Page 55 of Beau and the Beast

"There's no reason why you should sequester yourself away," Beau said. "You've made yourself a second prison inside of a prison—and worse, you've put yourself into solitary confinement."

"You're my biographer, not my therapist," Wolfram pointed out.

"Even a writer can see that it's not healthy, the way you sit in here alone."

"I don't have much choice."

"Bullshit," Beau said. "There are five people here with you and I've only ever seen you speak to one of them. And I've enjoyed having dinner with them."

There was a long pause. Beau looked up. "It would make me happy if you would join us tonight."

Whether or not Beau knew that this admission was a secret weapon remained to be seen, but Wolfram could feel his resolve crumbling. Still, the reasons why he didn't want to endure the meal together were innumerable.

"It's humiliating," Wolfram said,

"There's nothing humiliating about eating dinner with the people who share your home," Beau said.

Maybe Beau couldn't imagine it because he'd never seen it for himself.

Maybe the only way he could convince Beau that he had made the right choice all these years was to let him see in real time what the alternative was.

Wolfram sighed and tapped a claw against the table.

"One meal," he said finally. "I'll come for one meal."

Chapter Eleven

Beau wasproud of the dinner he'd prepared for the staff. He'd made vegetarian enchiladas so many times back home that he could do it in his sleep, but making his favorite meal in the penthouse kitchen was an entirely different affair. He'd given Violet a shopping list at lunchtime, and she'd made sure that he was supplied with the freshest ingredients, exactly what he had asked for.

While the finished enchiladas were warming in the oven, he moved on to tackle Wolfram's dinner. Violet had tried to be tasteful when describing what Wolfram ate—which, it turned out, was mostly very rare meat. She'd hemmed and hawed and danced around the truth and it had begun to drive Beau crazy.

"Raw meat, Violet," he'd said finally. "You're saying that he needs to eat raw meat."

It became clear through the conversation that this was the point she was getting at—but also that Wolfram detested being reminded that he was so physically different from the others. He insisted that all of his meat be cooked (even if it was laughably rare).

Beau could imagine why Wolfram resisted it so much. Being served up raw meat stacked on a tray would make him feel like a zoo animal. It would've madeanyonefeel abnormal. So Beau resolved to do his best to serve Wolfram a dinner that he could feel proud of eating.

* * *

At the timeBeau had told him to, Wolfram left his wing of the penthouse.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd left his study.

Well. The last time he'd left voluntarily to do anything but exercise.

With his sleepwalking, he'd left his little safe haven much more often than he had in the past.

But he only had vague impressions of the time when he'd been woken up, when his staff had pulled him back into the safety of the penthouse and ushered him to his own chambers.

Tonight was different. Wolfram was leaving his study with purpose.

He'd done his best to smooth his fur and work the snarls out of his mane. He’d filed down the claws on his feet and selected the charcoal breeches and vest that reminded him of the fine suits he used to wear, tucking a pocket square into the vest in a weak attempt to feel more formal. Even though he'd felt like a moron doing it, he'd polished his horns until the ugly things gleamed like obsidian.

If he had to face the rest of them as a monster, he would be a clean and pleasant monster within the best of his abilities.

He felt like he was preparing for a date with someone he desperately wanted to impress.

(Which, he supposed on some level, was exactly what he was doing.)

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