"THAT HURTS!" The Beast roared.
"If you'd hold still, it wouldn't hurt as much!" Belle countered, obstinately refusing to be cowed. The Beast blinked. He wasn't used to be spoken to like that. Like a person. Like a man. Like an…equal. But still. She was wrong!
"Well," he grasped for an argument furiously. "If you hadn't run away, none of this would have happened!" There! The blame was hers! She held her ground, and pushed him less gently to face away from her so she could continue to tend the wound on his back.
"If you hadn't frightened me," she answered, tone as hard and furious as his, "I wouldn't have run away!"
"Well, you shouldn't have been in the west wing!" He retorted!
"Well, you should learn to control your temper!" The Beast was stunned. Could she not see that he was a beast? An animal? A monster? Monsters don't control their tempers! Princes don't bow to peasants! He was speechless. He could hear her muttering to the servants as she stalked from the room. His mind was in turmoil. In all his life, no one had ever spoken to him like that. Not as a boy, not as a prince, not as a beast. No one… except his mother. Sometimes. He closed his eyes and tried very hard not to think of …her.
But that was a mistake. The jasmine and honey scent of Belle surrounded him. It was on his pillows and sheets. Pillows and sheets?! He didn't sleep on pillows and sheets! He was a beast! A monster! He slept on straw and rags by the fire. It surrounded him, touched him, soothed him. He wanted to reach for her, to call her back. To ask her… to beg her to stay.
