Taming the Beast: Eleven Paranormal Romances Page 3

  There’d be no sport, he decided, in scaring her that night.

  Perhaps in the morning, when she awoke, he could drive her away.

  He decided to sit, in the rain, and watch her as she slept. He told himself it was so he’d understand her better—so that in the morning when he demanded she be gone, he wouldn’t be blindsided by the sight of her full lips or the way her hair fell across her face like the sun-dappled shadows of trees.

  Chapter 3

  Rose awoke with a start to the sound of chopping wood.

  She blinked and it took her a long minute to remember where she was and what had happened. She was in a cottage, behind an abandoned farmhouse. Yes, that sounded right. She’d been fleeing the sleazy Ronald Carter and had slid off the muddy road.

  But what was that noise?

  She gathered her clothes from the floor and discovered that even though they’d been close to the hot stove all night, only the top bits were dry. The parts of her pants and jacket and sweater that had been touching the floor were cold and soggy and caked with mud. The dry bits didn’t look much better. The mud had cooked into the clothing forming a pebbly brick like texture.

  The idea of wriggling into those damp and filthy clothes filled her with a squeamish sort of dread. Still, she had to get out of there. What if the chopping noise was Ronald, doing something stupid and dramatic to wake her up?

  She recalled the first time he’d made his presence known. She’d been working in the library on a wintery afternoon. School wasn’t out yet, so the large one-room library was quiet. Senior citizens read newspapers in the big cushy chairs. Two women poured over immigration books and spoke Vietnamese in hushed tones. One teenager sat on the floor devouring stacks of manga. It was a day like any other. Until Ronald came in. Apparently he’d seen her in passing somewhere—likely walking home from work in the evening—and had become smitten.

  He’d kicked open the door to her library like a gunfighter entering a saloon. A dozen of his black-suited goons swarmed in behind him, carrying bouquets of roses while Ronald eyed her like she was an expensive toy he wanted to buy.

  “Get dinner with me, honey,” he said by way of introduction. “I’ll make it amazing for you.” Ronald was in his forties, but dressed in shiny track suits. He wore gold necklaces over a white tank top that was stained at the neckline from his bronzer. He smiled at her with his too-white teeth but there was no joy in the smile. It was mechanical, almost threatening.

  His goons had shoved books off her display table—the table she’d spent hours arranging with the best holiday books for kids—and covered it with roses.

  “You brought me roses,” was all she could think to say. He wasn’t the first man to make the mousy small town librarian the object of his affection. Indeed, Rose got flirted with and asked out constantly, but usually by the elderly men who treated it like some sort of sad game. This felt different. Ronald was no senior citizen whiling away an afternoon with idle flirtations with a woman half his age. No. He was a predator.

  “Your name is Rose, isn’t it? So of course you like roses.” Ronald delivered the line without even looking at her. “How about you close this dump down now. I’ve got my limo outside. It’s brand new. State of the art. It’s a fantastic automobile. You should see the interior. It’s all leather. The way it feels on your naked skin is just luxurious.” He looked her in the eye again and a chill ran down her spine.

  “I don’t care for roses,” she said. “In fact, I’m allergic.”

  “No one's allergic to roses. That’s impossible,” Ronald said. “In fact, I’d like to see more roses in here. Libraries are such stuffy places. They need more light. More air. More flowers. Make a note,” he said, snapping his fingers at one of his goons. “Deliver fresh roses here, every morning. And you, little miss hot-stuff librarian, I expect to see the roses on display when I come back or you’ll be out of a job.”

  He wasn’t her boss. He wasn’t officially anything. But his father was the mayor of Poppy Valley and had been for decades. Ronald could do anything he wanted and no one in town would ever stop him.

  That was just the first visit. With each additional meeting he grew cruder, more insistent. The man could not believe someone like Rose could rebuff him.

  But she did.

  Rose shook her head.

  She needed to get out of the cottage. She needed to see what that sound was.

  But first she needed clothes.

  In the same wooden chest, she’d found the nightgown there’d been other clothing. She struggled into a blue dress that was a size too small for her and found wool socks. She stoked the fire and flipped her old clothes over, hoping to dry them enough so that eventually she could try and wear them. Her boots were damp and muddy, but not as bad as she feared. The new wool socks kept her dry enough. And she stole a blanket from the chest and wrapped it around herself before opening the door and going off to explore.

  The rain had stopped sometime in the night, but the world was a sea of puddles. The morning light sparked on the standing water. The ground around the farmhouse seemed to be cratered with dinner-plate sized potholes, each now overflowing with captured rain. The forest loomed on all sides, with the topmost branches nearly forming a canopy overhead, even over the farmhouse. The tree looked too big to her. It was as if she’d shrank in the night or as if the world of people had grown smaller and nature itself had doubled in size.

  The chopping sound came from farther behind the farmhouse. Perhaps down a little hill. The house itself looked even worse in the daylight somehow, with great holes gaping in the sides and deep slash marks marring the shake exterior.

  Stepping carefully so as to avoid the puddles, Rose walked to the top of the hill. Peering down, she saw a man—the biggest man she’d ever seen. He was well over six feet tall and massive. His back was to her but he wore muddy gray pants and enormous rubber boots. Over his back was what looked like a canvas tarp that had been fashioned into a hoodie. He’d been chopping wood—the evidence was scattered all around him—but she saw no ax. He stood with a hunched posture, his head hanging low before him but as she watched he perked up and half-turned to her.

  “Good morning,” he said, in a voice that was half-purr and half-rumble. “Do you eat eggs?”

  Rose blinked at the question. “Yes?” she said. Then, more firmly, “Yes. Yes, I do. Thank you.”

  The man nodded three times then gathered up a mountain of split firewood in his arms and walked up the hill toward her. “Come inside, if you like. I have fresh eggs from the hens and bread and honey.”

  The man’s face was hidden in the shadow of his hood, but even so Rose could see that something was wrong with it. His cheekbones were bunched and bulbous. His jaw jutted out too far. She saw his silhouette just a moment as he passed her but it was enough to give her the impression of great deformity. He looked like no man she’d ever seen before. Her breath caught in her throat and the man noticed, sighing in what seemed like disappointed shame.

  “Don’t be frightened,” he said. “And please don’t stare. Come in and have some food and tell me what brings you here.”

  The giant man walked into the house through a hole in the rear where a door once stood. The splintered remains of it moldered on the ground nearby, Rose saw, as if it had been wrenched off its hinges and hurled away years ago.

  Should she follow him? She could run—it would be easy to get away she thought. She could run up the driveway, back to the road, and keep moving westwards towards the sea. Once she hit the coastal road, she could hitchhike down to Bodega Bay or even all the way to San Francisco.

  But then what? No, she needed a plan. Or Ronald would find her.

  The smell of frying eggs wafted out of the house and Rose’s stomach leapt to attention. Maybe she should stay? Just for breakfast, and to ask the man for directions, and then she could leave. But to walk into some abandoned farmhouse with a monster like him? Wasn’t she smarter than that?

  Rose turned to walk
away, but then the smell of frying bacon found her and whipped her head around and before she knew it she was in the kitchen of the half-broken farmhouse.

  An old wood-fire stove—large enough to cook for twelve at once—dominated the room. It was even larger than the man, somehow. He hunkered over it, a spatula gripped in his hand, flipping the eggs and adding more bacon to the sizzling surface,

  “Thank you,” Rose said.

  “I haven’t cooked in a long time,” the man said with a hint of humor. “So save your thanks until after you’ve eaten.”

  “I’m not much of a cook either,” Rose said. After a moment, she asked, “What’s your name?”

  The man stood straighter then, his hunched posture relaxing somewhat. “What is my name?” he said. “It’s Liam, I think. Yes, Liam. That is my name.”

  “You aren’t certain?”

  “I don’t get many visitors,” he said with a shrug. Rose could hear the hints of a smile in his voice.

  The kitchen was large—everything here seemed to be large, as if the house had been built for people that were thirty percent bigger than most. And it was filthy. The floor was caked with mud and leaves. The refrigerator had been knocked onto its face. The sink was full of old dishes and mud. It was a disaster, and yet the stove was clean and clean plates were on the wide wooden table with one chair by it.

  Rose sat at the table, taking the lone chair. It was smaller than one of Liam’s legs. There was no way he could sit in it.

  As if he could read her thoughts, Liam said, “That chair belonged to my father. He was built more like you. I get my gifts from my mother, who was built more like me.”

  “No chair for you?” Rose asked. It hardly seemed polite to take the one chair.

  “I usually eat outside,” he explained. “But I will sit there.” He nodded to a wide tree trunk that Rose had at first taken for firewood but now realized was his makeshift chair.

  With a deftness that seemed impossible for his size, Liam maneuvered the fried eggs and bacon onto her plate from the stove using an expert flip. Then he did the same for himself, piling his plate high with a mountain of food. Then, from under a breadbox, he produced a still-warm loaf of bread and a bowl full of honey so golden that it glowed in the morning light.

  “Did you bake this?” Rose asked. Her eyes went wide at the sight of the bread.

  Liam held up his hands. “I cannot do much with these, but kneading bread is still in my wheelhouse.”

  Rose fought back a shiver at the sight of his hands. His fingers were fused together were they met his palm, differentiating only at the final knuckle. His thumbs were large and knobbled and red. His hands were closer to paws than human hands.

  “Excuse the redness,” he rumbled. “The bees did not want to give up their honey this morning.” From under his hood, she saw a humble smile. “But please, eat while your food is hot. We can talk after.”

  Rose didn’t need to be asked twice. She picked up her fork—checking to see how clean it was—and all but shoveled the eggs and bacon into her mouth. They tasted incredible, better than they had any right to in such a filthy kitchen.

  Across from her, the giant man lowered himself onto his tree stump chair. The floor groaned under his weight. He held a fork in his hand and lowered his face and ate almost like an animal. But Rose didn’t care. She nearly did the same. After she’d cleaned her plate, she took up the breadknife and sliced off thick slabs of bread for each of them and then put the tiniest drop of honey on hers.

  Rose was particular about honey. Her mother growing up had sworn local honey was the best treatment for many of her allergies, but much of the honey in Poppy Valley had a rank, meaty taste to it that Rose despised. Her mother claimed it was just that they had very strong flowers that created the intense flavor, but for Rose it was a sign that the heart of PoppyValley was poisoned.

  Liam’s honey was different. The one drop she tasted carefully, flicking her tongue out and bracing herself for the metallic pungency of the Poppy Valley honey. But no, it was sugary and sweet and tasted like sunlight. Her eyes flew open in surprise.

  “Oh my God,” she said, her mouth stuffed full of bread. She swallowed. “Oh my God,” she said again, louder, as she took a heaping spoonful and coated her entire slab of bread with it.

  Liam nodded. “I’ve been waiting a long time to steal this honey,” he said. “This morning seemed like an appropriate occasion.” He dipped a hunk of bread into the jar and stuffed it into his enormous mouth. After he was done chewing, he said, “The bees do not disappoint.”

  Rose ignored him, cutting herself another piece of bread and attempting to set a new record for Most Honey On A Piece Of Bread Ever. She was fairly certain if the Guinness Book people were there, they’d have given her a medal. After that, she tried to set new records for Most Bread Eaten In A Single Sitting and Least Ladylike Table Manners by licking the honey from her fingers, then dipping her fingers into the spilled honey on her plate and licking them clean again.

  Once breakfast was done, she leaned back in her chair and laughed. “That was incredible.”

  “Thank you,” Liam said, ducking his head deeper beneath his hood.

  “That was like food sex in my mouth,” she said.

  Liam was silent at that comment, clearly she’d overstepped some line.

  The silence dragged out between them, but it wasn’t awkward at all. It was a comfortable silence.

  “What’s your name?” Liam asked.

  “Rose,” she said. “And thank you for breakfast. Can you tell me how far it is to the coastal road? I should really get going.”

  Liam sighed heavily. “It’s forty miles still, give or take. Not many people take this road anymore. It’s too slow and too poorly maintained.” He stood up from the table. “Is your car nearby? I didn’t see it outside, so I assume you got stuck in the mud.”

  “Flat tires, actually. So I’m hoofing it.” Rose knew she should stand up and leave, but she didn’t want to. There was something deeply intriguing about this sad hunched man and his incredible food.

  “That is a very long walk,” Liam said. “You’d be better off heading up to Bearfield. If you take the right paths, you could get there on foot in two hours.” He looked down at his hands, flexing them as best he could. “I could show you the paths.”

  “I can’t go to Bearfield,” she said. Ronald would look for her there. It was the nearest city to Poppy Valley. “I need to get away. Get farther away.”

  Liam cocked his head at her. “You wouldn’t be able to walk to the coastal road before nightfall. And you don’t want to be in these woods after dark. Trust me. There are dangerous things out at night.” There was a menace to his tone that sent chills down her spine.

  “I can’t stay here,” Rose said. “There are people looking for me. They’ll find me if I stay here.” But she didn’t believe her words. Maybe she could stay? Would Ronald come to this old house? If she stayed off the radar for a few days, would he give up? Would he assume she got as far as San Francisco or Santa Rosa or Eureka and send his goons there for her? Every day that she stayed hidden was a day Ronald would have to expand his net.

  “I have a phone,” Liam offered. “You could call someone for help?” He shrugged and it was like mountains rearranging themselves. What did he look like under his hood?

  At first Rose decided it wasn’t her business, but then the curiosity burned at her and she decided that before she left she would find out.

  Chapter 4

  Just before dawn his mind cleared. It was always the way. Darkness brought out the beast in him and the moon gave it power. But the sun—the sun gave rise to the man.

  His memories of the night were absolutely clear. He recalled the pounding rain, the honey feast, the face full of stings and also the mysterious visitor who camped in his cottage. The beast in him still raged at her intrusion, but Liam was curious and cool headed that morning. What could possibly bring a woman like her into his sad decrepit world? W
hat would make a person think a collapsed pile of timber like his could possibly be a good idea? Even in a storm as fierce as last night’s?

  He had questions—so many questions—but also the prospect of having a guest for the first time in so long was hard to pass up. To have someone to talk to, to listen to—he couldn’t pass that up. He forgot how lonely his world was until someone showed up and reminded him. Usually his mornings were spent sleeping or reading or wandering the woods. There was always a chore that needed doing that could fill his time. And after all these years he’d grown used to a dull sort of existence during the daylight hours. At night, when the beast came alive, that’s when life began. Daytime was just for waiting.

  Liam cleared a space in his kitchen as best he could, lamenting as always his misshapen hands. In his dreams his hands worked again. They were strong and supple and well defined. But in the cold light of morning they were clumsy things that could barely hold a spoon. In the cellar he had dough he’d been saving. All it took was some sunlight to wake it up. It was an old technique—his mother’s technique—for having fresh bread every day. She called it sunbread and it tasted like nothing else in the world to him. When she’d grown ill and his father had purchased bread from the supermarket in town, Liam couldn’t even bring himself to eat it. It was a flavorless, spongy thing. He’d rather eat a mattress, honestly.

  Baking bread was one of the few human things he had left in his life. It helped that he could knead the dough just fine with his half-bear hands. But also, the beast enjoyed the taste as much as he did and didn’t fight him at all.

  Liam stoked a fire to life in the oven and found his clothes to wear. The bear in him hated the clothes, but if the visitor woke early, he’d rather she didn’t see his naked ass waddling around the land. Better to be uncomfortable in pants he decided, even as his bear complained fiercely.