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CHAPTERELEVEN
Bad Liar
I hear the sound of the front door opening several hours later, the familiar thump of Beast’s footsteps loud over the wooden flooring in the hallway. He couldn’t be a silent assassin even if he tried. I smile inwardly at that. Beast isn’t someone who hides in the shadows, he’s anin-your-face-and-fuck-you-upkind of guy. I like that about him. Though I’d never tell him that, I wouldn’t want to stroke his ego, it’s already the size of a small country.
“Beast?” I call out, turning on the coffee percolator and leaning against the counter as I wait for him to enter the kitchen. It’s past two in the morning and I’ve not been able to sleep. Partly because of the pain in my side from my bruised rib and partly because my skin still burns from his touch. Despite what he said to me, I’d felt the connection between us, even though he’d denied it.
Fuck, I called him Daddy.
My cheeks heat at the thought, and my clit… Well, she throbs.
The expression on his face just before he twisted on his feet and strode from my room was one of shock, yes, but for a fleeting moment there’d been desire. He’dlikedit. My toes curl at the thought, my freshly painted red toenails scraping against the tiled floor.
“What’re you still doing up?”
I lift my gaze from my bare feet, wishing I’d worn something sexier than a pair of baggy joggers and an old t-shirt, then suck in a sharp breath at the blood pouring from a gash in Beast’s cheek and covering his clothes.
“What the hell happened?” I ask as he places a metal box on the counter and helps himself to a bottle of whisky from the liquor cupboard. Scarlet droplets slide down his face and fall from his chin onto the white tiled floor. I grimace. Nadia, our housemaid, will be cursing him tomorrow. The last time she lost her shit with Beast was when he trampled mud all the way through the house after burying an enemy of my father’s in Bracknell Forest. He was grovelling for weeks for her forgiveness. Nadia doesn’t like a mess and Beast hates pissing her off. It’s kind of cute really, a big guy like him afraid of a little Italian woman.
Unscrewing the cap, Beast takes a long swig. “What do you think happened, Princess?” he growls, swiping the back of his hand across his lips, smearing blood across his face.
“Dougie…?”
“Dead, of course,” he replies, meeting my gaze.
“You took care of the body?” I ask as though we’re talking about the weather and not the fact he’s killed a man. I’m turning into my father. Hard, cold, and completely detached.
“Bodies,” he corrects, chugging some more whisky. “Those fucking pricks who attacked you never stood a chance.”
“You make it sound like I was a victim. They didn’t exactly attack me, wefought. I was winning before you butted in.”
My voice trails off as he glares at me. “You think that matters, Princess? The second they laid a finger on you, their death sentence was set in stone.”
“Where?” I ask flatly.
“The new flyover being built in West London. A friend of mine was pouring concrete in one of the archways.”
“I see, so that’s what you meant by their deaths being set in stone?” It’s not the first time my dad had Beast dump bodies in the concrete foundations of various buildings around London. I’m pretty sure most of the new builds across East London have a body or two buried beneath them.
He chuckles, but it’s a tired kind of sound. “Yeah. Exactly.”
“So what’s in that?” I ask, pointing at the metal box on the counter.
“Hearts.”
“Hearts? What do you mean, hearts?” I ask, looking between him and the metal box. “You’re not suggesting…” My voice trails off when he nods.
“They’re for you.”
“Me?! Why the hell would I want their hearts, Beast?” I screech, my own heart thumping so hard against my rib cage that I swear he can hear it.
“They wronged you so I took their hearts. Just like I promised I would. Though I’m sorry I turned up looking like this,” he apologises, grimacing at the mess he’s making. “Should’ve changed first.”
“Wait, just back up a minute,” I say, holding my hands up as he watches me, a smirk pulling up his lip.
Part of me feels sick at the thought of their hearts sitting in a metal box on the goddamn kitchen counter, but another part of me, a much bigger part, is turned on by it. He brought me their hearts. If that’s not something straight out of a Grimms’ fairy tale, I don’t know what is.
Beast is the hunter of my story, except instead of cutting out the heart of a virgin, he’s cutting out the hearts of her enemies instead.
