Page 119 of Beast

“I didn’t know that,” I whisper.

“Mrs. Blumfield makes them herself. She’s the cook. Best damn cook in my book. I think she also makes certain I get the ones with the most icing too. She knows I like the icing. You remember how much I like the icing, don’t you Belle?”

“I do,” I reply with a soft smile.

“And Mrs. Blumfield makes the best berry tea I’ve ever had. It’s quite delicious.”

“Mrs. Blumfield sounds quite remarkable.”

“Oh, yes, she’s a fine woman,” he says popping another apple cherry into his mouth.

A sudden bluster of wind ripples past us, almost blowing his blanket off his knees. It stirs in the trees in the woods below, turning their branches into swaying arms.

The storm has moved closer. Fat rain drops begin to fall. Slow at first. Warning us of the coming downpour.

“Come on, let me help you back inside,” I say, releasing the brakes on his wheelchair.

But Uncle Maurice stops me when he reaches for my wrist. Again, his eyes are focused and he is fully present.

“I’m proud of you, Belle. You really are the sweetest.”

Fighting off my tears, I wheel him back inside and out of the weather.

CHAPTER 47

BELLE

By the time I leave,the rain has stopped but the wind picks up the moment I step outside onto the front steps.

I look up and there he is.

Waiting for me beside his bike.

When I see him, a deep longing washes over me. I want to run to him. I want to wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his chest. I want to beg him to tell me Gaston isn’t his brother.

Instead, I’m cautious as I approach him.

“You came,” I whisper.

“You are my wife, little one. That might not mean anything to you, but it does to me.”

I struggle to swallow the guilt. I remember the look on his face when I told him I didn’t want him. “It does,” I say softly. “I was angry. What Gaston did?—"

He gently touches my face, his thumb grazing my bottom lip. “I don’t share my brother’s perversions or penchant for pain. You are safe with me.”

This is why he let me go so easily. He knew I needed time to put things in perspective. And instead of fighting me and forcing me to do something I didn’t want to do, he gave me the space I needed to figure it out.

“It hurt me,” I say.

“I know, and I should’ve told you. If I could go back in time, I would tell you earlier.”

He draws me closer to him. I don’t want to melt against his touch, but I do. Because I need the comfort only his touch can bring.

“What can I do to help you get through this?” he asks.

“Can you take me somewhere?”

“Where do you want to go?”

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