Page 1 of Beauty and the Lyon
Prologue
“You wretched creature!”The Duke of Crane’s roar reverberated through the halls of their manor in London. “If I get my hands on you, I’ll wrap them around your neck and snap it right off!”
Blake Faiththorne, ten-year-old Marquess of Falconridge, pressed his back against the cold, shadow-draped wall of the hallway, his breath coming in ragged bursts. The threat in his father’s voice sent a chill down his spine. If the mad duke found him tonight, after he’d defied him, he might not survive to see the dawn. At the very least, come morning, he would be in a truly wretched state, as his father loved to teach him the “way of the world,” which always included his fists.
Blake hated those lessons.
Hated the bruises.
Hated the pats on the head the next day even more.
In fact, he loathed any touches of any sort.
He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to vanish, to melt into the shadows as if he’d never been born. What was the point of entering this life if all it had to offer was pain? But what purpose did such thoughts and questions serve? Theywere useless. Just like he felt—a helpless creature trapped in a nightmare that never seemed to end.
“Boy!” the duke’s voice thundered again, punctuated by the sound of shattering glass and splintering wood. “If you don’t come out this instant, I’ll set this house ablaze!”
Silence followed that outburst.
He strained his ears to catch the slightest sound of his father’s approach, but his heart pounded so loudly it almost drowned out everything else. He wished the dukewouldset the house on fire in his rage. Then this night would end, and the shadows of the manor wouldn’t close in on him.
Hewouldn’t.
Blake glanced left and right.
Terror clawed at his limbs, and he couldn’t move even as his head, his body, his everything ordered him to run. He must escape.
If he didn’t . . .
Another loud crash reverberated through the halls. Too close. Unsteady footsteps followed, each one a warning. Panic slammed into him, forcing his legs into motion. He had to make it to the gardens—his safest bet.
Blake dashed straight for the double-leaf door of the morning room.
Almost there.
But a dark shape cut off his path—a face flushed with anger, breath heavy with the stench of alcohol—blocking his escape. “There you are!” the duke growled. “I have you now, you disobedient wretch!”
Blake sidestepped past his father and bolted for the door—thankfully, this one was rarely locked—and slipped outside. He had almost crossed the threshold to the lawn when a blood-curdling roar erupted behind him. Stumbling, he fell to theground, his head snapping back to see his father, clutching the doorframe, panting like a beast.
It’s over.
A small hand suddenly grabbed his arm, and Blake turned to meet the scrunched up face of a girl, no older than seven or eight, probably younger.
“Run!” she hissed softly.
His feet launched into action as she pulled him to the maze of hedges that twisted into a labyrinthine garden. Who was this girl? Where had she come from? Why was she helping him? But urgency swallowed his questions whole, spurring him onward as his father’s curses snapped at his heels.
Tonight, arguably, was the worst of the duke’s outbursts. But then, in the past, Blake had always made himself scarce before they happened. He had learned that if he stayed out of sight, he would not enter the duke’s mind.
Much.
The girl’s grip was surprisingly strong, though her hand was half the size of his. She never once let go of him as they darted through the tangled greenery. “We need to crawl through here,” she said, pointing to a narrow gap between the hedges, finally letting go.
He glanced at his arm, which prickled at the absence of her fingers. How strange. He hadn’t minded her touch. Blake glanced back at the gap. “I don’t think I can,” he said softly.
“Don’t worry, you’ll fit.”
His father’s curses drew closer.
