Page 96 of Beau and the Beast

“I’m sorry, Beau. Did I hurt you? I—“

“No,” Beau said quickly. “You were about to go through the window.”

Beau hitched his chin, guiding Wolfram to look over his shoulder. Sure enough, the window was shattered, creating a hole just big enough for Wolfram to fit through.

“Good God. You stopped me?”

Beau nodded.

“Yousavedme.”

Beau reached up to cup his cheek and Wolfram leaned into the touch.

“There’s nothing in this world I want more than to keep sitting here in your lap,” Beau said, dropping his eyes, “but we need to get you bandaged up.”

Gently, Beau disengaged, stepping back and then pulling up one of Wolfram’s hands so he could see. There was an ugly gash across the back of Wolfram’s hand and seeing the thing seemed to make the accompanying pain set in.

“I have some things in my room,” Beau offered. “Come on.” He sighed and dragged a hand across his groin before turning to lead Wolfram off.

Wolfram fought disappointment as he sensed Beau’s pulse, his body returning to normal. When the rush of the moment was completely gone, maybe it would be gone forever.

Wolfram looked around for something to cover himself with. Finding only a sheet, he pulled the ripped thing off of the bed and wrapped his waist before following Beau.

The hallway was deserted, but Wolfram still moved quickly between the two doors. He didn’t want to explain to anyone in the penthouse why he’d been sneaking around naked after midnight, why he’d been in the wrecked room.

Wolfram shut the door behind him and Beau crossed the sitting room quickly. Wolfram didn’t move to follow. Entering the room was like walking into a solid wall of Beau’s scent and Wolfram could feel his body reacting, his cock twitching and then hardening again under the sheet. He forced deep breaths into his lungs, hoping he could adjust to the smell, not react so viscerally. He heard running water through the open doors of Beau’s bedroom and forced himself to step in.

Inside the bedroom, Wolfram found a charming disarray. There were books and papers on every horizontal surface, including the bed. There were flowers, too—just little blooms drying and wilting set down here and there, on the table or in a cup of water. Wolfram picked up a peony, recognizing the species as one he’d had in the study a few days prior.

Beau emerged from the bathroom holding a washcloth, a clean cotton shirt draped over his shoulder. He smiled when Wolfram held out the flower.

“Yeah, uh, sorry about that,” he said, blushing. “I’ve stolen a few out of your arrangements when you weren’t looking.”

Wolfram snorted. “We could’ve ordered you your own.”

“But I wanted yours,” Beau said through the smile. “Here, sit down.”

Beau swept papers and a big hard-bound book to the side of the bed, making room for Wolfram. He sat and Beau knelt beside him, taking his hand and then pressing the washcloth over the back of it. While Wolfram dabbed at the wound, Beau sat back on his heels, tearing the clean shirt until he had a long strip.

“I don’t think you’ll need stitches,” Beau said, “but we need to get it bound up.”

Wolfram offered out his clean hand and Beau wrapped it, his movements purposeful and firm, tying the cloth around his palm and the back of his hand.

“There,” he said, apparently satisfied. He took the wet washcloth and the rest of the shirt and disappeared back into the bathroom.

And now what?Wolfram wondered. He should get back to his room. Wolfram turned to stand up but something caught his eye. Among the papers on the bed, there were sketches of familiar faces, papers ripped out of a sketchbook and spread out.

There was Violet, smiling and looking off to one side, her pretty round face easily recognizable. Another page showed Beau looking serious, staring straight out. A third page showed someone Wolfram didn’t recognize, a young man with a scarred face. He smiled but one side of the expression was tugged down at a sharp angle, smooth skin pulled taut in a way that distorted the shape of his eye and mouth.

Noah, Wolfram realized. Even with the extensive scarring, Beau’s brother was handsome. Beau had rendered him with an impish expression on his face, his hair longer than Beau’s, sweeping across his forehead. He looked rakish, interesting—and Wolfram wondered with a pang of regret if he’d ever be able to meet Noah.

Wolfram drew a sharp breath when he came to a drawing of himself.

He almost didn’t believe it, at first. The man on the page looking back at him was smiling—his smile, in fact, was the first thing Wolfram saw: broad and white with full lips, a smile that seemed to take over his face, to be reflected in his eyes and the head held high. Beau had rendered him with a thick jaw, high cheekbones looking noble.

In the sketch, Wolfram looked like a benevolent king, regal and proud.

The parts of him that were different—the fangs, the fur, the horns—were merely suggested, sketched with less accuracy than the details of his eyes, the planes of his face. It didn’t look as if Beau had tried tominimizethe inhuman parts of him—they merely weren’t the details he was concerned with.

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