10
He woke up with a feeling that she was with him – he seemed to sense her near, to catch her scent in the air, to hear her light steps. He smiled, without opening his eyes. It was an illusion, of course, but one he didn't want to chase away. Still not opening his eyes, he flipped over and lay on his back, stretching his limbs, getting used to the new sensation in his body. He felt happy, and it was a physical thing. He hadn't felt so happy in years.
He never felt so happy in his life.
He listened to her scent in the air some more. It felt so real it was uncanny. How powerful his attraction to her must be – how strong the pull, how binding the love. He opened his eyes and contemplated colored sunbeams falling into his room through stained glass, but instead of pretty shades he saw her face, her graceful head sitting on a slender neck, and her gentle shoulders. In his mind's eyes, she bit her lip, and lowered her gaze, blushing.
His body stirred, reacting to the vision, and for a minute he was tempted to dream of her some more, like he did last night. But than he stopped himself; what was the point of dreaming of her when he could go down and see her?
He sat on the bed, gingerly, than stood up and attended to his morning toilet. He chose his clothes carefully. He wanted to make an impression – a nice impression.
Ready to go down, he moved towards the door and stood there, sniffing the air. He was not mistaken, earlier – it was not an illusion; she had really been here. She must have wandered into this part of the castle, somehow.
She must have seen him.
He turned around, surveying the room – his clothes scattered on the carpet, his bed with a crumpled coverlet – the bed on which he slept naked. The picture was… telling.
She must have seen everything.
Oh, well. What was done was done. He was not going to bother to be ashamed. She shouldn't have been snooping around, his curious little princess. She'd have to face the consequences now.
He went down giggling, he faced her smiling, and he teased her, gently. She was bashful, and blushing, exactly as he pictured her, but generally her mood seemed to be light, too. She certainly didn't show any signs of regret at touching him the day before.
When she escaped to the kitchen he sat spinning at his wheel, and his head was spinning with happy expectations and current excitement.
For the next few days it went on in more or less the same fashion. He carefully stuck to his resolution to take things slowly, so as not to frighten her with any unwanted attentions or unduly pressure. He didn't say anything directly, didn't approach her or tried to touch her. He just stayed near her as much as possible, finding himself chores in the same rooms, and he talked to her; he smiled to her, and basked in her answering smiles. He also did little things for her; unbeknown to her, he started to will some of the filth in the castle away, so that every day she found her household duties that much easier, and she now had more time to rest and to read in the library, in which she delighted. He also gave her small presents – he didn't give them to her, of course, not directly, but every night she'd find something pleasant in her room: a ribbon, a comb, a pair of slippers. It warmed his heart to see her wearing these little things the next morning; it felt as if he touched her.
He had to go away sometimes, of course, for he had things to do – his arrangements with the curse were entering final stages. Yet he tried to finish everything as quickly as possible, for his only real wish right now was to get back to her. He found it a bit difficult to concentrate on his immediate tasks. When he visited the Queen, for example, favoring her request to disguise her so she could walk among the people and learn what they really thought of her (part of the plan, of course – she had to know her people hated her, had to become desperate, had to start thinking that no one will ever love her; poor Regina, he sometimes felt sorry for her. She really believed she has lost all hope for love – how silly of her. There is always, always hope for love, look at him, who would have believed that he would be so smitten?), he was hardly listening to her. He kept examining things on her dressing table, picking a brush there and a scented box here, thinking he must get something like that for Belle. Once he noticed Regina looking at him oddly – she caught him checking his looks in the hand mirror, adjusting the lace at his collar and making faces at himself. He couldn't help it – he kept thinking of Her, kept trying to see himself with her eyes, kept wandering in his thoughts back to the castle, wishing he was already there, with her, chatting happily of all sorts of things.
He was bursting with joy – he became excitement personified, and in this delirious glow of hope and love he had made a mistake that cost him… everything.
When Regina, disappointed and bitter, came back to him, still disguised as a peasant girl, he made a quip – one of his silly quips that Belle seemed to quite enjoy now. He pretended not to recognize the Queen, to take her for a servant looking for position. And he told her: 'I already have a maid. A very promising girl, actually'. And all his excitement, all his secret happiness sounded in his voice – oh, so clearly.
That set Regina's mind working. That made her pay attention to his strange moods.
That made her learn more about the girl he kept in the castle, and to draw conclusions on which to act in her perpetual attempts to outdo her teacher.
Yet he didn't notice this incident, not at the time. It slipped his mind the moment it was over – as soon as Regina left, he went back to Belle, who was sitting in the living room with some sewing, and sat contentedly at his wheel, spinning and thinking happy thoughts.
It was in a very similar situation, as he was sitting at the wheel and she was busy with domestic work, that an episode that changed his whole attitude to her took place.
Belle was on the ladder, trying to take off the curtains, which she probably wanted to wash: with his subtle invisible cleaning her daily tasks were getting too easy, and she ambitiously set herself new and harder ones. He was spinning, casting her occasional glances – the skirt of her new dress was rather short (he made it that way with subconscious deliberation, most probably), and it showed her pretty ankles to great advantage, especially now, when she was on the ladder, and he just had to look at them. She kept glancing at him, too, each look filling his heart with gladness. At some point her curiosity got the better of her; distracted from her task, she asked him: 'Why do you spin so much?'
Absentmindedly, he spoke the truth. 'I like watching the wheel. It helps me forget'.
Of course she wanted to know more, instantly. He gave her an opening; he already knew she was curious, and he should have known better than to speak honestly; but the words were already out, and, unlike his usual banter, they hinted at something serious, and she gave him a puzzled frown. 'Forget what?'
For a second he sat there, thinking. 'I just might tell her', he thought. He just might have told her the truth – what he really was, what made him the way he was, what it was like to be him. He just might have told her about his son – he might have confessed his guilt and spelled out his hopes. Perhaps she had had enough of his silly prattling and giggling. Perhaps she deserved the truth. Perhaps she would have been able to take it. After all, she was such a kind and brave girl, and she seemed to like him.
Yet he felt it was too early to burden her with the darkness of his life. And he was afraid that if he did tell her, and she wouldn't have been ready, he'd lose her – just like that.
So he made a quip. 'I guess it worked!' he said, and giggled. He was immediately rewarded with her laughter – affectionate and indulgent, as if she were conversing with a child.
Ah, it was much better like that. It was much better for her to treat him as if he was mentally deficient that to run away from him in horror.
The mood that made him happy at the wheel was broken, and he stood up to watch her work – and her ankles – more closely. And a good thing he did that, too, for the moment he approached her she tugged at the nailed-down curtain too hard, and it came off the rail, and the girl of his dreams literally fell into his arms.
She nested in his embrace, holding his neck, smiling at him in happy embarrassment.
He held her and looked into her eyes, completely stunned.
God knows he imagined her in his arms, often enough – every night, in fact. Not only at nights, to be honest. Yet it was one thing to think of her – to imagine her warmth and softness and the feel of her skin – and to actually hold her. Her closeness hit him like a ton of bricks. He felt her weight and her roundness, he could smell her hair; he saw small beads of perspiration on her brow, and her smiling mouth was just inches from his. She was there, in his arms, she was very close and very real, and she was far, far more beautiful now, in the flood of sunlight from the opened window, then she ever was in his wildest dreams.
Her breasts were heaving, gently, at the thrill of her lucky escape and perhaps – perhaps – at his closeness. He only had to bend his head a little to tear her dress away with his teeth and kiss them.
He could have carried her into his bedroom, straight away. Ah, forget the bedroom – he could have had her right there, on the living-room floor, tangled in the fallen curtains.
Instead, he just kept staring.
The moment stretched.
Finally she thanked him, prettily. He said it was nothing. He put her on the floor.
She was saying something about hanging the curtains back, and he did answer something appropriate to that, but he wasn't listening, not really. All his will-power was directed on one purpose – to get away from the room, as quickly as possible, before he lost last dredges of self-control. As soon as he was out of the door, he stood with his back to the wall, the muscles of his stomach clenching, his head thrown back, gasping. Then he bent down, grasping his knees with his hands, his body heaving with deep sob-like breaths. It didn't help. Nothing could have helped.
He wanted her as he never wanted anybody in his life, ever. He was racked with desire.
He was burning.
Slowly, he made way to his room, stumbling all the time, his hands grazing the walls, searching for support – his body was painfully incapacitated with want. At the corridor on the first floor he had to stop, for a moment, and to double over clasping his knees again – he could not go on walking, he wanted her so.
He made it to his room, somehow. He locked the door, carefully. He collapsed on the bed, tearing his clothes apart, casting them away.
No gentle reveries, this time, no sweet imaginings. No thoughts of looking into her eyes and hearing her whispers. He lusted for her. He was possessed with ruthless animalistic need. The beast, her father called him? Well, screw her father. She was his, his only, and he wanted her, and he would have her. Soon.
His erection was painful; his whole body was in pain. He took himself in his hand. No closing his eyes, this time – he stared into the space before him, seeing her naked, seeing her legs spread apart for him, seeing her head thrown back, her breasts peaking, her hair falling over her shoulders wildly, seeing her hands clutching the sheets, feeling her tightening her virginal body against his attack, feeling her give way, hearing her moan.
He came quickly, with a scream. He lay on the bed, his breath shallow, his body still pulsating with desire, still just as ready to ravish her.
He had to do everything again. And then again.
Finally, he lay still, trembling all over, his body stained, the bed stained, and the room full of rancid smell of solitary lust.
He felt an awful chilliness come over him. Too exhausted, too empty to move he fumbled with a blanket, pulling it over his shaking body. He lay on his side, curling into foetal position, clutching his hands to his chest. His hands smelled of him, they were stained with him, and he couldn't stand it; he had to wipe his hands on the blanket, and then curled back into the pitiful shivering ball.
He didn't feel ashamed of what he'd done, not exactly. He was too stunned for that. He was terrified to realize that he could be so possessed with desire. He became accustomed to being omnipotent – and here he was, completely defeated by his own body. He lost control. He behaved – he felt – like an animal. He never knew it was in him, this violent need.
Just imagine him losing control with her – imagine him really doing those things to her.
At the thought, his body stirred, again. He groaned, and closed his eyes in desperation.
It was one thing to love her, and quite another to want her with such devastating force. He could not risk scaring her. He could not risk losing himself to such extent. He must distract himself from that obsession with her body. Goodness, she only touched him twice, and she fell into his arms by accident – how could he build such a terrible passion out of these trifle things, how dared he to stain her with such violent desires? She would be shocked, if she knew; she would be disgusted. He was insulting her, debasing her with such outbursts. She was not just a body he desired, she was a person, a lovely and radiant girl that enchanted him with her mind as well as with her beauty. Didn't she? He must make an effort to restrain himself. Yet now he was too shaken with what had happened, he couldn't think. He would work something out tomorrow.
God, he'd have to face her tomorrow, how would he be able to do that?
He felt close to tears, and wondered why. It must have been sheer nervous exhaustion.
He closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep.
He saw her face, and felt comforted.