Page 92 of Beau and the Beast

He was splayed on his belly on top of his bed, halfway through a bust of Wolfram when Beau gave in to sleep and fantasy, napping there.

* * *

Wolfram forced himself to exercise. Perhaps the only way to get past the morose mood he felt would be to push his body so far that his mind stopped thinking for a few minutes.

He loped along on the wide band of the treadmill and when he fell into a comfortable pace, he pushed himself faster. Fifteen miles an hour and then twenty, an all-out gallop.

Wolfram was acutely aware of the power of his muscles as he ran. He felt like he could run at that speed for an hour—for more—and he knew it was inhuman. He wasn’t a man. Beau was wrong.

Wolfram could’ve killed him. He’d been lying to himself when he said that he maintained any modicum of control in moments like those and during the times when he went sleepwalking.

He’d hit Beau. He’d hurt him. He’d put Beau into danger—and for what? So that he could indulge in some softness that he felt for the man?

Because surely it isn’t love,Wolfram told himself.If you cared for Beau, you wouldn’t put him in danger.

Wolfram panted, pounding the treadmill, pushing the pace. He could still hear the anger in Beau’s voice—the only thing that had been able to reach him when he’d been too deep in the moment.

“Isidore Wolfram. Jr! Get it together! What are you doing?”

The words had pierced the miasma of fear and animal instinct and Wolfram had been suddenly aware of himself again, the way he’d clung to the edge of the bed on all fours and bared his teeth. He could still see the look on Beau’s face when he’d come out of it, all those soft edges gone hard, eyes flashing.

He was fearless and that meant that he was a danger to himself.

No.Wolfram was the danger. Beau’s fearlessness made him vulnerable.

You must send him away.

The thought sent Wolfram tripping over his own feet, scrambling to grab the sides of the treadmill and keep himself upright. He shut the machine down as fast as he could, gasping for breath.

Finally, the belt stopped. The room grew deadly quiet. Wolfram slouched.

The only thing he could do was send Beau away. He’d send themallaway if he could—but at least he could do this one thing for Beau. Wolfram could protect him.

Misery rose like bile in his belly as Wolfram made his way back to his room.

There was a selfishness inside of him that he hadn’t acknowledged in weeks and Wolfram found himself wrestling with it after the decision.

You’ve had everything taken from you—you deserve this one thing. You deserve Beau.

But the thought was absurd. Wolfram didn’t deserve a thing that he had. He hadn’t earned someone like Beau, as if the man was some sort of prize for not being the same brand of horrible that Wolfram had been before he was cursed.

And so even as the base part of himself railed against it, Wolfram was resolute in the decision. His happiness wasn’t worth putting Beau in danger by keeping him in the penthouse, where Wolfram could lose control at any minute.

In this one thing, he thought,I must be selfless.

When he was showered and dressed again, Wolfram sat down to work through his language lessons for the day.

This would be his life. He’d be alone as the last few weeks ticked down until the curse ended, until he died and his staff was freed.

What a great cruelty it was to have known Beau in these final days. What had Wolfram done to deserve this last blow? Maybe he had unknowingly been sent by the same witch as some kind of final insult. Beau had given him a taste of happiness, of friendship, of pleasure—of things sweeter than what he’d had even before the curse—and now, in making the only sound and caring decision he could, Wolfram’s days would be made sadder by the memory of happiness.

It wasn’t fair. He’d suffered enough. He’d repented and atoned. What more could he do to escape this?

Wolfram didn’t realize that he’d gripped the edge of the desk with his claws out until he heard the wood splinter and break. The realization only made him angrier, made him close his grip until the wood groaned and cracked and he came away with shards of the fine cedar in his hands.

He dropped the wood and dust to the floor, frowning, hopeless. Hewasan animal. Hewaslosing control.

Wolfram would tell him to leave first thing in the morning, when Beau came to the study.

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