Beauty of the Beast
Fairy Tale Retellings, #1
By Rachel L. Demeter
Release Date: March 15, 2017
Genres: Adult,
Historical Romance, Fairy Tale Retellings, Gothic Romance
🌹 Special $2.99 sale price through March 19th 🌹
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🌹 Synopsis 🌹
A
BEAST LIVING IN THE SHADOW OF HIS PAST
Reclusive
and severely scarred Prince Adam Delacroix has remained hidden inside a
secluded, decrepit castle ever since he witnessed his family’s brutal massacre.
Cloaked in shadow, with only the lamentations of past ghosts for company, he
has abandoned all hope, allowing the world to believe he died on that tragic
eve twenty-five years ago.
A
BEAUTY IN PURSUIT OF A BETTER FUTURE
Caught
in a fierce snowstorm, beautiful and strong-willed Isabelle Rose seeks shelter
at a castle—unaware that its beastly and disfigured master is much more than he
appears to be. When he imprisons her gravely ill and blind father, she bravely
offers herself in his place.
BEAUTY
AND THE BEAST
Stripped
of his emotional defenses, Adam’s humanity reawakens as he encounters a kindred
soul in Isabelle. Together they will wade through darkness and discover beauty
and passion in the most unlikely of places. But when a monster from Isabelle’s
former life threatens their new love, Demrov’s forgotten prince must emerge
from his shadows and face the world once more…
Perfect for fans of Beauty and the Beast and The Phantom of the Opera, Beauty of the Beast brings a familiar and well-loved fairy tale to life with a rich setting in the kingdom of Demrov and a captivating, Gothic voice.
Perfect for fans of Beauty and the Beast and The Phantom of the Opera, Beauty of the Beast brings a familiar and well-loved fairy tale to life with a rich setting in the kingdom of Demrov and a captivating, Gothic voice.
Beauty
of the Beast is the first standalone installment in a series of classic fairy
tales reimagined with a dark and realistic twist.
Disclaimer: This is an edgy retelling
of the classic fairy tale. Due to strong sexual content, profanity, and dark
subject matter, including an instance of sexual assault committed by the
villain, Beauty of the Beast is not intended for readers under the age of 18.
Book Trailer
Teasers
Excerpt
~ Isabelle bravely takes her papa’s place ~
Quite a while later,
as Isabelle relaxed and soaked in the hearth’s warmth, she found herself
nodding off to sleep.
Her mind detached from
the stress of the past few days and receded to another time and place. She
recalled her journeys with Papa when she’d been little more than a girl. All
the villages they’d passed through; all the faces they’d seen. She thought of
reading fairy tales beneath a bejeweled sky, of leaning against a mountain of
crates as Papa pointed out the constellations and their eternal stories—
Rattling seized her
attention and ruptured her thoughts. She peered at Papa, who was carefully
examining his teacup. Not with his sightless eyes, of course—but with wandering
fingertips. The same impressive coat of arms engraved the fine proclaim; Papa
ran his weathered fingers over its surface, clearly in awe of the raised gold
decorations and studded gems. The thing must have cost a small fortune. Indeed,
she’d never beheld such finery. Even the wares Papa had once sold paled in
comparison. The faded brim of his top hat hung low and covered his glassy eyes.
Then her mouth went
dry as he slipped the teacup inside his coat.
Has he gone mad—or
simply grown that desperate? It was completely unlike Papa to steal. How could he—and
after being shown hospitality?
Her outcry startled
him. He half leapt from the chair—and Isabelle watched in horror as the teacup
tumbled out from the coat. It rattled and rolled onto the stone ground,
shattering into a million pieces.
A gloved hand broke
through the darkness, quicker than a lightning strike. The hooded figure
emerged from the shadows and seized Papa by his cravat. His other hand clasped
a branch of flickering candles. The illumination flashed across the dark folds
of his cloak, soaking him in a pool of light.
“Stealing from me, are
you? Breaking my family’s keepsakes?” A sharp jerk forced Papa to his feet. The
rough movement sent the top hat tumbling from his head and onto the stone
floor. Papa’s waxen features melted into an expression of horror and confusion.
Her heart pounding,
Isabelle lunged forward and frantically cried out, “Let him alone! It was an accident.
Don’t you see that you’re frightening him?”
“Good.” The simple
declaration threw Isabelle into stunned silence. Papa called out for her as the
man strode from the sitting room, his solid legs eating up the ground in swift,
decisive strides. Mon Dieu, he was physically dragging Papa through
the castle.
This isn’t happening.
It cannot be…
“Stop it! Stop it
now—you monster!” Isabelle picked up her skirts and frantically chased after
them. Parts of the castle were dark and unkempt, causing her to trip several
times over wayward pieces of furniture. Her heart violently pounded in her
ears. The man moved impressively fast; between his agile stride and sweeping
cloak, he almost appeared to float through the corridors. Plopping onto the
stone floor, his dog gave up trying to keep pace. Dust motes rose and fell in
midair like ashes, obscuring her vision. She followed the branch’s
illumination, watching as the candlelight threw prisms along the walls and
floor.
“Please, monsieur.
Have mercy, I beg you! He didn’t know any better. He's not in his right mind.
He would never—”
“No one steals from
me.” His low voice echoed in the darkness, steady as a war drum.
Isabelle felt herself
descending. She ducked as she crossed a low archway, where she was met with a
steep flight of stairs. A mouth into Hell. The ceiling lurked unusually low and
was strung with cobwebs. Isabelle hiked up her skirts, which were now a filthy
mess, and raced down the decayed steps. The hooded figure kept a swift pace
while she desperately pursued Papa’s frightened cries.
Plagued by the
darkness, Isabelle tripped and crashed down the stone steps. Pain cascaded
through her body, knocking the breath from her lungs. Her skinned knees and
elbows throbbed, her heart pounded, her head burned. She spared a moment to
catch her breath as she struggled to her feet and resumed her vain quest.
Papa’s muffled pleas and the sound of slamming bars ripped at
her very soul.
The dank dungeon was
nearly black. She slowed her pace, moving toward a beam of light at the far
end. Rats the size of kittens scurried across the stone floor and filled the
darkness with their terrible squeaking. Her heart thudding, Isabelle rushed
through the maze of cells, following Papa’s voice and that flickering light.
Chains and crude-looking objects littered the ground—torture devices from a
past age, she realized with a shudder.
She found them.
Papa was grasping the
rusted bars; disoriented and frightened, he was murmuring incoherent pleas.
Tears fell from his sightless eyes, though Isabelle knew he fought to restrain
them. The branch of candles sat in front of the cell, its wavering light
illuminating his terrified expression.
“Forgive me. I have
wronged you when you showed my daughter and me hospitality and mercy. Please,
monsieur!”
The man towered before
him, silent and still. His long arms remaining crossed, he stood with his lean
torso straighter than a broadsword. His hood was drawn back, though Isabelle
couldn’t see his face from her angle.
“Papa, I’m here,” she
said beneath the weight of a strained breath.
“I-Isabelle?”
Not sparing a moment,
she dashed over to the cell—and the man slowly rotated into sight.
Except he resembled
more of a beast than any man she’d ever seen.
Isabelle clamped both
hands over her mouth and forced her eyes away. The sight burned—and the inferno
in his gaze only kindled that fire.
Half of his face
looked monstrously twisted; charred mounds of puckered flesh distorted the
features beyond any recognition, draining him of all traces of humanity. Those
heaps of burned, leather-like skin gleamed and glistened in the candlelight.
His hairline receded on the left side of his face and slanted high above a
shriveled ear.
Under the severe
scarring, his age was more or less indistinguishable—though Isabelle guessed he
wasn’t a day under thirty-five.
But his eyes were
breathtaking. Two brilliant sapphires. There was also a great sadness and anger
in those eyes, as if he’d suffered more than his share of original sin. Alas,
as she gazed into his eyes, all she saw was blue ice—an endless, arctic
landscape of cold desolation.
The man turned away,
appearing greatly affected by her stare, and hastily rearranged the hood. His
scarred hands trembled as he smoothed down the cloak’s thick folds.
“Release him,” she
demanded. “He didn’t mean any harm. I—”
“No one meddles with
my family’s possessions. He can rot down here as my prisoner. He ought to count
himself fortunate that I haven’t taken his hand.”
“Your prisoner?
This... this is a mistake! You must believe me. He’d never—”
A deep, husky chuckle
cut through her plea. “Even so.”
“Please. Just let him
out.”
“It’s too late for
that.” Those words seemed to speak volumes. He exhaled a long breath, and
Isabelle watched as it unfurled against the darkness in a cloud.
Silence.
“Why... why are you so
angry? Why must you be so hateful? So cruel?”
“If I let him go,” he
said at length, “what can you offer in return?” Isabelle couldn’t find her
tongue. She wandered directly in front of the cell, almost in a lucid trance,
and clasped the cold bars. Papa was huddled in the corner now, coughing and
shivering. Guilt, unlike anything she’d known before, pulsated through her.
I’m to blame for this.
And if Papa stays here, he’ll die well within a fortnight, likely much sooner…
“Get out of my sight.”
The man’s voice jarred Isabelle from her inward stupor. She turned to him and
stepped forward, raising her chin at a defiant angle.
I am not so easily
broken or frightened.
I am a survivor.
She scanned her empty,
dank surroundings: the cold stone walls, sweeping cobwebs, and blazing branch
of candles. Despair encased her. Stark emptiness. She dared to step closer
while a faint trace of pity bloomed inside her heart.
They stood centimeters
apart. Heat radiated from the man’s body, surrounding her, immersing her.
Isabelle vainly searched for softness in him, but only a dark, embittered
spirit reached her. She stared up at his towering frame and gestured for him to
bow forward. He hesitated, then did as she commanded. Her hands shook, damn
her, as she peeled back his hood and met that piercing gaze again.
Half of his face was
handsome—devastatingly so. In her twenty-two years of life, she’d never beheld
such haunting beauty.
Jet‑black waves, rich
and flowing, framed the chiseled lines of his startling features. Stubble
peppered the strong curve of his jawline and shadowed a smooth, sculpted
cheekbone. The right side of his face was striking, beautiful—a stark contrast
to its wrecked counterpart. And within those patrician angles and intense eyes,
she encountered his humanity.
His was a face of
inconsistencies. Complex. Damaged. Predatory. And more than a bit intriguing.
“I will stay with
you,” she heard herself whisper. “In my father’s place.”
“Isabelle—no! I forbid
it!”
The man folded long,
strong arms across his broad chest. His gaze crawled down her face and settled
on the rise of her breasts—planting directly on her silver cross.
“I demand he’s seen by
the finest of physicians.”
“Isabelle! Listen to
me! I’m an old man. I’m dying. I—”
The man’s dark,
strangely erotic voice cut through the cellar, and his eyes whipped back to her
own with a startling force. “As my mistress.”
“What?”
“You must stay here as
my mistress. For as long as I demand. Perhaps forever.”
Forever.
The word rang with a
note of finality.
“Please, Isabelle! I
beg you. Don’t do this!”
How could I endure it?
“Do as I say and your
father shall safely return home.” He waved his cloaked arms with a magician’s
delicate grace. “Your father—whatever family you may have—shall want for
nothing. A house, clothing, anything they require. You only need to say the
word. Your father will be under my protection—under the care of nurses and
physicians—until his last breath.”
Isabelle briefly
recalled what—and who—was waiting for her back in Ruillé. This fate wouldn’t be
much worse. This desolate castle could serve as the perfect hideout. Papa would
live in France, free from Raphael’s clutches and in the hands of the world’s
greatest physicians…
“How... how can I
trust you?” And does he even have the wealth to uphold such a promise?
“You cannot.”
She had faith Papa
would send help once his health recovered. Or she’d find a way out, means of
escape. In the interim, she would survive this grim castle and whatever horrors
it concealed.
Papa would not. The
castle would crush him beneath its dark heel in a matter of days.
Isabelle glanced at
Papa again, then stared into the man’s brilliant eyes. There, lurking within
those expressive depths, she found the softness she’d pursued minutes before.
She sucked in her
breath and nodded her agreement.
“It is done.” The man
swept backward. “He’s to remain down here till first light. Then our agreement
shall be carried out. In the meantime, I will bring blankets and food—”
“But it’s so cold!
He—”
“Stole from me while
he was a guest in my castle.”
He would not
compromise. That much was certain.
“I demand to stay with
him.”
“As you please.” He
unlocked the cell. “Beyond the dungeon lies a labyrinth. Try to escape, and you’ll
be lost forever.”
He tapped the wall
with his booted heel. It swiveled, spun, and rotated, sweeping her captor to
the other side...
Excerpt
~ Adam gives Isabelle his library ~
“Close your
eyes, ma belle.”
Strong hands cupped
either side of her face. She felt as Adam’s thumbs tentatively brushed back and
forth, stroking her cheeks in reverent caresses. Isabelle shut her eyes and
slipped beneath his spell... leaned closer in the darkness until they stood
heartbeat to heartbeat. The warmth of his breaths teased her hairline, bringing
with them a minty scent. His thumbs descended to just below her chin. She
lowered her face... felt a featherlight kiss land on her brow. It happened so
subtly and gently—Isabelle wasn’t sure whether she’d imagined it.
She was allowing
herself to feel too much. A stab of guilt penetrated her chest as her thoughts
crept inward. Yet instincts told her to trust in her gut—to allow her heart to
speak over her tumultuous thoughts. So she shoved away her guilt and allowed
herself to simply feel.
Pounding footfalls
echoed in the room, attesting to its sheer size. Isabelle waited in
anticipation under the veil of darkness, her small hands knotted in Stranger’s
wiry coat. The steady beat of Adam’s boots floated away from her. A loud
whipping noise and a burst of light illuminated the room as he tugged a heavy
damask curtain aside.
“Open your eyes,
Isabelle.”
She did as he
commanded. Shafts of sunlight tore inside, dancing across the marble floor in
blaring prisms—though the darkness still obstructed the room’s contents.
Isabelle’s imagination soared as she fantasized about what lay in those clotted
shadows. Pale light fringed Adam’s formidable shape, contrasting his silhouette
against the dim atmosphere.
He paused in front of
the opened window and folded both arms behind his ramrod-straight back.
Isabelle gazed at the line of his body, unable to tear her eyes away. Indeed,
light from the window set him aglow, shrouding him in a cloak of gold. He wore
black trousers and a white silk shirt, which fluttered lightly when he moved.
Over the past several days, he’d made a habit of abandoning the cloak and hood.
Isabelle had become accustomed to the mismatched sides of his face; where she once
felt horror and revulsion, she now tingled with curiosity and budding
admiration. Alas, the only true revulsion that remained was the memory of that
night…
Adam was an undeniably
prideful man, and she knew he’d only scorn her pity. Even his stance exuded a
sense of importance and authority. Strange, how he was so often shy and almost
childlike; then, as if by a flip of a coin, he’d turn regal, confident. It was
as though he was battling two separate halves... as if an intricate part of
himself kept fighting to emerge.
Not unlike the two
contrasting sides of his face, Isabelle mused.
For a suspended
moment, he stood in front of the conservatory window, his scarred hands planted
on his lean hips as he surveyed the distant gardens. Then he crossed the room,
his footfalls amplified by the medallion flooring, and thrust open another
curtain.
Whoosh. Light flooded the space and chased away the
shadows, and the room’s contents were ushered into view.
Isabelle nearly lost
her breath at the sight.
It was a beautiful
library—the most stunning sight she’d ever beheld. Ornate, intricately carved
shelves towered against the painted walls and reached for a gilded ceiling. A
baroque chandelier hung in the heart of the room; its crystals sparkled like
diamonds as they drank in morning’s light. Isabelle fought to temper her racing
heart as she gaped at the sweeping shelves. An intimate reading nook lined a
curved window; lush pillows decorated the chaise, and a brass candelabra
towered beside it.
In all her life, she’d
never seen so many books. There were far too many to count. Too many books to
read in one lifetime. Isabelle couldn’t help but think of the little
storekeeper from Ruillé’s bookshop; she imagined his astonishment, how his
bushy white brows would rise at the sight of Adam’s vast library. He’d run his
wrinkled fingertips over the bindings and spines, reverently caressing each
one. Her heart twisted with nostalgia at the thought of her former home. Once
Raphael had entered her life, however, Ruillé had transformed into a prison.
This castle should
have been just that. A jail cell. Yet she’d never felt more free than in that
moment.
The library was larger
than her whole cottage; several book-filled rooms connected to it, each one
built with floor-to-ceiling shelves. Three sliding ladders were nestled against
the circular walls, soaring to the very top of the domed ceiling.
She spun on her heels,
twirling in place—watching as the immense collection flurried by in a fantastic
mosaic of colorful spines and intricate woodwork.
Her eyes planted on
Adam, who stood in front of the large row of glowing, arched windows. His arms
were still folded behind his body, his sleek back straighter than an arrow. She
couldn’t find her voice, couldn’t move forward, although she ached to reach out
and embrace his solid body.
How would it feel to
be enveloped inside that commanding strength?
A devastating smile
spread across his misshapen features and cut her thought short. He ran a shaky
hand through his hair, which was highlighted by the sun’s rays, and then
hesitantly strode toward her. His boots rapped against the floor, and the sound
swelled through the library. Stranger barked as he approached, the loud noise
echoing in the room and jarring Isabelle from her trance.
“Do... do you like
it?”
Finally he stood
before her, silent and still. Isabelle inhaled a long breath, then laid her
palm on the left side of his face. Her fingertips danced over the raised ridges
and welts, the reddish scars and shriveled ear. His eyes shuttered closed, and
she felt a shudder rake through his tense body.
“Yes. I love
it.” And I'm starting to fall in love with you, too...
Meet the Author
Rachel
L. Demeter lives in the beautiful hills of Anaheim, California with Teddy, her
goofy lowland sheepdog, and her high school sweetheart of fourteen years. She
enjoys writing poignant romances that challenge the reader's emotions and
explore the redeeming power of love.
Imagining dynamic worlds and characters has been Rachel's passion for longer than she can remember. Before learning how to read or write, she would dictate stories while her mother would record them for her. She holds a special affinity for the tortured hero and unconventional romances. Whether crafting the protagonist or antagonist, she ensures every character is given a soul.
Rachel endeavors to defy conventions by blending elements of romance, suspense, and horror. Some themes her stories never stray too far from: forbidden romance, soul mates, the power of love to redeem, mend all wounds, and triumph over darkness.
Her dream is to move readers and leave an emotional impact through her words.
Imagining dynamic worlds and characters has been Rachel's passion for longer than she can remember. Before learning how to read or write, she would dictate stories while her mother would record them for her. She holds a special affinity for the tortured hero and unconventional romances. Whether crafting the protagonist or antagonist, she ensures every character is given a soul.
Rachel endeavors to defy conventions by blending elements of romance, suspense, and horror. Some themes her stories never stray too far from: forbidden romance, soul mates, the power of love to redeem, mend all wounds, and triumph over darkness.
Her dream is to move readers and leave an emotional impact through her words.
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