Page 42 of Beau and the Beast

"As am I," Wolfram interrupted. "I believe we should start over tomorrow."

"Start over? You want me to scrap everything I've planned today?"

"You'll lose a day," Wolfram said. "You're being compensated for it."

"But this is where the heart of the story is—it's a way for people to understand who you are," Beau protested.

"If the only way to be understood is through the lens of pity, I'm not interested in it."

Wolfram spun on his heel, walking toward the closed door at the back of the study. In an instant, he was gone, and Beau knew he'd been dismissed.

* * *

Wolfram had trustedBeau instantly and far too much—he realized that now.

He'd grown too soft after being with the same people for so many years. Before he'd been banished to his penthouse, his shrewdness had always served him well and he must not forget that.

Wolfram left the study in anger and made his way toward the gym that he’d had installed in their third year of captivity in the penthouse.

The staff had access to the outdoors—albeit through one very small space. They could stand out on the balcony overlooking the New Whitby skyline. They could feel the sun on their faces if they wanted, or the rain. They rarely took advantage of the space, but sometimes one of them took a chance and stood outside for just a few minutes.

But Wolfram could take no such chances. If anyone saw him, his life would be over. He would have no privacy, would be breaking news around the world—and he would be dragged out of the penthouse, into the world where he would die. It would be the end of everything. He barely felt comfortable getting close to windows, even knowing that he couldn't be seen during the day with the windows' super-reflective coating.

After several years of being a prisoner in his own castle, Wolfram had finally grown tired of inactivity. He'd always been a fit man before his curse, had engaged in running and weightlifting to keep himself in the best shape possible. But after his transformation and therefore his imprisonment in his own penthouse, he'd allowed himself to grow lazy.

He'd had the staff draw up plans for a gym. They'd been relieved by the idea, and so he'd granted them the space and budget to make one for themselves. The parallel gyms were outfitted with "endless" pools, short little pools with jets installed to allow the swimmer to exercise for as long as they wanted—like a treadmill for the water. They had treadmills, too, though Wolfram's own model had to be made specially to handle his nearly four hundred pounds of weight and the wideness of his body. The contractors hadn't asked questions. They'd just accepted the money, shown up, and installed everything exactly the way that the staff had laid it out for them.

There was something meditative for Wolfram about swimming and running in his own private gym. He could almost imagine that he was outdoors, free to do whatever he wanted.

But today, he went into the room seeking an outlet for his anger.

He stripped off the vest he'd worn through their interview and stepped onto the wide belt of the modified treadmill. One of the very few pleasures he had now was found in the fact that his beastly body could outperform his human one on every level. He could swim faster, hold his breath longer, lift more weight, and run like a lion chasing down its supper.

He tapped the digital input to start the treadmill, dialing in 10 miles per hour to warm up and trotting on the belt with his bare feet.

Aside from his horns, he considered his feet the most animal-like part of himself. They were like a man's foot but stretched long and covered in a soft fur with wicked-looking claws that he had to file down judiciously since they didn't retract and would get caught on surfaces.

But they were tougher than a man's feet and provided him with better balance. His bones were thick, muscles swollen and powerful even after long periods of disuse.

In spite of his own deep loathing for his body, it feltgoodto use it in this way.

He couldn't say the same for some of the other enhancements that he experienced.

His sense of smell, for one, had lulled Wolfram into a sense of false security with Beau.

Halfway through their day before, Wolfram realized that Beau was the type of man that he would've fallen over himself to seduce before his curse.

He was young, beautiful in a striking and unique way, and witty. Exactly the sort of arm-candy that his Wall Street peers would've salivated over—and better still because of his apparent innocence, naivety.

Wolfram’s peers always loved having something to tarnish, chewing up someone's view of the world so that when they left, in the end, the man or woman would forever be a little scarred by the trajectory their relationship had taken.

Men and women like Beau were rare. They were so unlike the people who seemed to be pros at finding and dating millionaires. Not sex workers, but those ones who didn't have much of a profession outside of looking good and being charming.

Beau, on the other hand, represented the ideal that they all so desperately tried to emulate.

A decade ago, Wolfram would've wanted Beau so badly that he would've let nothing stand in his way.

He would've pursued Beau doggedly, promised him anything to get him into bed.

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