Beast, Part Three

  BEAST 3.

  An Erotic Fairy Tale

  ELLA JAMES

  CHAPTER 1

  Annabelle

  Every time my lungs expand to draw in air, it feels like too much movement. Too much noise.

  Logically, I know I can’t keep hiding indefinitely. If I stay here, someone will find me. But I’m not ruled by logic. I’m compelled by fear. So I crouch down on Beast’s bathroom floor until my knee caps ache and my back knots, and my fingernails are sore from picking at the grout between the small, gray tiles.

  They just…took him.

  How could they just take him that way?

  Did he really kill that guy? The Aryan?

  Where is he now?

  Too many questions banging around my head, so I stand up. Blood rushes into my legs, making them tingle, then ache.

  I slide my phone out of my pocket and scroll to Holt’s name. If only I could call him—but I don’t have service in the prison.

  Clinton. I turn toward the mirror mounted over the sink and inhale slowly. If I’m going to leave this bathroom, the first person I should look for is Clinton.

  I can do that. Surely I can find Clinton before the men who took Beast find me, too.

  But what if I don’t?

  I imagine myself in a small, empty room. Water dripping down the walls, leaving slimy mold trails. Rusted bars through which hazy sunlight floats. Nothing in the world but me and the dust particles drifting through the gross, stale air.

  They couldn’t do that to me, right? I’m not a prisoner.

  Beast is.

  Shit, I’ve got to help him. I won’t leave here until I find out what the hell is going on.

  I blink into the mirror one more time, then slide my phone back into my pocket. Step slowly into his room. His room. This is his room. That bed there—that rumpled bed, with its soft, black duvet—is where I lay with him and felt the hard warmth of his abs; his scratchy face; the softness of his lips pressed hard against mine. I sucked the head of his cock into my cheeks and tasted the slick saltiness of him. Just a little while ago, his tongue flicked between the swollen lips of my pussy.

  He told me he remembered me.

  He said he practically stalked me.

  It’s so hard to believe.

  It’s like a dream.

  Like a fairy tale.

  A twisted fairy tale, because my prince is stuck in prison and as soon as he told me he remembered me, I lost him.

  Tears fill my eyes as I stand there in the bathroom doorway, and in the blur of them, I notice the bookshelf that runs along the wall out in front of me. Somehow—I guess because my eyes went straight to him—I didn’t notice it when Clinton first brought me here.

  I know I need to get the hell out of dodge, but I can’t stop my renegade feet from carrying me over, or my eyes from skimming the spines of the books he chooses to keep here in his room with him.

  Beloved. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. A Clockwork Orange. Fight Club. The Bible. The Koran. Peace is Every Step. The Diary of a Young Girl: Anne Frank.

  I wonder if these books were donated. I pull out The Diary of A Young Girl: Anne Frank and skim through the pages. I only have to flip a few before I find highlighted text.

  “It’s really a wonder that I haven’t dropped all my ideals, because they seem so absurd and impossible to carry out. Yet I keep them, because in spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.”

  My eyes widen. Okay, well I think that confirms it: These books were definitely donated.

  I flip a few more pages and see boxy, all-caps handwriting. ‘THE WEAK DIE OUT BUT THE STRONG SURVIVE.’

  Well, hot damn. That’s his writing. I’m almost sure I remember the tabloids reporting that he wrote in all caps. It was one of those mundane articles I remember only because I used to read so many of them in my star-struck, younger years.

  I pull out Peace is Every Step, because I want to know what a man like Beast thinks is important about peace. After only a few pages, I start finding passages highlighted.

  “When you love someone, the best thing you can offer is your presence.”

  “To be loved means to be recognized as existing.” And out beside this, in the margin: MANAGE EXPECTATIONS.

  What does that mean? He feels no one loves him, and therefore no one recognizes he exists? That can’t be true.

  I flip through more pages, and find another highlight.

  “People have a hard time letting go of their suffering.” And beside this: PAN—ATTAX?

  I stare down at the handwriting, scrawled into the margin with a thick black pen.

  Is that code for panic attacks?

  Does Beast have panic attacks? It seems impossible to believe.

  I let the breath out I’ve been holding and put the books back. Too many things about this man stir me up. Too much about him haunts me.

  I walk to the door and stand there, with my over-hot cheeks and my racing pulse, and wonder what’s the best way to find Clinton.

  First, I need to get as far from Beast’s quarters as possible. When I’m found, as I assume I will be pretty quickly, I’ll tell whoever finds me that I’m here to see Clinton. They’ll probably ask me how I got in, or maybe they won’t. Probably whoever mans the cameras is in Beast’s pocket like everyone else, and they’ll remember letting me in on the sly.

  But what if they’re in the pocket of Beast’s enemies now? My body goes a little cold. I don’t know anything about prison. About the politics here. About how to take care of myself here.

  Surely the people who work here will help me get to Clinton.

  It’s a civilized place. The employees are just regular people.

  If I get caught, I’ll say I’m here to see Clinton, and whoever finds me will take me to him. Right? He’s not a prisoner. He’s a guard. They can have guests; at least I think they can. I’ve always been able to visit Holt when I wanted. Maybe I have special privileges because I’m his daughter?

  Regardless. I will find Clinton.

  I need to woman up. Shake off my anxiety and get this done. I push through Beast’s door and spirit myself out into the hall. I’m so anxious, I forget to look around. I just bolt to the right, hoping to get down the short hallway that houses Beast’s quarters before someone sees me. That way they won’t know I was visiting him, and the men who took him won’t feel the need to “take care of it,” or whatever it was they said they’d have to do if I was found.

  I’m mid-stride, hurling my body toward the doorway that leads back to the main hall, when strong fingers close around my upper arm. I gasp and whirl.

  For a second before my brain registers the face, I allow myself to hope it’s him. Instead, when I blink and my mind clears, I find myself nose-to-nose with a hulking, blond guard. He’s got freckles all across his nose and cheeks, and a wicked-looking scar on his forehead. His blue eyes are so cold, I glance up and down his body to confirm he’s wearing a brown guard’s uniform and not a prison jumpsuit.

  He’s a guard, but he looks mad enough to kill. “Let go of me!”

  He clenches my arm a little tighter and rolls his gaze down me. His brows draw tightly together, as if he’s never seen a woman before. In a thick, Southie accent, he says, “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m…Belle. I’m looking for Clinton.”

  “In Beast’s room?” He shakes his head vehemently. “You’re looking to get banned from here because you’re a fucking liar.”

  “You’re right. I am.” I open and shut my mouth convulsively, trying to get my brain to come on board. Honesty. Just be honest, Annabelle. “I was looking for him—for Beast—but he’s not—”

  “He’s not there,” the
guard snaps.

  I nod. “Right. But before I go, I really need to talk to—”

  “Clinton’s gone, too.”

  “He’s gone? What do you mean?”

  “Went home.”

  “His shift ended in the last hour? I thought he just got—”

  “Doesn’t matter why,” he interrupts. “Clint’s not here. You need to go. You don’t belong here.” He drags me down the hall, punches some keys into a keypad to open a thick, steel door, and puts his hands on my shoulders. He points me in a direction I think is the front of the prison. “Guard at the end of this hall’s Germain. Tell him Larry sent you.”

  Before I can fully process what’s going on, he says something into a Bluetooth. I hear mostly just grunts, and then an African-American man appears at the other end of the short hall.

  I figure this new guy can’t be as bad as Larry, so I take a few long, quick strides. Germain grabs my elbow and I fear I’m wrong. He starts to drag me past the rows of steel doors on each side of the hall. I jerk my arm away and dig my heels in.

  “Stop it!” My voice rings through the empty hall, and Germain peers down at me. “I don’t know who you people think I am, but—”

  “I know exactly who you are, sweetheart. Come with Daddy. We’ve got some questions for you.”

  “Beast?” I say. Is he taking me to Beast?

  “You’re his bitch. That’s why we’re asking you the questions.”

  I’m about to tell him I’m also Holt’s daughter when I feel his hand press down on my back, and I’m guided through an open doorway to my right.

  And there I find all three of them: the amoral-looking bastard in the dress suit, and the two men in black jumpsuits and boots.

  CHAPTER 2

  Annabelle

  The man in the suit is sitting at a faux wood table, in the middle of a boxy room. Under the harsh fluorescent lights, I can see he has salt and pepper hair and thick frown brackets around his mouth. He’s lean but well-worked-out. Maybe sixty? The other two, both closer to my age, sit on his left and right wearing apathetic frowns.

  As soon as Suit sees me, his eyes widen. “Miss Mitchell.” He sounds pleasantly surprised. After just a second, he locks his face down again, the frown lines reminding me a little of a Hollywood movie villain.

  I stand up straighter and try to look tough, despite Germain’s death grip on my forearm.

  “You can let go of Miss Mitchell,” Suit tells Germain.

  He does, and then steps back behind me somewhere. I have to resist the urge to massage my arm.

  I try to keep my face as neutral as possible while Suit stares at me. After a few seconds, my patience and anxiety get the best of me, and I speak first.

  “How do you know my name?”

  Suit smirks, and it’s a handsome smirk. A smirk that makes him look like the embodiment of ‘The Man.’

  “You’re Beast’s new pastime,” he says in his old Marlboro commercial voice. “Everybody at La Rosa knows he fucks you.”

  My eyes bug out. Did he really just say that to me?

  “‘Mine.’” His lips draw into a smug-looking pucker. “Isn’t that right, Annabelle?”

  If his goal is to throw me off, he’s starting to succeed. I’m confused and self-conscious, wondering if I look just-fucked in my yellow shirt and red jeans. I run my fingers over my curls, and he drags his gaze up and down me, blatantly assessing. I can’t tell what his judgment is. His face remains impassive. He waits another second before speaking, and I can tell this is his M.O. Whoever he is, and whatever he does, intimidation is not something he’s new to.

  “Why don’t you sit down, Annabelle?”

  I shake my head. “No thank you. I’ve gotta going home. I’ve got family waiting on me.”

  His eyes flicker past me, to Germain—a silent order. “I don’t think so.”

  I fight the cold fear that washes through me. “I do. Do you know who my—”

  “Your ex-step-father is?”

  My mouth goes dry, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth as I say, “Yes. That’s right. Mr. …what’s your name?”

  He stands up and extends his hand across the table. “Robert. Robert Ryan.”

  I lean over and shake it, because I’m moving on auto-pilot and I’m not sure what else to do. Why does that name sound so familiar?

  “I’m the district attorney, Miss Mitchell. I’m here for a specific purpose, and I’m enlisting the help I need, in whatever form it may present itself. Prisoner. Not. It’s all the same to me. Now why don’t you have a seat and tell me what you know about Blaine McGuire.”

  I square my shoulders and do my best to look unflappable. “I don’t know anything about Blaine McGuire. I’ve never even heard of him.”

  Something bumps the back of my knees: a chair. A glance over my shoulder has me looking into Germain’s eyes.

  “Sit down, Miss Mitchell,” Robert Ryan says.

  I shake my head. “I don’t want to talk to you, and you can’t keep me here. I’m not a prisoner. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  He arches a brow. “No?”

  He pulls out an iPhone and presses something, then slides the thing across the table. I see a video start to flicker over the screen as he says, “Is this not you, entering through a rear door of the premises, an entrance at a federal prison not intended to receive visitors?”

  I realize the moving figure on the screen is Clinton, showing me to the door of the library. And—shit—that’s me. The footage ends as soon as I step inside, and I realize the camera must have been behind me somewhere. Pinned to a tree or something, I guess. The camera wasn’t inside.

  Whew.

  Still, the fact that he has any footage of me breaking rules here is probably bad. I blink at the phone and try to decide what I should say about it. Pretty quickly, I decide nothing. What can I say? I’m not willing to throw Clinton or Beast under the bus, so I simply bite my tongue.

  The DA’s face hardens, and he looks at me like I’m a frustrating five year old. “I’m conducting an investigation into this prison, Miss Mitchell. An investigation that’s about to be official. Into your ex-step father’s activities as warden, and into activities endeavored by the man these people know as Beast. Cal Hammond.” His jaw clenches. “That fuck. There’s something here. And it involves bank accounts and politics and bribery and a very large number of misdeeds by your father and I will get to the bottom of it. So tell me, Annabelle. What do you know about the murder of Blaine McGuire? I think you’ll find you like the outcome better if you tell me what he told you about what happened here last night. Your Beast, that is.” His upper lip curls into a sneer.

  I step back, and the chair I bump makes a screeching noise against the cement floor. “I’m not involved in this—at all—and I’m not about to let myself be talked into something I’m not comfortable with. Let me go, or my family will come looking for me.”

  He laughs. “Your dying mother? Or your little sister? What about the babysitter, Holly? She looks tough for such a skinny girl.”

  My heart stops. I swear, for a full second, every cell inside my body freezes. “How do you know that?” It’s a whisper, because I can’t seem to get my vocal cords to work.

  “I’ve been investigating your ‘Dad—’” the DA bends his fingers into air quotes— “for months. Ever since a little bird told me that a worthless, disgusting, murdering PRISONER was calling all the shots here! There’s something illegal going on here, probably a very many somethings, and I intend to see them prosecuted. Before I’m finished, your father will be behind bars. Starting tomorrow, someone else is in charge here. And your Beast? Your murdering…stud? He’s never getting out of solitary. Not as long as I’m alive and holding this office.”

  He locks his jaw so hard I can almost hear his teeth crack and folds his arms over his chest.

  I want to yell, to argue with him, to defend Beast somehow, or intervene on his behalf, but I can’t seem to move my mouth. At least not rig
ht away. When I can, the words just tumble out.

  “It’s not going to bring her back,” I whisper.

  He leans forward. “What did you say?”

  “Uma.” I clasp my hands together and speak softly. “I know that Uma is your granddaughter. I was there that night. I drove up on the wreck. I know how bad it was…and I know how much it hurts to lose someone you love.” I have to stop and swallow, because the time is coming soon for Mom. I know it is. “But you’re not going to get her back. Not by throwing Be— Cal Hammond into solitary. Not by doing anything.”

  He throws his head back and starts laughing. It sounds so much like a cough, I think if I had my eyes closed, I’d never know the difference. I fold my arms across my chest and watch until he shuts his mouth and the sound stops echoing through the little room. He straightens up and meets my eyes again. His are so cold. So filled with hate and bitterness. “You’re not very bright, are you?”

  I blink. I’m not going to dignify this asshole with an answer.

  “Honey,” he says, “I know I can’t bring the dead back. But I can add to the count. You know what I mean?” His eye quivers. Or maybe that’s him blinking. It looks like a seizure, but I think it’s just pent up fury. After just a second of that horrible, freakish, unhinged look, he stands again and thrusts his hand out. He seals the deal on freakish by giving me a phony grin that looks like it must hurt.

  “Good to see you, Miss Mitchell. Germain will see you out.”

  The guard grabs my arms and snatches them behind my back, and I jerk against him. “No! I want to know what’s going on with Beast!”

  “Germain,” the DA says. His tone is a warning: Get her out of here.

  “I’ll tell Holt about this!” I cry as I’m dragged out of the room.

  “That’s the point, honey.”

  *

  I’m escorted all the way to the security checkpoint by the guard named Germain. When we get there, he asks one of the female checkpoint guards to see me to my car.

  By the time the guard and I are pushing through one of the glass doors that leads to the parking lot, my eyes sting with unshed tears and my chest feels uncomfortably heavy.