He spoon feeds me a few more mouthfuls. Ever since I grew strong enough to sit up, he’s insisted on feeding me. I give him a hard time but secretly I love it.
“Don’t you have anything better to do than feed me? Tend your roses? Torment another prisoner? Play your giant organ?” I let my gaze flicker to his crotch. Like always, he’s dressed impeccably, with well-tailored slacks and dress shirt, shoes and cufflinks polished and gleaming. A veneer of elegance that only draws attention to his powerful body. Always enclosed in such fine clothes, but lately, with nothing else to distract me, I can’t deny that sometimes my thoughts wander to wondering what he might look like underneath…
Now both his brows are raised. “My giant organ?”
I blush. “Um, yeah. The instrument, oh Masked One.” I flutter my fingers in the air and hum Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor. “Like, for composing an opera.”
He studies me and I bite my lip, wondering if I’ve pushed him too far. I’ve let more of my joking personality out in the last few days, because, fuck it, what do I have to lose? It feels good. I usually keep this side of myself stuffed down. The only one who’s seen silly Daphne is Rachel.
“No organ,” he says finally, scraping the spoon in the bowl to scoop up the dregs. “No other prisoners. Just you.”
“Lucky me.”
“Indeed.” He feeds me the final bit of soup.
A smile cracks my face. He blinks at the sight of it. I’m as surprised as he is. Here I am, getting nursed back to health by a crazed man in a mask, and I’m almost…happy. I have a million questions swimming around my head—why do you have a lab? How long have you been studying Battleman’s disease? Are you close to a cure?—but I don’t want to break the moment, this temporary truce.
And my instincts are right, because his stiff jaw loosens a moment and the Beast almost, almost smiles.
“I’m feeling better. Stronger. Can’t I get out of bed?” I’ve already been up today. He helped me to the bathroom and gave me a bath. Not as torrid as our first bath together, but enough to make me blush.
“Maybe tomorrow.” He sets the bowl down and heads over to the fireplace to add a few logs. He keeps the place toasty warm now. There are brocade curtains adorning the giant windows, and thick Persian rugs on the floor. Not that he lets my feet touch the ground. He treats me like a princess. And even though he used to despise me for my supposed addiction to luxury, each day he seems to resent me less and less.
He draws the bed curtains, cocooning me in velvety darkness. His finger ghosts over my cheek before he strokes my hair. “Sleep now.”
I catch his hand. He stiffens and I drop it. “Sorry.” He never lets me touch him.
A pause. “It’s all right.”
“Stay with me a bit?”
“And do what?”
It’s my turn to stiffen. He’s touched me all over, and held me in this very bed, and I know we’re headed to something more, but I’m still weak and—
“Shhhh, Daphne. It’s all right. I’ll stay. Right here.” He seats himself in his usual chair beside my bed. “Is this what you wanted?”
“Yes. Tell me a story?”
He studies his hands. He often wears gloves but he’s left them off to tend to me. The skin is mottled and scarred, as if they sustained chemical burns. “I’m no good at stories.”
“Then I’ll tell you one.”
“You should rest—” he starts, but I grab his hand. He stiffens but I don’t let go. I clutch his hand with both of mine, holding on like a lifeline. After a second he relaxes a fraction. Not perfect, but it’s a start.
“My mother used to tell me stories. There once was a princess who lived in a castle…” I launch into one of my favorites, a blend of Princess Bride and Rapunzel, with a couple of dragons because why not? “And they all lived happily ever after in their castle surrounded by rose bushes.” I finish with a yawn. The Beast hasn’t moved a muscle since I took his hand. He might as well be a statue, a dark gargoyle watching from afar.
“That’s a lovely story,” he rumbles.
“Mmmm,” I close my eyes. My grip on his hand loosens. He pulls away, but he takes one of my hands between his, holding it like a little bird. “I like stories,” I murmur. “As long as they have a happy ending. My mother said all stories should have happy endings.” She felt my childhood was filled with too much pain and sadness.
“And your story, Daphne?” The Beast’s voice turns harsh, even as he strokes the back of my hand gently. “Does it have a happy ending?”
“I don’t know,” I sigh. Sleep’s closing in. Even though the Beast is growling again, his big body vibrating tension, I know now he’d never really hurt me. I feel safer with him than I have in a long time. “I guess it’s up to you.”
Morning finds me curled in a Beast-sized armchair by the fire. Outside a winter storm beats freezing rain against the window, but my body’s stronger than it’s been in days.
I can’t believe the Beast tended me all this time. He’s been inordinately gentle. He even let me touch him last night. I held his hand, though I can barely remember our conversation.
The bedroom door creaks and the Beast appears. He sees me and stops in his tracks. “You’re awake.”
“I got up and dressed all by myself,” I brag.
“Well done.” There’s that glimmer of a smile. I’m addicted to it.
“I brought breakfast.” There’s a cart with a tray just outside the door. I wrinkle my nose at the shiny silver dome covering the plate. It’s probably more broth.
But no, when he whips off the cover with a flourish, a steaming omelet with a side rasher of—
“Bacon!” I reach with both hands, already drooling.
“Ah ah,” he holds the plate aloft. “Not until you eat your porridge.” He hands me a bowl and spoon. Topped with fresh berries and cream, it’s hardly gruel, but it’s not bacon.
“You’re heartless,” I tell him, but dutifully dig in.
“So I’ve been told.” Another glimmer of a smile.
“Careful,” I mutter to the bowl. “I’ll one star you on Yelp.”
“Too late. I’ve already been voted best Evil Captor three years running.” As my mouth drops open—he made a joke!—he adds, “Having a castle helped.”
“I bet. How did you get a castle just outside New Olympus anyway? Did you build it?”
“Inherited it. My predecessor brought it over from the old country, stone by stone.”
My mouth is hanging open now. The Beast isn’t just making jokes, he’s sharing information? Before I get too excited, he raises his chin and orders, “Eat, Daphne.”
I lift my spoon and plunge it dramatically in the bowl. He watches me take a few bites before kneeling to build up the fire. I can’t help but admire the taut line of his backside, set off perfectly by exquisitely tailored pants.
“Remind me to thank your stylist,” I murmur.
“What?” he rises, dusting off his hands. Today he’s in a chunky off-white knit sweater. His black hair is tousled. Mmmmm.