4. Elle

ELLE

T he tips of my fingers trace the raised edges of the scar on my shoulder. I stare in the mirror at the small red marks that are proof that the beast really touched me. More than touched me. With the faint smell of fresh bread filtering in the back room and the clash of pans fading in the background, I sigh deeply and close my eyes as I recall the aching feel of his hard chest against my back. His warm breath teasing my neck. The sharp sting as his fangs nip my tender flesh. His hands expertly playing my body against me. A shiver runs down my body as I remember the passion I felt. In an attempt to steady my quickened breath, I brace myself against the sink. In my dreams, I imagine it was the prince. My eyes find the scar in the mirror. I know better though; a beast did this to me.

I should be dead. Why didn't he kill me? I wasn't myself when I crept past the gates and into the clutches of the beast. The trance took me there. The thought is terrifying. I couldn't resist the magic of the beast. The horror of that knowledge has kept me far from the edge of the village. My heart sinks and my blood runs cold. No one has gone to the castle, no one that's still alive to tell the tale. Everyone fears the magic and even more so the beast. And yet, I did so foolishly.

This dark secret consumes me. I haven't told a soul, and I don't intend to. But every night I lay awake replaying the event and having the horrific thought that in my sleep, I'll be entranced by the magic and walk back to the wall.

Chills flow down my arms. I not only ventured past the wall; I let him have me and I survived his embrace. I thrived at his touch. I've never before felt the touch of a man. Yet I blossomed under the hands of a beast. My thighs clench as my core heats at the recollection. What's worse is that I want to feel him again . I ache to feel his hands on my body. Gripping at my blouse, I pull the fabric back up in an attempt to cover the scar and turn back toward the storage room. The desire to seek out the beast is only just shy of my fear of him and what he's capable of. My life may seem pitiful to some, but I don't have a death wish.

I know what he's capable of doing. The bench groans as I rest on the edge of it, recalling the lure all over again. When I was in school, two older boys were bragging about how they were going to go to the wall. How they weren't afraid of the beast. Instead of warning them not to go, the other kids insisted they were lying. They told the boys they'd need proof. The boys foolishly grinned and boasted that they would bring back evidence of their conquest. That was the last day anyone saw them.

My throat closes and I restrain myself from going back to that place of regret. I pull the stained apron over my lap and hold onto it as if it could change what happened. I've felt so guilty for not pleading with them to stay away. I was too shy and embarrassed. Too skeptical that there was a beast. Although the thought of him kept me far away and I thought, perhaps, that's why the adults had invented the idea of him. To keep us from going too far away. The other kids didn't seem to have the same fear of the wall that I did. I felt like a coward as the two boys bragged about their intent, so I kept my lips shut tight and swallowed the need to tell them it was too dangerous. But after that day, there was more than enough fear and guilt to keep anyone else from suggesting to ever go near the wall. Or daring to think the beast didn't exist.

A loud crash in the kitchen brings me back to reality. With a startling jolt, I jump and quickly cover the mark before tying my apron in place. The dreadful thoughts cling to me all the while. With one last reminder that I'm at work and have responsibilities, I brace myself for the long day ahead. After all, the dough won't knead itself.

Another loud bang and a hushed curse greet me as I open the backdoor. It creaks gently although I'm not sure the older woman heard me come in.

"Are you all right, Ara?" I peek my head around the corner and into the small kitchen, careful not to overstep. Ara is a petite blond woman with streaks of white throughout her locks and a natural beauty. She's the epitome of motherly strength, and that's exactly what she's been to me since my own mother passed. Her lips purse as she clutches her hand. She doesn't have to respond for me to know she's not all right. I wince as she places her hand in the bucket of cool water meant to rinse the knives.

"The oven bit me," she responds playfully. Her hands have several burn scars on them from years of baking and mishaps in the kitchen. She looks up at me with a little smile playing on her lips. It must not have gotten her too bad if she's in good humor.

"Do you need any help?" I make my way to my small area of flour on a cutting board to continue my work but find the dough already kneaded. It's resting in a bowl with a thin cloth laying gently across the top. I'm only slightly surprised; I wasn't gone long but Ara is one to step in if she feels anything is behind.

"Is there more?" I'm quick to ask.

With a shake of her head, a defeated sigh leaves me. "No worries, my dear." She dips her fingers in a cup of cold water before looking back at me. "Could you clean up the front though?"

"Of course," I answer and return her simper.

I'm grateful to have any income at all. Especially one at the bakery. Ara lets me take home the stale bread. It's rare that any goes unsold, but if it does, she allows me to bring it home.

There's a constant dusting of flour throughout the bakery. Cleaning up the front is a task that will take all day, but I'm more than happy to do it. I strive to earn my keep.

Turning on my heels, I head to the front of the shop, the bay windows letting in more light than what's offered in the kitchen. Back to real life where I'm just the baker's helper and the candlemaker's daughter.

After taking stock of what will need mending, I walk out the back door to the well. My flats are worn almost too thin, and every small pebble is felt under my feet. I pump water into a bucket on the ground beneath the spout. With the heavy bucket in one hand and a rag in the other, a sigh leaves me. It's been three days since I last wiped everything down and it's in dire need of cleaning already. There's a small dusting of flour on every surface. It will take me all day. All day of silence, left alone with nothing but a mindless task and thoughts that refuse to let me sleep. If only I could tell someone. If only I could make the thoughts of the beast stop.

Just as I raise my hand to remove a basket of biscuits from the top shelf behind the counter, the front door opens with a groan and the ding of the bell. I turn to greet our customer with a smile, but my smile nearly falls as I see Lord Crawe giving me a cocky grin as his eyes travel down my body. I swallow tightly at his obvious craving.

Although he's more than twice my age, Lord Crawe's rather attractive. I suppose I've always been attracted to older men though. Something about the hint of silver at the temples and small wrinkles that form around knowing eyes, it just calls to me so much more than a smooth and charming appearance. The light stubble lining his strong jaw adds to his masculine appeal. The women are always gossiping—it's really the only thing to do in this town—and they say Lord Crawe and the prince were the most handsome men in all the village in their youth. They looked so much alike, many would've sworn they were twins if they didn't know any better.

He may be classically handsome, but I would never return his flirtatious tone. His sexual depravity is well known, and I do my best to steer clear of him. So much so that the dread I felt only moments ago returns fiercely, demanding my heart to race. He's often taken advantage of many of his servants, letting them go once he's had his fill. Only a few weeks ago he offered me a position paying almost double what the bakery pays me. But I kindly declined. I do not wish to be alone with him and there was no mistaking that his intentions were for me to be just that.

From what I gather in the years of whispers, Lord Crawe was the king's regent and the prince's closest confidant. If anyone has information on the beast, it would be him. When the village first rose against the beast, Lord Crawe put up a valiant effort in the name of vengeance for the prince, but he failed to kill the beast. It's rumored the beast nearly ripped out the lord's throat with his massive fangs, but the arrival of the townspeople sent the beast running for the castle, escaping with near fatal injuries. My eyes stare at the faint scar on Lord Crawe's neck.

Or so the story goes…but with rumors and gossip and tales as old as the town itself, I'm not certain what is true, and I keep my curious thoughts to myself.

After he propositioned me, I was hoping to avoid this man, but in this moment a small part of me wants to engage in conversation with him. To question and pry…I want him to tell me about the beast. Anything that he knows and everything he's willing to confide.

With my throat tight and my fingers twiddling in the fabric of my apron, I purse my lips at the thought. Lord Crawe isn't a man that would do anything without something in return. And I'm unwilling to pay the price he demands of me. I keep my lips sealed tight as I make my way toward him, my footsteps padding against the wooden floor. I will find someone else to divulge the secrets of the beast and my enchantment with him.

"How are you, my lord?" I greet him with the tip of my head, steadying myself in front of the bucket and folding my hands in front of me.

"Elle," is all he offers me, his tone deep and masculine. A heat of embarrassment flows over my skin as I wait for more, but nothing comes.

I haven't told a soul what happened. I haven't dared to admit that I was foolish enough to venture into the woods. That I let the magic weave into my mind and limbs, taking me closer to the beast. I'm not even sure if they would believe me, even with his mark on my skin. It's unbelievable that I survived. And like I said, this town likes to gossip and I'm not one to seek out that kind of attention.

"What can I do for you today, Lord Crawe?" I ask as politely as I can, my voice slightly shaken. I'm still a bit resentful from the way our last encounter ended.

"Please, call me Gavin." I'd really rather not, but I don't want to be rude.

"What can I do for you, Gavin?" My cheeks blush involuntarily. I'm sure he's used to hearing those words from his servants, and the moment I realize that, I wish I could take them back. The handsome bastard has the nerve to widen his smile and lick his lips. Some women would swoon over the look he gives me; at this very moment it makes me want to run. He's a predator in every sense of the word. And I'm his prey.

He leans across the table, too close for my comfort, and lays his hand palm upward, brushing my fingers. I inwardly cringe, but I force my body to stay still. "You would make a beautiful wife, Elle." My name lingers on his tongue and it doesn't feel right.

I pull my hand away and fiddle with my fingers behind my back. I can't meet his eyes, so instead I stare at the smooth hand still open on the table. Wife? I have far too much respect for myself than to be married to someone as debauched as Lord Crawe. I part my lips to speak and attempt to harden my features, but his words stop my protest before it begins.

"I'm sure your father would agree to my proposal. Would he not?" I meet his questioning gaze and falter. He is quite handsome and I would never have to worry financially, but it would not be love. And I hope when I marry, my husband would be faithful to me. I purse my lips in response. I will have to tell my father immediately that I'm not interested, that I cannot be wed to a man who treats women as he does. Surely if I tell him I don't want to be married to Lord Crawe, then he will respect my wishes. Wouldn't he?

I give him a tight smile and clasp my hands in front of me. "I thought you were interested in taking me on as a servant, Lord Crawe? My father didn't think highly of that proposition." In truth, I hadn't told my father of the interaction or offer. I was mortified and I knew my father would be upset by the proposal as well.

"I asked you to call me Gavin, Elle." He admonishes me with a cold tone and narrowed eyes while removing his hand. "I'll speak to your father to clear up that misunderstanding." His eyes linger on my breasts as he speaks. I just barely resist the urge to cover them. All the while my heart races as if it's trying to escape and my body begs me to move. To be anywhere other than in this room with him. I pray he doesn't speak with my father before I return home tonight. I need to make him fully aware that I don't want to be given to Lord Crawe. Fear pricks along my skin at the realization that he'll most likely see my father before me. I push the apprehension down and square my shoulders.

"What was the misunderstanding exactly?" I ask.

The sly grin appears on his face once again. "I realize you're far too beautiful to let slip through my fingers. I hope I didn't offend you with the job offer." He waves his hand in the air. "It was merely an attempt to get to know you better."

I raise my brows at his ridiculous response. I'm sure he wants to get to know some of me better, if his returning gaze to my breasts is any indication. I'm not certain what to say in response so I decide to simply ignore it. I place my splayed hand across my chest and clear my throat. When his eyes find mine, I give him a tight smile and ask, "Is there anything I can do for you today, Gavin ?"

He smiles and nods. "Biscuits. A half dozen, if you'd be so kind." His baby blue gaze rakes my body the entire time he speaks. With my teeth clenched together, I squash my need to huff and turn my back to him while I gather the biscuits in a freshly cleaned cloth.

"Anything else I can get you from the bakery?" I ask with my back still turned to him. I breathe in sharply and jump at the firm touch to the small of my back. My body goes rigid.

He lets out a low, rough chuckle at my response and leans down to whisper, "Not today, Elle. But soon." The hot breath at my neck isn't welcomed. Neither is the threat. I turn quickly and press my back against the wall, pushing the biscuits into his chest.

"Ara!" I call out, nearly breathless. "We need more biscuits!" My heart pounds in my chest, but my face is devoid of emotion. I won't let him see how frightened I am of him. I can't be his wife. I won't. He laughs at my efforts and takes the biscuits from my hands, brushing my fingers with his as he does.

"I'll speak with you soon." His eyes search mine, but I don't offer him a response. As Ara makes her way through the kitchen, he leaves two silvers on the table, turns, and leaves with purposeful strides. It's only when the bell chimes that I let out a breath I didn't even know I was holding. The kitchen door opens with a telltale creak and Ara observes the shelf, nearly full of baked goods still.

"Are you sure? Have we sold all two dozen already?" Ara glances at the shelf above my head before shaking her head. "Are you holding these for someone?" She questions me while pointing to a basket full of biscuits, but I'm finding it difficult to respond. My heart feels like it's falling and uncertainly swarms me.

He wants me to be his wife.

He will ask my father and…I don't know what my father will agree to.

A chill flows down my body and my legs weaken. I will have no say. Women do not choose their husbands. I can't control my expression in front of Ara; I don't try to, either. A look of shock and then worry crosses her face. "Elle, dear, are you all right?"

At her concern, I shake my head. "I feel faint." I don't want to tell her about Lord Crawe. It's one thing for me to hint at my distaste for him, it's another to speak ill of a lord. "I think I need to go home."

"Of course, of course." Her voice is gentle as she pats my shoulders while her eyes linger on the silver and then dart to the door. Her lips purse and anger storms her eyes. As I said, she's the epitome of motherly strength, but she knows just as well as I do that there's nothing she can do if Lord Crawe can persuade my father.