to expose them a little. What do you think?”

Amarantha wasn't sure what to say.

“I think they'll look beautiful with you in that position, your breasts hanging down like ripe fruit,” the Beast continued in a thoughtful tone. “Let's see, shall we?”

He wrapped his left forearm around her shoulders to stabilize her. In the mirror, Amarantha could see him unsheathe his claws. She closed her eyes against the wicked curves, so she only heard the hiss of material parting, then felt the tight bodice give way. The Beast reached into the corset and lifted her breasts out one by one and hummed his approval. He released her shoulder.

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“Arch your back and raise your chin, please. See? Just as I thought—most enticing.”

Amarantha nodded vaguely. The globes of her breasts did hang like fruit, the nipples cherry red. She suspected that he played with her, drawing out her anticipation of the punishment. No one had spanked her as a child, of course. But she'd watched the servant children wail under willow switches. One little boy accused of filching food from the family's dinner hadn't sat for days.

“Will this be terrible?” she asked the Beast. Her voice trembled. At least helpless longing didn't sap her limbs any longer.

He considered her question. “A punishment does not serve its purpose unless it's terrible enough that you don't care to repeat your transgression. Wouldn't you agree?”

Amarantha held back a sob.

“Now, my bride, you may lower your head. I know that position is a bit of a strain. I will ask you to raise your head from time to time so I may ascertain your expression. Otherwise, you must understand that while you should feel free to weep or cry out, I will not heed any pleas to stop before I'm ready. Agreed?”

“I have no choice,” she returned bitterly.

“No,” he said, sober in his agreement. “Few of us have many choices. You have but one choice.”

“And you punish me for denying you what you want!”

“Ah, Amarantha.” The Beast slid his fingers into the folds of her sex, rubbing her pearl so that she squirmed and strained. “I do this to make you mine in every way.”

With that, he withdrew his hand and spanked her on the bottom. Far harder than his previous, playful smack. Harder than he'd slapped her breasts the previous night. Amarantha cried out in shock and pain. The next blow followed immediately upon it. One upon the other, the Beast's spanks landed on her, viciously and rapidly

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until she couldn't catch her breath. She cried and screamed, as he'd predicted, choking on her tears and pleas for mercy, for forgiveness, but nothing disrupted his relentless rhythm.

She didn't hear him ask her to raise her head, only felt his hand beneath her chin, raising it. She panted wildly, her face soaked with tears, tendrils of hair clinging here and there. She tried to reason with him, hopeful that this would be enough. The Beast held her chin up in his left hand and smacked her tender bottom again, watching her flinch.

He stepped back, and Amarantha thought perhaps it was over and he would untie her. But he parted his cloak and unbuckled the broad black leather belt he wore. Sobs overtook her at the prospect, but the Beast ignored her. Amarantha dropped her head and stared at the seat cushion through the sea of her tears.

She shrieked at the first crack of the belt. The next snapped against her tender bottom before the first cry ended. Again, the Beast never paused in his assault. The rhythm pounded through her, each snap of the belt leather cracking through her flesh and into her soul. The lashes fell on the globes of her bottom, the tender undersides, and the backs of her straining thighs.

Finally, something in her gave way. Amarantha no longer wondered where the next stinging lash would fall. Her bottom felt enormous, propped high in the air, her breasts swollen and swaying with each crack of the belt. Time no longer moved.

Eventually, Amarantha realized the belt had stopped and that the Beast held up her chin again. He pressed up against her throbbing bottom and thighs, bent over her back, her chin clasped in one hand and her breasts gathered together in the other in a light, circling caress.

Seeing she focused on him once more, the Beast released her breasts and reached between her thighs, delving into the soaked folds of her sex. Unbearable tension immediately shot through her, and Amarantha found herself pressing shamelessly against his fingers.

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“You've done well, my bride,” he whispered. “If you do as well with your second punishment, I will reward you by showing you what your body yearns for.” He stroked her a moment more and, when she quaked under him, stepped back.

He busied himself with releasing her from her bindings, first unhooking her gloves from the chair and helping her to straighten up, then undoing her ankles.

Amarantha swayed on her feet, and the Beast gathered her into his arms. She cuddled into him, feeling absurdly protected and comforted. He seemed like a man, warm, strong, and—oddly enough—loving. His hand slid down over her exposed bottom, soothing the agitated skin. Amarantha moved under his touch like a petted kitten.

“I don't even know who I am anymore.” His chest muffled her words.

“You didn't know who you were before,” the Beast answered. “You were only a construct, a puppet operated by your father and sisters.”

“And now I'm your toy instead?”

“Never that, Amarantha. This intimacy we share is as much yours as mine.”

Turning her by the shoulders, the Beast set her back from him and coaxed her to look over her shoulder at her backside in the mirror. Her bottom and thighs glowed bright red against the white silk.

“See?” the Beast murmured. “Beautiful.”

She struggled with it, seeing herself bearing the marks of punishment even as her sex wept for him to touch it and her tortured breasts rubbed against his clothed chest.

Amarantha peered up into his cowl, trying to see the mask-shadowed face.

“How intimate is it if I never see your face, my lord?”

The Beast sighed. “An excellent question. But I find I cannot yet take that risk. Now, let's see to your final punishment and then, perhaps, if you continue to be so delightful, a bit of pleasure. Hands behind your back, please.”

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With a shuddering sigh, Amarantha turned, placing her wrists together behind her back. A shiver ran through her at the click of the rings hooking together.

What would he do to her next? Anticipation flowed through her, hot and immediate.

He held her back against him for a moment. The Beast cupped her breasts, weighing them and fiddling with the nipples, so she wriggled. Then he slid questing fingers into her sex, drawing a gasp of longing from her.

“Ah, Amarantha, you exceed all expectation. Shall we?”

With a solicitous hand at the small of her back, just above and between her bound wrists, the Beast guided her through the splintered doorway and into her sitting room, so cheerfully normal with its warm fire and cozy reading chairs. She tried to suppress her hesitation when he led her out into the long hallway outside her chamber.

Not that she hadn't been this naked in the hallway, and not that there was ever anyone but her, the Beast, and his magic servants. Still, she felt even more exposed with her skirts raised up front and back, her breasts bobbing over the top of the corset as they walked through the formal manse with its carved wood and expensive carpets.

The Beast escorted her to a small drawing room with very little in it. A large, Beast-sized leather armchair sat before yet another cheery fire. A delicate table perched next to the chair, a full snifter of brandy on a lace doily sitting on top. It looked so civilized, so genteel, until Amarantha saw that the chair faced an elaborate brass lattice set in front of a mirror that took up the entire wall.

“Another mirror,” she muttered.

“I don't like to miss anything,” the Beast assured her, “and I'm learning that it arouses you to see yourself as well.”

Unaccountably, Amarantha blushed at that. The Beast chuckled and tweaked her nipple, then busied himself with the apparatus. He adjusted several bars into place, glancing back at Amarantha as if gauging her height and reach.

“Do you…attach…many women to this thing?”

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“Jealous?”

She didn't reply. Jealousy didn't seem possible under these circumstances. She only had to last out the week, and she'd be free of him forever. Free to marry a normal man she could look in the face and who would bed her in the dark, without the bindings and the teasing.

“Step over here, my dear, if you will.” The Beast beckoned to her. “And no, my life is an isolated one. I have not had the pleasure of feminine company in some time.”

He unfastened her wrists and steadied her onto the lower bar of the structure so that she faced the mirror on the back wall. It looked like something her gamekeeper might stretch skins on. Indeed, the Beast pulled her gloved wrist up to one corner with a stout, black leather strap and the other wrist to the other corner.

He stretched her legs to fasten them to the bottom corners. These straps wrapped entirely around her wrists, and with her legs so widely spread, Amarantha couldn't really support her weight on her toes. She was suspended, pulled in four directions.

She struggled in her bonds, pulling against them.

“Shhh…” The Beast stroked her cheek. “Patience, my sweet. You'll forget the strain of your bonds soon. I'm afraid the dress must go, however, lovely as you look in it.”

Amarantha's eyes were dark violet pools in her pale face. Her hair still swept up in ebony coils, impossibly formal compared to the decadent tatters of her gown that displayed more than it hid. The Beast began slicing it away in strips with careful claws. It seemed to take forever. As always he drew it out, reducing her clothing bit by bit, until a confetti of white silk covered the crimson rug and Amarantha wore only her boots, gloves, and the corset around her rib cage and waist. Then the Beast cut the stays of her corset so it fell away, leaving her stark naked, edged in white and black leather, strapped to a brass frame.

And she'd thought she didn't recognize herself before.

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The Beast positioned a pole in front of her with a horizontal bar that he slid between her legs and adjusted to just brush the wet lips of her sex.

“To keep you occupied.”

“Will this be very bad?” she whispered.

The Beast fondled her breasts, bending his cowled head to lightly suckle each turgid nipple.

“Yes. This will be difficult for you.” He swirled his slightly raspy tongue over her nipples, moving back and forth between them so that she moaned and moved her sex over the cool brass of the bar pressing there. “Fortunately”—she could hear the smile in his voice—“you need do nothing but hang there and accept your punishment. The same rules apply as before.”

She watched him walk to a cabinet on the wall and take out a long whip. She felt the wild tremble of fear take over her body.

The Beast stopped at the armchair and, turning away from her, sipped from the brandy.

He set it down and studied her. “I would say I regret the necessity of this, but it has been some time since I've whipped a beautiful young virgin. And I doubt it will take much to make an impression on you. You respond so honestly.”

He whipped her as he'd spanked her—in rhythmic, steady strokes, unrelenting and endless.

The first scream ripped out of her throat, and she never caught her breath enough to scream again. As he'd promised, she forgot entirely about the strain in her wrists and shoulders. As each lash landed, her body convulsed until only the slick brass pressing into her sex seemed real.

Amarantha didn't think she'd lost consciousness, but as before, the punishment had stopped some time before she realized it. The girl in the mirror stared back at her, hair finally tumbling askew, breasts heaving like the panting of a hard-worked animal, white skin sheened with sweat.

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The Beast, dark and still, sat in the armchair, sipping the brandy in the depths of his hood. As if he'd been waiting for her to notice him, he stood and came over to her. He held the brandy to her lips, and she sipped, the sweet smoke of it evaporating on her tongue and sliding down to burn of her throat. He set the snifter down and detached the bar that had pressed against her sex.

She felt bereft of it, but the Beast slipped his fingers into her folds. She pumped her hips for him, somehow more full of need than ever, despite it all.

“Watch.”

The Beast knelt down and pressed his cowled head to her belly. His cat's tongue slid into her, slipping and swirling around her pearl, then sucking hard as if he would consume her in a great gulp. Frantic, Amarantha writhed, feeling all of it—the pain, the pleasure, the helpless longing—swell up and crash through her in wave upon wave. Red and black pulsed through her mind, and she was nothing but sensation.

And then he was releasing her from the bonds. Her limbs shook, depleted. The Beast cradled her, limp and exhausted, against him. He once again carried her to her bed and set her on the edge of it. With utmost care, he worked her gloves down, massaging her arms as he went. He did the same with her boots. Then took the pins and braids out of her hair and brushed it out as she swayed.

He tucked her in, brushing her cheek with a softly padded fingertip.

“My beautiful bride,” he murmured. “I don't think we need to tie your hands tonight, as I believe you to be well sated at the moment. But when you wake, you'll be stiff and sore. Soak in a hot bath and meet me in the atrium as the sun sets, so I can tend to you.”

Amarantha nodded, unable to keep her eyes open. The last thing she felt was a tender kiss on her forehead.

* * *

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“Sore” wasn't the word. Amarantha woke from tumbled dreams of riding on the back of a great cat through the forest, grinding herself in wanton sexuality against its velvet fur as they flew through the trees in soaring leaps.

Movement felt excruciating. It hurt even to open her eyelids. She felt pummeled and wrung dry, yet curiously replete. The way the Beast's mouth had moved on her, how her body had stretched so tightly, so immobilized, and then the crashing release of that massive tension—the thought sent shimmers of delight through her. She had exploded clear through her skin somehow and had become something made of pure light and pleasure for a few moments.

But now she had tumbled into flesh again, battered flesh that badly needed tending, as the Beast had predicted. Not that it took much foresight, given what he'd put her through.

With a groan, Amarantha dragged herself out of the cozy bed. A storm had come in, and snow fell in drowsy flakes outside, muffling the world. The fire in her bedroom hearth crackled in comfort, and a hot toddy wafted whiskey steam from her bedside table. She cradled the mug in her hands, grateful for the warmth and the soothing ease of the honeyed alcohol through her bloodstream. Naked, her ebony hair tumbling around her, Amarantha wandered to the washroom.

Their invisible helpers had cleared away last night's wreckage and restored the doors. The vanity chair perched in front of the mirror, demure and sweet with its gold curlicues. The brass key even sat in the lock again, a promise of something.

In his arrogant way, the Beast might say that she had only one choice, but that wasn't the case at all. Amarantha began to understand her husband's games.

She eased into the steaming tub, hissing at the heat, the sting of the water on her tender backside. Amarantha hadn't looked in the mirror to see how he'd marked her now. She didn't need to.

The afternoon sky deepened to dusk while she soaked and dozed, daydreaming about nothing in particular.

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When she thought sunset might be nearing, Amarantha washed her hair. She stepped out of the tub, dried herself with the fluffy, warmed towels, and combed out her long hair. Her shoulder muscles creaked and protested, and Amarantha found herself smiling in dreamy satisfaction in the mirror.

The short, transparent robe and nothing else hung on the hook. She slipped it on and padded through the quiet house, looking for the Beast.

He sat in the great chair in the atrium, where he'd scrutinized her on their wedding day. His head leaning on a knuckled paw, he seemed to be absorbed in a leather-bound tome propped on his knee, so he didn't hear her enter the room. Snow flurried outside the glass. The mounds and towers of red roses steamed in vibrant contrast. A padded table sat in the center of the room, draped in white cloths and scattered with rose petals. A copper brazier nearby glowed, and the room smelled of rosemary.

“I didn't know you read,” she said.

His cowled head lifted, and the Beast set his book aside.

“You thought perhaps I spent all my time prowling the gardens and devising ways to torment beautiful young women?”

“Eating babies, marauding the countryside?” she suggested, and he chuckled, coming to her and taking both of her hands in his. His great paws dwarfed her slim white hands, and he bent his head over them, kissing the skin, then turning them over to place soft kisses in the nest of her palms. The kisses shivered through her.

“Are you well, my bride?” the Beast asked, gruff voice concerned. Amarantha wanted to kiss his hands in return to reassure him.

“I am well, my lord. Sore, yes, but I feel…wonderful, actually.”

“Well, let's see what we can do about the soreness, then.”

He led her to the table and helped her shrug out of her robe. Uncertain what to do, Amarantha sat on the padded edge. The Beast coaxed her into lying facedown and gently moved her still-damp hair so it trailed over the edge of the table.

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She gasped at the sensation of hot oil on her back. Then she subsided with a pleased groan. The Beast rubbed the oil into her skin, kneading the muscles into elasticity. He seemed to know where she hurt most, working through her shoulders to the tips of her fingers, then down her hips and thighs to her toes. She melted under his clever fingers, listening to him tell her about the book he'd been reading.

He didn't quite agree with the author's perspective, thought it conflicted with several other lines of thought from other books on the topic. If Amarantha wanted to read them, he'd be interested in whether she agreed.

She murmured a sleepy protest when he turned her over but settled in again as the Beast worked the hot oil into her breasts, belly, and thighs with the same meticulous care. Elastic and relaxed, she watched him with half-closed eyes.

“The scratches are healing,” he commented, rubbing more oil into the creamy skin of her breasts.

“Do you miss them?”

She caught a flash of a wicked grin under the cowl. “A bit, perhaps. But it's hard to mind with you here, with your satin skin filling my hands. And it will be a memory for later.” Amarantha wondered at the sadness in his voice.

“Come, then.” The Beast slid a strong arm around her shoulders and helped her to sit up. He held her short robe for her so she could slide her arms in. Night had fallen to full dark. “I shall dine, and then you can meet me in the dining room in a little while. I think we won't dress you for dinner tonight. Your little robe is fine. Given the exertions of the last nights, we will keep tonight gentle and only for your pleasure.”

“Only mine? None for you?”

“I should rephrase—only pleasure for you, no pain. None of the sharper spices.”

It made her think, though. For all that the last three days had been full of stimulation of every kind for her, he had never asked her to touch him. She faltered at suggesting it, however. And she felt uncomfortably like a coward.

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Amarantha turned and placed her hand on the Beast's sleeve, feeling the strong arm beneath.

“Can we not truly dine together?”

The Beast hesitated.

“Remove your cloak and cowl. Keep the mask if you like, but I… This is our third night together out of seven. Isn't it time I saw who you truly are?”

With a rough sound, the Beast tore his cloak off and threw it to the floor.

“You wish to see who I truly am? This is me, Amarantha. Half-man, half-beast—all monster.” The bitterness rolled through his voice.

He wore a black mask, yes, but Amarantha could still see that golden fur covered parts of his face and blended into his hair. A darker gold, the Beast's hair formed a ruff around his head and trailed down his back, which seemed oddly hunched. His mouth was distorted by a heavy-furred upper lip and fangs too large to fit neatly inside. The Beast's eyes flashed feline green through the eye slits.

“You ask about my pleasure? I enjoy your pain, your struggles. I take pleasure in displaying you, in watching you suffer just for me. If I could, I would keep you forever just to make you tremble and cry out. Don't ever forget what kind of beast I am.”

A coil of arousal slid through Amarantha's belly to lick fire in her groin at his words.

“I don't forget,” she whispered. “Remember, I'm the one wearing the marks of your whip.”

The Beast stared at her, the glint of his eyes a bit wild. Amarantha laid the palms of her hands on his heaving chest. All man there. She tipped back her head to look up at him. So softly that she could barely hear herself, she whispered, “And I liked it.”

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“Now,”—Amarantha stepped back, placing deliberate distance between them—

“am I too mussed, or can we go straight to dine?” Her stomach gurgled, and she laughed, patting her belly. “I confess I'm hungry.”

The Beast, seemingly bemused, offered her his arm again and escorted her to the dining room. Her chair sported a fluffy cushion tonight, in deference to her sore bottom. Amarantha still tucked one leg under her, to keep her weight from pressing on the bruises.

After the delicious massage, though, she felt relaxed and glowing. The minor twinges reminded her of how the Beast had looked, so intent on her, so aware of her every breath and quaking response.

She was careful not to watch him eat. The Beast's mouth clearly gave him difficulty, making him less than neat. Silver forks did not mesh well with teeth meant to tear meat.

“Mmm, have you tasted this?” she asked him and knelt up to offer the Beast a piece of meat with her fingers. He froze, then leaned forward to gingerly take the morsel from her hand. His tongue rasped her fingertips, sweeping up the gravy.

“Delicious,” he answered.

They enjoyed a different meal, without the relentless sexual tension and the formality he'd demanded of her thus far. The Beast had shed some stiffness with his cloak. They talked more of his reading and his interest in horse breeding and horticulture. Amarantha found she possessed no actual interests. She'd seldom thought beyond what lovely thing she might next acquire and whether she'd become a princess or a queen.

Amarantha never thought she'd share a cozy evening with a man more than half-beast, dining in a short, transparent robe with her hair in tumbled disarray.

She felt deliciously worn-out, sated from the food, and slightly drunk on wine. Far in the house, a clock chimed.

“Amarantha, I must ask you a question.”

She gaped. “Don't do this, please.”

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“Amarantha, my bride, will you beg me to collar you, chain you to my bed, and fuck you?”

Amarantha clenched her teeth together. Why did he do this? The same question every night, phrased so that she couldn't possibly agree.

She cocked her head. He waited stoically for her refusal, she could see.

“And what if I said yes? What would happen then?”

He didn't answer. Couldn't answer?

“No, Sir Beast,” she said as gently as she could. “I can't do that.”

As if released from a spell, the Beast scooted back his chair and held out a furry hand to her. “Very well, then. Come over here.”

To Amarantha's surprise, the Beast helped her onto his lap, snuggled her up to his chest, and settled her sore bottom so it rested comfortably between his thighs.

He tugged on the belt of her robe, pulling it loose. He coaxed her to lie back against his arm while he drew the flimsy robe open.

Amarantha watched his intent face as he stroked her. He caressed her throat with light fingers, trailing over her breasts, belly, and thighs. She liked being able to see the glint of hunger rise in his eyes as she wakened to his touch. Her nipples tightened for him, and he tweaked them gently until she squirmed. By the time his fingers finally dipped between her thighs, she ached for him.

When she climaxed in his arms, his glowing eyes missed nothing.

In what had become their ritual, the Beast carried Amarantha up to bed. He brushed the tangles from her hair and tied her wrists to the headboard with the wide satin ribbons.

“I'll want you ready for more games tomorrow, my sweet. I have several interesting things planned.” He ducked his head and lapped at her breasts with broad rasps of his tongue. Amarantha felt herself reawaken. She moaned and pulled at the ribbons. The Beast slid down her belly, licking and nipping as he went. Then he seized her ankles and spread them wide, exposing her sex suddenly. Amarantha

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gasped, then nearly shrieked when he buried his mouth against her stimulated flesh.

She writhed under his ministrations, the tension filling her.

The Beast chuckled and placed a wet kiss on the tender inside of her ankle. He tucked her feet under the sheets and pulled the blanket up. Amarantha kicked her legs restlessly.

“That ought to give you something to dream about.” The candles started winking out. “Since you ought to wake earlier tomorrow, come meet me in the stables. It's time you met my horses.”

* * *

She tugged in surprise, and the sensation of the satin biting into her wrists sent a spear of arousal through her. Her arms stretched loosely above her head, and the covers had slid down overnight, exposing her breasts to the late-morning light.

Amarantha's nipples puckered, and she felt her sex thicken with moisture.

The Beast would probably love to leave her like this all day—contemplating the night to come, filling with need, and unable to do anything about it except, yes, stew in her own juices.

Except he'd mentioned that she could see his horses. The snow had passed, and day glowed with brilliance outside the windows. But she supposed that she would do as he wished.

The ribbons slithered off her wrists, releasing her. Before long Amarantha, dressed—with her hair in a long braid—ran down the stairs to find the stables. She wore a reasonably modest riding outfit. Modest unless you noticed that the little jacket could be unbuttoned to reveal her naked breasts upheld by stiff corset cups.

And the divided habit left her crotch and bottom bare under the draped fabric.

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Amarantha's sex tingled in moist anticipation, and her taut nipples chafed lightly on the tweedy jacket.

The stables competed with the manse itself for magnificence. Clearly the Beast loved his horses well. Stalls as big as bedrooms housed the finest horses Amarantha had ever seen. All acquired through the Beast's thorough research of breeding lines, and many bred and foaled on the estate, she now understood. The fabulous stallion her father had ridden home—and kept—had come from here, she realized.

She found the Beast in a stall with a surprisingly ugly mare. Scrawny with a mangy coat, the mare seemed like a beggar child at a royal ball.

“Good morning, my bride.” The Beast greeted her in great spirits. He wore his mask with his riding clothes, and Amarantha could see how his odd mouth smiled at her and how his green eyes gleamed with pleasure to see her.

She patted the mare, who whuffed in return. “Is this one of your prize mares?”

Amarantha teased him. “In disguise, perhaps?”

“Alas, no,” the Beast replied. “She's too old to breed. Which is unfortunate because there are good lines in her background. Your father was in dire straits when he rode her here. In her senior years, she became a poor man's horse. Now she can live out her remaining days as a rich beast's horse.” He laughed, and Amarantha heard the familiar bitter tinge to it.

“Come into the light, my sweet.” The Beast held out a hand to her, and they left the mare happily munching her oats.

“Do the horses mind your invisible servants?”

“No. Like you, they become accustomed quickly.”

“I'm not one of your horses.”

“Would you like to be?” The Beast gave her an assessing look. “The idea has possibilities. I shall have to think on that.” They stopped in the bright light spilling in the stable doors. “Unfasten your jacket for me and let me see your delightful breasts.”

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Feeling the thrill of his interest, Amarantha fumbled with the buttons, then held her jacket open. Her nipples contracted tightly in the cold air, a shiver rippling through her flesh to her groin.

The Beast studied her, idly tapping a riding crop against his muscular thigh.

Amarantha shivered again, wondering if he planned to use it on her, though she'd been obedient.

“And now bend over that bale of hay and lift your skirt for me.”

She turned around to the bale he spoke of and leaned over it. The bale only came to thigh level, so she had to prop herself with one gloved hand on the prickly hay and reach back to flip up the fabric flap that disguised just how divided her skirt was.

“Spread your legs and bend lower so your nipples touch the hay.”

Amarantha obeyed, her nose nearly buried in the spicy hay, her nipples pricked by the scratchy stuff, her thighs bare above the riding boots, sex open to the chilly air and the Beast's intense gaze. She could feel it on her, potent as his touch.

She found herself trembling with taut anticipation for the crack of the riding crop.

Oddly, Amarantha couldn't tell whether she feared the pain or was desperately afraid he wouldn't do it.

Which he didn't.

Instead the Beast had her stand up and dress herself again, instructing her in a gruff voice. Then he led her to an already saddled mare. Amarantha peered at the saddle, which was covered with a rough burlap toward the cantle, and a little cluster of soft bristles poking through. The front half of the saddle sported an oiled velvet. Another cluster of bristles thrust out of the pommel.

The Beast handed her up and helped her sit astride. With her sex split open, the pommel bristles tickled her wet folds, which slid on the oiled velvet. The burlap rubbed against her bottom, chafing skin still a bit sore from the spanking, and the bristles poked her a bit uncomfortably at her puckered nether mouth. She frowned, and the Beast chuckled at her expression.

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“All the better to prepare you for this evening's fun and games, my dear.”

He fastened her riding boots to the stirrups with little hooks, swung up on a massive black stallion, and led them out through the walking paths of the formal gardens, then into the forest. Amarantha quite quickly found herself agitating to escape the tormenting bristles and nubs of the saddle. Her mare strode in a smooth gait, but no matter how Amarantha shifted, something pricked and stimulated her soft flesh.

She tried raising herself off the saddle, which worked for a time, until her thigh and calf muscles tired, forcing her to sit again on the titillating bristles. All the time her tender nipples rubbed on the jacket. The Beast led them deeper into the forest. Amarantha whimpered at his broad back, but he didn't turn around.

“My lord…” she finally called out.

“Yes, my bride?” Still the Beast didn't look at her.

“I-I can't bear much more of this, my lord.”

“That is unfortunate, Amarantha, since you must.”

By the time they wended back to the stables as the sun sank low, Amarantha was nearly frantic from the subtle torture. Tears rolled down her flushed face, and her body prickled in hot arousal. The Beast helped her down from her mare, not commenting, though he supported her when she sagged on weak limbs. He cast an eye at the setting sun and held Amarantha by her gloved hand. She pressed her thighs together, trying to soothe the overstimulated flesh.

The last of the sun winked over the horizon, and the Beast pushed her up hard against the stable door. Amarantha cried out in shock when he ripped open her jacket, sending buttons flying, and devoured her aching breasts with a rapacious mouth. He thrust his gloved hand into her oversensitized sex, and she came immediately, screaming out her release to the evening sky.

The Beast set her on her feet, looking like a well-fed cat, still idly toying with her drenched sex.

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“That was a lovely beginning to our evening. Now, off with you to prepare for the rest. I'll see you at dinner, my bride.” He gave her sex an affectionate pat, the black leather making a light smacking sound.

He turned away and led the horses into the stable, leaving Amarantha to make her way in a daze to the manse, her jacket gaping open while her breasts throbbed.

* * *

Even the little robe had disappeared. Clearly the Beast planned to dispense with the more elaborate games tonight. The ghosts had braided her hair high and tight, like a crown, leaving her completely exposed.

Amarantha felt unaccountably shy walking nude into the drawing room where the Beast awaited her with his customary glass of brandy. Ridiculous, given he'd seen more of her than any other living being had. It just seemed so…brazen to walk around like this.

The Beast set down his snifter when he saw her, took her hands, and kissed them.

“You look lovely tonight, my sweet.”

“I look naked,” she answered tartly.

“Indeed,” the Beast purred, gathering her into his arms to press wet kisses over her breasts, “and you are lovely. Ready to dine?”

He escorted her to the formal dining room, where a high wooden stool sat in place of her usual chair. A round brass peg about an inch high poked out of it. Wide red satin ribbons dangled from the rungs. Amarantha sighed to see it, only guessing at how he might torment her now. Traitorous moisture pulsed hot between her legs.

The Beast helped her onto the stool, situating her so the oiled brass peg pressed against her puckered nether mouth. She wriggled uncomfortably and he gave her a light spank to hold still. He propped her heeled feet on one of the rungs 62

and tied the ribbons so her ankles, knees and hips stayed tightly anchored, keeping her bottom spread wide on the stool.

He let Amarantha feed herself again, though she had to lean over from the high stool to reach her plate, the brass peg penetrating her slightly each time she sat back, the wood rubbing her chafed bottom.

The Beast coaxed her in to conversation about the horses, the stables, as if this weren't bizarre. She supposed in his world, bizarre took on a different meaning.

They scraped up the last bits of a chocolate cake when the clock struck midnight.

Amarantha felt herself tense.

“Amarantha, I must ask you a question.”

She waited, helpless to stop him.

“Amarantha, my bride, will you beg me to collar you, chain you to my bed, and fuck you?”

“I can't. Don't you see? Even if I could bring myself to say that, to humiliate myself that way, if I let you have my virginity, then I'm bound to you forever, and my family is ruined.”

The Beast simply sat still, waiting.

“Can't we discuss this at all?”

Nothing.

Amarantha sighed. “No. My answer is and must be no.”

“Very well, then.” The Beast stood and began untying the ribbons that bound her to the stool. “I think you'll enjoy this next bit. I know I will.”

“My lord”—Amarantha placed a hand on his chest, stilling him—“can't we talk about this question you ask me every night?”

“The choice is yours, Amarantha. It's a choice I would not take away from you, even if I could.”

“You're under some kind of geas, I feel sure.”

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The Beast finished untying her and helped her down from the chair. He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and escorted her to the little drawing room where he'd whipped her. The Beast felt her tremble and patted her hand. “No whipping tonight. What I have planned should be enough to keep your attention.”

“Okay, clearly you can't talk about it. But I want you to know that, well, it's not you. I made a promise to my family.” Amarantha spoke to his broad back as he adjusted some of the fittings on the brass rack. “I owe them that loyalty.”

The Beast turned and gave her a piercing look. “They have none for you. Now be quiet and come here.”

Amarantha clenched her fists in frustration. “My lord…”

He raised an eyebrow over the mask. “Disobeying, my sweet? Perhaps there shall be some spanking after all.”

Amarantha huffed out an exasperated breath and stomped over to him. Her distraction had kept her from noticing what he had set up for her. A horizontal beam stood inside the brass rack. A brass prong stuck out of it, much like the one she'd sat on at dinner, except this one was long. Very long, and while it was narrow at the tip, it became quite broad at the base. It gleamed with oil, cheerful and terrifying.

Amarantha looked up at the Beast. He watched her closely, noting her every reaction. She found it hard to catch her breath suddenly.

“I'm afraid,” she told him. “Would it do any good to beg you not to do this to me?”

“Ah, my sweet Amarantha”—the Beast caressed her cheek, rubbed a thumb over her bottom lip—“you may plead all you wish, and I will love to hear it, but no, I will have you accept this into you while I watch. I have so little time with you that I must take full advantage. However”—he walked her over to the armchair and sat—

“I can make you less fearful. We'll do your spanking now.”

The Beast tugged her hand and tumbled her over his lap. Amarantha's shocked breath whooshed out of her, and he began spanking her rapidly before she 64

caught it again. The pain in her chafed bottom swelled to unbearable proportions within moments, and she began to whimper and struggle. The Beast laid a hand between her shoulder blades, holding her still while he punished her.

Amarantha felt the tears and tension spilling out of her. She wept still when the Beast set her on her feet, led her on wobbly legs to the apparatus, and made her straddle it. The width of the beam meant she stood with her legs well spread. The Beast helped her over the brass prong so that it nudged into her nether mouth, pressing in slightly. He brought down the black leather straps and bound her wrists, leaving slack in her arms.

This wasn't so bad. She felt sure she made a picture spread over this thing, legs long in her high heels.

The Beast rubbed her breasts and bent to suckle her nipples. He stroked her dripping sex, and she moaned in encouragement. Then he slipped the heels off her feet and sat down in his armchair.

Amarantha stiffened as she felt the cool brass push deeper into her. She stood on her tiptoes to keep it from going too deeply, but it already invaded her more than anything yet had. She pulled on the straps but couldn't lift herself off the thing. In fact, her struggles made the oil-slick metal sink even deeper, stretching her open and wrenching a cry out of her.

The Beast sipped his brandy and watched, green eyes glittering in avid interest.

Amarantha's thighs and calves trembled with the strain. Her muscles, already fatigued from the ride, fought to release. She realized he'd planned this all day, planned that ride to tire her so she couldn't withstand this thing. And he wouldn't relent until she sat fully on it.

She sobbed out a choking moan as her muscles gave way a bit more and she sank down. The thing widened, stretched, and speared her with unbearable intimacy. Her sex pulsed with sensation, and she found herself grinding her hips on

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it. Which only forced it in deeper. Her muscles fought to hold her, and her skin glistened with sweat.

Amarantha began to beg.

Pleas tumbled from her lips, promises and whimpers. She felt she might split apart. Her flesh strained and spasmed as the relentless device spread her open. All the while the Beast gave her his undivided attention, never saying a word but drinking in her every quiver and cry.

When she could at last bear no more, Amarantha yielded to the inevitable and let her straining legs relax. Her weight drove the prong deeply into her even as her sex slapped onto the beam, driving her into a writhing climax.

The Beast appeared in front of her. Also straddling the beam, he looped her exhausted legs over his muscular thighs and gathered her against him. He kissed and nuzzled her throat and breasts as she—with her head flung back—rode out the extreme sensations from the prong invading her.

“I wish that could be me inside you,” he said, his voice ragged. “If only I could feel you from the inside as well.”

He reached up and unfastened the cuffs. Amarantha immediately flung her arms around him, clinging to him as she shuddered from the penetration. The Beast held her close, running his hands over her body, soothing and savoring her.

“Once more,” he whispered, “while I'm holding you.” He slipped his fingers between them, stroking her sex with tenderness. She responded to him, digging her fingers into his rough mane of hair. Green eyes locked with violet, he drove her up, holding her as she climaxed again, pouring herself over him.

When he tucked her in and tied her hands, Amarantha asked him to stay for a moment. He obliged, sitting on the edge of the bed and fiddling with the trailing end of a ribbon.

“What you did to me tonight…” she began.

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“Shall I make you use the words, describe it in detail?” The Beast gave her his sly grin.

“No, and be quiet. I have a serious question to ask you.”

He regarded her with grave politeness, but she could feel how much he wished to flee the room.

“You said you wanted that to be you, inside me. And I know that, while you can't take my virginity unless…well, I agree to that ritual question of yours, why not…have me that way?”

The Beast stood and turned away from her, walked over to the fireplace, and held out his hands to the warmth.

“It would be something, wouldn't it? A way we could be together before I go?”

Amarantha tugged at the ribbons, wishing she could go after him.

“Alas, my sweet,” the Beast ground out, “that which dictates my life as it is has also unmanned me for all but one choice. I have nothing in that way to offer you.”

He turned abruptly, and Amarantha shrank back from the feral glint in his eyes. “I am a beast and good for nothing but being beastly. Soon you will walk away from here and take nothing but some startling memories of our time together. You will find some other husband and give him your precious virginity. But know this…” He strode over to her, and with an explosion of predatory energy that made her yelp in shock, he yanked off the covers and fell on her naked body.

He devoured her. Kissing, licking, nipping, and scratching every inch of her.

He left no part of her unmolested except for the sacred space of her virgin canal.

The beast buried his fanged mouth against her sex, making her climax again and again, his claws dragging against her flesh in fierce counterpoint.

Amarantha cried out for mercy, but he drove her up once more. She exploded into a black and red swamp that robbed her of conscious thought. In the fog, she felt him leave her. The Beast pulled up the covers and untied her hands. And vanished without another word.

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* * *

Not at all like his ferocity last night.

She dressed in a walking gown, just like those from her old life. Demure walking boots awaited her, along with a winter cloak and gloves. Though she examined the gloves and dress, they seemed to have no hidden hooks or games.

Stifling an odd sense of disappointment, Amarantha went down to walk in the garden. A light snow once again sifted down, dusting the winter garden with a fluffy frosting, hiding what lurked beneath.

The Beast did not join her. Nor did he work with the horses in the warm and steamy stables when she looked there. Amarantha visited the mare her father had left behind. He'd never mentioned that part of the story. The mare flourished in the beast's care. He seemed to have a knack for knowing just what she most needed.

That night, Amarantha went down for dinner dressed as if for a ball. The golden silk gleamed in the candlelight, the skirt belling in fabulous swoops. The ghosts created a confection of her hair. By the time they finished, she truly looked like a queen, wearing gold and diamond jewelry that dripped with fire.

The Beast awaited her as usual. He handed her a crystal glass of wine and bowed to her in greeting.

“You look most beautiful, Amarantha.”

She thanked him, uncertain how to receive this suddenly formal Beast.

“I must tender you my apologies for my behavior last night,” he continued. “It was most reprehensible. I hope that, in time, you'll find it in yourself to forgive me.”

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Amarantha cocked her head in confusion. “It seems to me that some of your other…games…were more painful or more distressing.”

The Beast shook his head. “No, never before have I lost control. I fear, my bride, that I am losing control to the beast, finally and fully.”

“Surely no—”

“I've decided, Amarantha, to release you. You shall go home to your family tomorrow.”

“But there are still three nights.”

“I shall uphold my end of the bargain. I will transfer my wealth to you. It will be of no use to me anyway.”

“But my lord—”

“Amarantha,” he almost snarled, “you don't understand. Even now I feel the beast clawing at me. My desire for you has undone me.”

Amarantha cried out, and her fingers flew to her lips as if to tuck the sound back in.

The Beast gave her a sad smile. “No worries, my love. This has broken the unending cycle of my cursed existence.” He came up to her and caressed her cheek in a light touch. “I wouldn't trade this time with you for anything. You brought life into my world again.”

“My lord Beast—”

“We will speak no more of this.” He cocked a meaningful eyebrow at her. “I will enforce that, if necessary. Now, let us go dine.”

A red rose awaited Amarantha on her plate. She took it and breathed in its scent, tears pricking her eyes. She wanted to ask who would tend his roses, his horses, but didn't, not for fear of his threat, but because she didn't want to hear the inevitable answer.

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They dined in formal grandeur, just as any husband and wife of their station might. The Beast took pains to entertain her, and for a time Amarantha forgot about their ill-fated marriage and his doomed existence.

The Beast drew her out of her chair long before the dreaded stroke of midnight. He led her to the ballroom. It occupied an entire wing of the empty manse and looked out over the nighttime gardens through floor-to-ceiling windows with inset French doors. Candles and torches lit the vast room with white and gold brilliance.

Tall vases ringed the room, spilling with the Beast's red roses. Garlands of roses draped from the chandeliers, dripping from the wall sconces. The room smelled of hot roses and wax.

“These doors open onto the terrace,” the Beast told her. “When we had summer balls, we'd open the doors and set torches out in the gardens. People danced among the rose bushes. The women always looked like flowers to me.”

With that, torches all over the gardens sprang into life, glittering warm against the snow, and a waltz swelled through the room from invisible musicians.

The Beast swept Amarantha into a giddy dance. His green eyes never left her face as they swirled around the room. Indeed, she thought, he'd barely taken his eyes off her since they'd married.

She gave herself over to it. Being held against his strong body as he spun her around the room. Just as she'd given herself over to him. Her body throbbed for him. Came to life only for him. Amarantha let the rush of his desire overpower her as they whirled around the room.

When the clock struck midnight, the music stopped, and the Beast halted them in midstep. He kept her clasped in his arms, his fingers tightening on her waist.

“Amarantha, I must ask you a question.”

She waited.

“Amarantha, my bride, will you beg me to collar you, chain you to my bed, and fuck you?”

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Could she? She had begged last night. Could she kneel down and beg him to treat her like that? Betray both her dignity and her family? Forever destroy her chances forever of living a glittering life as royalty in one of the cities and make herself a slave to a beast?

She couldn't. Life was about more than desire. Even the sticky-sweet web the Beast wove for her. Amarantha just couldn't lose herself to it. The real world continued out there. Waiting for her to return.

“No.”

“Very well, then.”

Amarantha opened her mouth to say more, but the music crashed over them, and he swooped into yet another wild waltz. The Beast danced her in mad circles, faster and wilder. When she had lost her breath entirely, he stopped them at a white table that appeared in the middle of the room, directly under the massive crystal chandelier.

Grasping her by her narrow waist, the Beast stood her on the table.

“Hands behind your neck,” he growled, and she obeyed, still panting to recover her breath.

He extended his wicked claws and began to shred the delicate gold cloth.

Amarantha concentrated on keeping her balance, and he slowly stripped the gown from her in ragged tears.

The mirrors around the room reflected them: his dark figure circling her, changing the glamorous belle into a naked girl pulsing with her uncontrollable need for the Beast.

He laid her down on the table, fastening her wrists over her head to each corner and spreading her legs wide to tie her ankles at the bottom. Amarantha writhed under each glancing touch.

The Beast left her there to stare at the surreal drapes of roses, the candles burning above, glinting off the crystal prisms.

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He returned with an armload of roses, which he placed between her spread ankles.

The Beast placed one stem in her mouth, well back into her teeth, and bade her bite down on it. She closed her lips over it, wincing at the sharp prick of the thorns.

“Be careful not to pierce yourself,” he said. “You'll find you must be still and quiet.”

Taking one long-stemmed rose, the Beast trailed it over Amarantha's quivering white flesh. She hmmed at the petals' velvet brush, then moaned full-throated when he dipped the turgid blossom into her dripping sex.

Then he resumed brushing her skin with the now-sopping petals, coating Amarantha in her own musk and the redolence of the roses. The Beast kept at it, painting every bit of her skin this way. Time blurred and dilated.

It seemed dawn would never come.

The Beast then began dropping rose petals onto her. One by one he plucked the crimson petals and let them drift to her skin. So sensitized was she that Amarantha whimpered as each one fell to stick to her. The Beast watched her with his glittering green eyes. She wanted to beg him to finish it, but the rose in her lips muted her.

When she drowned in petals, he climbed up on to the table, crouched over her on all fours. His black velvet vest brushed her aching nipples, as red as the rose petals. Amarantha lifted her hips helplessly, all at once wishing she could offer herself in full.

The Beast bent over her, plucked a single rose petal in his teeth, and dropped it to the floor. Then placed a kiss where it had been.

Amarantha closed her eyes, unable to bear the slow dissolution of her senses.

By rose-petal increments, the Beast kissed every bit of her. From the helplessly turned-up palms of her hands, down the insides of her arms, to the 72

trembling hollows under them. He kissed the soles of her feet, between her toes, with little cat licks that left her tossing her head. The Beast took his time over her breasts and belly, removing each sticky petal and replacing it with the sweet benediction of his kiss.

Until only a mound of petals remained, twined through the black hair of her sex.

He crouched between her spread legs on the white marble table, a salivating beast ready to devour her. And Amarantha wanted him to.

“Shall I remove the rose from your pretty lips?” he asked, and she nodded frantically.

The Beast leaned up over her and looked deep into her violet eyes.

“Remember this, my love. Remember me.”

He drew the rose gently from her mouth. Amarantha tried to reply, but he'd already driven his slavering mouth into her, and she could only scream her wild pleasure.

His strong hands clasped her bottom, holding her hips up as far as her tethered ankles would allow. The Beast feasted on her, drawing cry after cry from her. She lost track of what she said, what she promised as he pulled every last petal from every fold.

When he had exhausted her, the Beast untied her and lifted her to her feet.

Trembling and weak from pleasure, she stood naked in his arms, leaning against his rock-hard chest while he held her, his cheek turned to rest on the top of her head. A soft, sad song started up, and he moved her into the dance. They turned, soft and languid, in a sensual dance all their own.

As the notes faded on the last waltz, they slowed and stopped. They stood there, gazes locked, until the Beast dropped his head to slide a kiss along the side of her throat. He inhaled her scent and lifted her into his arms.

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He carried her to her chambers but set her down outside her door. He gathered her slim hands in his furred ones and kissed the back of each.

“Good-bye, my bride. I wish you happiness. I am grateful for all the gifts you've given me.”

“My lord Beast, I…”

He gave her his twisted smile. “Hush, Amarantha. This is a game that could not be won.”

“I'll come back,” she said impulsively. “I'll just visit my family for one night, and I'll come back the next, and maybe we—”

“Hush. Go and live your life. Just…remember me. Be kind to the beasts of the forest.” He cocked a wry eyebrow. “You never know when it might be me.”

Amarantha went to bed alone and wept herself to sleep, uncertain whom her tears were for.

* * *

Then their joy turned to horror, and her father and Angelica accused her of running away in fear, while Anastasia pocketed a few coins. Worse, they shrieked, she'd stolen from the Beast and had not only ruined their fortunes, but would bring his wrath down upon them.

But Amarantha told them the story she had crafted on the ride home. How she'd refused the Beast her virginity, and he'd let her go. How he planned to give her his wealth and leave the country. Not so much of a lie, after all.

They asked her about her trials, but Amarantha found it easy to divert them with tales of the Beast's wealth. Her father launched into plans to sell the roses and 74

horses while Angelica waxed on about the balls she would throw in the coming warm season.

“I'm just thankful we can find you a proper husband,” her father said.

“A real man.” Angelica tittered. “That Beast might have growled a show but clearly had nothing between his legs, or he wouldn't have let you go like that.”

“Perhaps his curse extended to his mind,” Anastasia suggested. “He's delusional to have given up before he even tried for a full week.”

“Or Amarantha is more of an ice queen that we thought!”

“Don't mind them, baby girl.” Amarantha's father patted her hand. “You're back to your normal life. We'll always take care of you.”

The funny thing was, she'd never noticed before how blandly she lived her life.

Amarantha spent the evening in restless boredom. Dinner seemed like an empty ritual, devoid of pleasure.

The following day stretched out empty and without meaning. Amarantha walked in the garden, looking for spring buds, and found herself watching for the Beast, listening for his voice. The healing scratches stung and itched under her modest gown. Amarantha listened to her sisters prattle about their impending wealth and felt the longing swirl through her to feel the Beast's touch just once more.

Over dinner, Angelica and her father debated potential suitors for Amarantha.

She tried to imagine lying beneath them and could think only of the chains the Beast had promised her. Could think only of the thrill the thought gave her and how her sex pulsed in answer. Thought of his strong hands and how they stroked her and his horses with equal skill and gentle love.

“He saved your horse, you know,” Amarantha said.

Her father blinked at her. “What horse?”

“The one you rode to his house that first night. She's looking quite well.”

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He waved a dismissive hand. “That nag? I thought her lost to the blizzard, and good riddance too. I'm surprised a monster like him would bother.”

You people are the monsters.

At first, Amarantha had thought she said it out loud. But they went on as if she didn't exist. Only the Beast had really seen her. Only he had really loved her.

And she had walked away, a fool intent on her pride and false loyalty.

She spent another restless night fitfully dreaming of riding the big cat through the gnarled forest. Then the cat lay at her feet, rolling over to show its tawny belly.

Amarantha drove a jeweled dagger into its heart and stood laughing while the blood flowed out and stained the hem of her gown.

In the morning, she dressed herself in one of her old gowns, as Anastasia had helped herself to the one Amarantha had worn home. She giggled, thinking of the hidden charms of some of the other gowns the Beast had dressed her in and her sisters' shock were Amarantha to don one of those.

Her father had already sold the carriage with the matching team of horses to satisfy some of the debtors crowding his door, promising the irate Angelica another just as fine from the Beast's stables.

So Amarantha walked into the forest. She'd left at first light and hoped she could make it to the Beast's manse by nightfall. But the way wound long and the day chill, and her cloak was fine for riding in carriages, but not for walking in winter. The woods twisted deep and dark around her.

When it began to snow, the snow settled on her thinly clad shoulders, soon soaking in. The snow grew thicker, swirling around her in shivering gusts. The light grew dim. A shape loomed before her, a denser white shadow amid the flakes. And whuffed in greeting.

Amarantha gratefully climbed onto the old mare and rode her to the manse.

Finding the stables warm and cozy, Amarantha tucked the mare into her usual stall, feeling oddly at home. She trusted the ghosts would take care of the horse.

Perhaps the Beast would teach her how to care for them too.

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Maybe how to grow roses.

She ran through the gardens, clambering through the deepening snow. At first the terrace doors to the gardens didn't give. Amarantha tugged on them, desperate to open them. Unlike the stables, the manse loomed entirely dark. Was he gone already?

“Please!” Amarantha called out. “It's me. It's the last night, not yet midnight.

There's still time.”

The locks gave with a click, the doors opening outward. A single candle lit, and the pink light appeared, bobbing urgently in front of her. She followed it through the dark and silent house to the atrium.

The Beast sat in his chair, staring at nothing.

“My Lord?”

He didn't move.

Amarantha laid a tentative hand on his arm. He felt cool but not cold. Not dead, then.

“My Lord Beast!” Amarantha shouted, and something in him flickered, then fell into dimness again.

“Candles!” she called out, and a few whispered into feeble life. “Look, my Lord Beast! It's me, Amarantha, your bride.”

Nothing.

Frantic, Amarantha flung off her cloak and gloves. With shaking fingers, she struggled with the laces of her dress. Impatiently she stripped, tearing the fragile fabric in her haste. Fortunately she'd dressed herself that morning and so wore no corset. She kicked the dress and her underthings aside. Naked, she pulled at her braided hair and combed her fingers through it until it tumbled around her the way he liked it.

Amarantha stood nude in front of him. She spread her legs and put her hands at the back of her neck, under her hair, thrusting out her breasts.

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“Look! Look at me.”

He didn't move. One of the candles sputtered and winked out. Amarantha fell to his feet, weeping in wild despair. She clung to his knees, begging him to awake, promising him that she'd do anything, say anything that he needed, if only he'd return.

The clock struck midnight, and she felt him stir. Felt his hand move to stroke her hair. Amarantha looked up and sobbed in relief to find him looking at her.

“Amarantha, I must ask you a question.”

“Yes!” she said. “Yes, I'll do it. I'd rather be alive with you than living like a dead woman in a world without you in it.”

“Amarantha, my bride, will you beg me to collar you, chain you to my bed, and fuck you?”

She could feel the power of the ritual question now. It charged the air between them. Amarantha took a deep breath. She could do this. “Yes.”

With a growl, the Beast roared to life. He seized her by the wrists and flung her over his shoulder, ignoring her startled shriek. He carried her upstairs, the manse flaring to blazing life as they moved through it. Amarantha's face pounded with blood. Would he really make her beg for this?

Yes. He had to, she thought.

He bypassed her chambers and continued down the hallway. Ah yes. Chained to his bed. The massive doors flung open, and he strode through a sitting room piled high with books and into the bedroom, where a giant four-poster bed dominated the room.

The Beast dropped her onto the bed. Amarantha trembled to see him. He seemed completely overcome. His green eyes flashed fire, and his claws were unsheathed. The animal had taken over as he'd predicted. None of the man she knew remained.

“Beg,” he growled.

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Amarantha looked around in desperation. A heavy silver collar lay open on the ruby coverlet, attached by a chain to the headboard. Each post of the bed offered another chain of silver links, finished by an open manacle. She would be completely helpless.

“Beg!” the Beast roared.

Shivers of terror rocking her, she studied the Beast for signs of humanity. And found them in her heart. She trusted that he wouldn't truly hurt her. Even when he'd said he lost control, the slight scratches he'd given her hadn't been deep. They had already nearly healed.

She had said yes because she loved him. Nothing had changed.

“Please,” she said, “I beg you to collar me.”

“Put it on, then.”

With shaking hands, Amarantha picked up the silver collar and locked it around her slender throat. The click sounded through the silent room. She looked up and found the Beast watching her with unbearable intensity.

“I beg you, my Lord Beast, please chain me to your bed.”

“Lie back and place your hands in the manacles.”

Shuddering, she obeyed. She laid her wrists inside the open manacles, having to drag the chains a bit closer. The Beast stripped off his gloves and locked the cuffs around her little wrists. Then he tightened the chains so her arms stretched out tightly.

“Spread your legs.”

Her eyes fixed on the canopy, Amarantha opened herself to the Beast. He chained her feet, pulling her wider, so she lay in a naked X in the center of the great bed. The Beast stood at the foot of the bed. Waiting.

“Please make me your wife in truth, my husband. I beg you to take my virginity.”

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The Beast climbed up onto the bed, crawling over her. He dragged himself against her naked skin, and she realized he'd stripped. His face loomed over her, and Amarantha saw he'd finally pulled off his mask too. The features of the beast warred with the man, distorting his face.

“The words, Amarantha. Give me the words. I must have them.”

She could feel him, hot and heavy on her thigh, poised before her virgin passage. The fear rocketed through her. But no shame, she realized.

“Please fuck me,” she whispered.

A fierce wind billowed through the house, shattering the silence. The Beast threw back his head and roared. Amarantha braced herself for the thrust that would rend her. And felt human lips on her own. A man's skin against hers.

“My Amarantha, my bride,” he said, his voice clear and deep. “I fear I cannot wait, but I will make this good for you.”

Amarantha stared in wonder at the man braced above her. The man inside the distortion of the Beast. The green eyes were exactly the same.

He shifted himself between her spread thighs, pressing against her entrance.

“You're wet for me.”

“Always.”

He pushed in, and Amarantha stilled.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Yes. Oh yes.”

And he pushed into her, widening, stretching, and filling her. Amarantha moaned at the sensation, feeling the tight tissues give way to him. He pulled back a bit, then pushed hard and deep, filling her to the hilt. Amarantha cried out her pain and pleasure.

The desire spiraled through her as he rocked inside of her, withdrawing and stroking. She convulsed with each deep thrust, feeling the tension build. Hot blood filled her, and Amarantha pulled at her chains, begging in earnest.

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He drove them both hard, his pounding rhythm accelerating to the relentless peak. Amarantha screamed when she shattered, and he followed her down, clinging to her as the last of the enchantment released him.

Amarantha stirred when he withdrew from her. Her husband unlocked the collar from her throat and tossed it back over the pillows. He moved around the bed, removing the manacles. Amarantha stretched her limbs and curled up in grateful relaxation. He returned with a towel and slid her thighs apart, cleaning her with tenderness. Humor glinted in his green eyes when he glanced up to find her watching him.

“Love lies bleeding,” he said. “Though not too much.” He tossed the towel aside and gathered her against him. He stroked her dark hair back from her forehead. “I can't believe you did this,” he said in wonder.

“My Lord Beast—”

“Roland,” he interrupted. “I'm myself again, so I have my name again.”

“Roland.” She smiled and ran her fingers over his broad chest, feeling him shiver. “I was willing to take the Beast.”

“I know, my love,” he answered, kissing her softly. “And make no mistake, I'm still that man.” He reached up to roll a nipple between his fingers, then pinched it, grinning when she gasped. “That's how I came to this, and you should know the story.

“I have always been a man driven by my desires. As you have experienced.”

Amarantha shivered.

“Yes. You, my sweet innocent, have been the best of partners. So responsive to all of it.” He trailed his fingers through the damp hair of her sex and smiled at her quivering answer. “I thought I saw it in your eyes when I found that portrait. I hardly dared hope.

“Not all of my partners were equally excited by my games. And I confess, in my recklessness and arrogance, I didn't always take my lover's wishes into

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consideration. If I hired a courtesan, then I thought I owned her for the night and could do as I pleased.”

Amarantha stared at him.

“I warned you I am a beast inside. I warned them too. But one courtesan—she thought to tame me. She was a witch and practiced tricks on me. We fought for dominance, and I, well, I won.” Roland's sensuous lips twisted in self-deprecation. “I chained her to this bed, collared her, and tormented her until she begged me to fuck her. Then I refused and left her there for the day.”

“You didn't.”

“I did. When I returned and freed her, she cursed me. Never to enjoy the day.

Never to enjoy another woman unless she chose this. And chose it out of love. She turned my servants into ghosts and declared that I would wear the corrupt face of the beast that had tormented her.

“Every night since, I've wandered this manse, driven by desire I couldn't relieve. Every day I've slept and wondered what kind of woman would ever choose that way.”

“I don't know what kind of woman that makes me.” Amarantha sighed as Roland stroked her sex and nuzzled her throat. She dug her nails into his chest, and he hissed in pleasure. He rolled her onto her back and slid inside her. They groaned together as they joined, the desire shimmering around them.

“Amarantha,” Roland said with a hint of a growl, “it makes you mine.”

Her eyes widened as he stroked deep inside her.

“Just as you are mine,” she gasped.

“Yes. Forever after.”

is the pen name of Jeffe Kennedy, an essayist and fiction-writer.

Her work has appeared in diverse magazines such as Redbook, Puerto del Sol, Wyoming Wildlife, and Under the Sun. She has been a Ucross Foundation Fellow, a Wyoming Arts Council roster artist, and winner of their Poetry Fellowship. Her essay collection, Wyoming Trucks, True Love and the Weather Channel was published by University of New Mexico Press in 2004. Jeffe lives in Santa Fe, with two Maine coon cats, a border collie, numerous free-range lizards, and frequently serves as a guinea pig for an acupuncturist-in-training. Learn more about Jeffe at

http://www.jeffekennedy.com.