Page 29 of Beau and the Beast

Wolfram had positioned himself behind a large ornamental screen to wait for the reporter. He wanted to control their interaction—and he knew that the give and take would be out of his control the minute the man saw him.

He waited, sitting on one of the many large cushions that he'd had commissioned to take the place of chairs in his quarters.

When the door opened, his deeper senses—the beast’s senses—kicked in. He could smell the rest of the penthouse wafting in through the open door—coffee, breakfast foods, the musky scent of Geoffrey and the lighter scents of Alfie and Violet.

But there was a stronger set of scents that came through, flooding his senses, almost overloading him.

Smell had been different for Wolfram since his transformation, had become stronger than before—as strong as sight or hearing. He no longer experienced it as a nose-centered sensation, but rather he could almost taste scents as they washed over the tip of his tongue, the roof of his mouth, flooding his palate.

The reporter smelled like the earth, like ozone after a lightning strike—enormous and profound scents. But under those top notes there was subtlety: a tightly-bound orange blossom about to open, a monarch’s gilded chrysalis in the hour before the butterfly emerged, the skin of a peach one day before it ripened.

Wolfram’s mouth watered and electricity fired through his nerves. Just at the smell of him, Wolfram’s animal senses threatened to take over and he found himself balling his fists, fighting the urge to bound forward into the open.

You are Isidore Bellamy Wolfram Jr., son of Isidore and Cicely Wolfram, born 1970, summa cum laude graduate of the prestigious Goldner School of Business, and you arenotan animal,he insisted to himself, as if the distinctions could provide a barrier against what he truly knew himself to be in that moment.

Why was he losing control? Had time eroded his sense of self, or was this something entirely new?

What the hellisBeau Blake?

* * *

Mr. Wolfram'sstudy was enormous, cavernous, and entirely different from the other rooms in the penthouse.

It was clear that someonelivedhere, spent their days in this room, and had arranged it to suit their own needs exactly, to reflect their preferences.

One side of the room displayed wall-to-wall bookshelves and another had heavy drapes covering what Beau guessed must be large windows. The other walls were covered with art and shadowboxes.

He turned and on the wall behind him was a collection of mounted and preserved butterflies—hundreds of them in different boxes, glass, enamel, wood. Beau was struck by the realization that even in the midst of his anxiety at meeting Mr. Wolfram, he wanted nothing more than to examine them.

The collection reminded him of the science museum that he'd visited so often in his youth with his brother and the other boys from their foster home—but with more butterflies, more vibrant species he’d never seen before, jeweled tones so vivid they almost seemed alive.

No natural light reached the room, but even so the space did not feel oppressive. The study was lit primarily by a modern chandelier in the center of the room, dripping with exposed old-fashioned lightbulbs that gave off a warm glow in a random but beautiful array of cloudy glass shapes.

Beau was struck, next, by the fact that there was no furniture.

There were seating arrangements throughout the space: a low desk with several computer monitors, a reading nook by the bookshelves, a coffee table with a tea set in the center of the room, and what might have been a dining area in one corner. But there was no chair to be found. Instead, the floor was littered with plush cushions—some of them so large that they could've been mattresses.

There were fresh flowers on every horizontal surface, Beau noted. Strange. There hadn't been any flowers elsewhere in the penthouse, but the addition brought a lush life to the room.

It would be easy to forget how cut off you were from nature, Beau thought, if you were surrounded by pink peonies and orchids, tumbling blooms of pieris and king protea.

"Please, make yourself comfortable."

Beau searched for the origin of the voice, his eyes falling at last on a large ornamental screen at the back of the study. It was either protecting the entrance to another room or Mr. Wolfram was sitting just behind it, waiting for him.

A flare for the dramatic, Beau thought with an eye roll.Dually noted.

"Thanks," Beau said.

Instinctively, he slipped off his shoes and left them by the door. He crossed to the low table with a tea set and picked out a cushion, swiping it out from under the table with his foot and then settling down awkwardly. He'd never conducted an interview sitting on the floor before, but apparently, this guy had a real thing for the Japanese home aesthetic.

I'll roll with it,Beau decided. He waited patiently for his host to step out from behind the screen in a full kimono and chonmage, stifling a laugh at the thought.

* * *

Atense minuteticked by before Wolfram felt confident that he was under control of himself. He steeled himself once again to be hated, to be feared, and stepped out from behind the screen.

His aim wasn't to intimidate, though he knew that he had no control over that. He tried to keep his posture curved and non-threatening, his lips closed as best they could be over his sharp canines, claws hidden.

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