A/N: So sorry for the delay in posting! I had to think about how I wanted things to progress in terms of the plot and pacing of the story and found myself dealing with a bout of wickedly evil Writer's Block and I hate it when it happens, so I sat on this for about a week before I was fine with this chapter after scrapping it once and starting over, and this was the end result, but I think this is a pretty decent chapter in my opinions, and poor Belle's life is about to get much more complicated, I am afraid. Read on, my lovelies! :)
CHAPTER TWENTY
Quasi had to practically growl with the effort to restrain himself as surges of adrenaline coursed through his veins at the thought of what he had almost walked in on. When Belle hadn't greeted him at the cathedral's entrance, he had begun to grow worried. He had not expected to walk into the Archdeacon's library and find…that.
The bell ringer clenched his jaw in anger and ground his teeth in agitation, the heat speckling along his cheeks as he could practically feel Belle's piercing stare burning a hole into the back of his skull, hotter than any branding iron for cattle, sheep, or horses could mark.
"Stop." The word escaped Belle's lips as a plea, and it was with a great amount of effort that she removed her hand from his ironclad grip, wincing and gingerly flexing her fingers as she noticed the red finger-shaped markings around where the Prince from just moments ago had attempted to grab her.
Belle exhaled a shaking breath to calm her nerves. Another. A third. The next few days, possibly weeks in the cathedral's sanctuary, Belle realized, would be spent as a developing portrait, a grand one, the developments and changes happening slowly, and over time, though his agreement to show her the Seine tonight was a rather big chance, and Belle was surprised that he had shown no reluctance of any semblance of hesitation to leave Notre Dame.
"Talk to me," she encouraged, reaching out a gentle hand to rest on his shoulder, near his hump, and she was surprised, hurt and confused when he flinched away, though his reaction was not one of anger, but of disgust.
It seemed to take Quasi ages to find his voice, and when he regained control over his words, Belle flinched at the unbelievable harshness that lingered. He did not necessarily shout at her, but he wasn't pleased with her.
"Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?" he demanded, his tone clipped and hard. "I should have come sooner, I—if you would have waited for me."
"But I did wait!" Belle protested, crinkling her nose in disgust, and then quickly realizing what that might look like to her, she let out a sigh. "I waited for a half hour for you downstairs in the nave. I waited for you to come. You said to meet me at eight, a—and when you did not, I thought perhaps you got held up or were no longer interested, but I did not expect or anticipate running into trouble, much less that of a Prince," she snapped.
She spat the last word as though it were poison that had settled upon her tongue and the appendage felt thick and swollen in her mouth, and she could taste the acidic bile that coated the back of her throat and she swallowed back her urge to be sick as she thought of what she had been lucky to narrowly escape from.
The Prince in the library had behaved despicably towards her, and this behavior tonight only intensified her dislike for the aristocracy, wondering what in the seven hells her husband would ever seek to regain status and favor within the crowd of Parisian aristocrats.
"He's rather handsome, isn't he?" Quasi's words escaped him as a low growl from the back of her throat, the jealously dripping off his words like poisoned honey, enough to cause Belle to blink owlishly at the young man.
Belle felt her eyebrows furrow into a frown as she watched as Notre Dame's bell ringer turned away from her and hung his head in shame, not bothering to card back that one stubborn lock of coarse fiery red hair that had a bad habit of falling into his one good eye, that acted as a barrier, a shield between himself and that of the outside world which he did not want to see.
She felt her frown deepen, a lock which did not suit the inventor's daughter at all, for lines became itched upon her otherwise smooth forehead and a deep groove formed near the edges of her mouth, which curved her lips downward as she glowered at Quasimodo, wondering where this was coming from. Such an outburst and his tone to be tinged with just the slightest touch of jealousy laced with melancholia was not at all like him.
"So, that's what this is about? You are jealous of that Prince. You've nothing to fear, my friend, for that prince is an arrogant, spoiled son of a..." she sighed, pinching her temples, unable to finish her vulgar thought. The young man's silence was deafening. Of course. She ought to have expected as much from him. It should have been obvious to her that her new friend would suffer a bout of insecurity regarding his looks.
Belle heaved another sigh, a look of exasperation on her face and drew in a sharp breath of chilly autumnal air that pained her lungs as she lifted her chin to gaze at the River Seine. "Oh, wow," she breathed. "It's beautiful!" she exclaimed, instinctively reaching for his hand was felt an immense disappointment when the bell ringer shirked away from her touch.
The River Seine was like a semi-molten mirror. Belle could feel its coolness even before she knelt at the riverbank to flick the water with her hand, sending droplets scattering over the surface like rain. Its depth was rather deceptive, mostly because for the moment, it was as clear as a mountain spring. Every rounded stone on the bottom, every fish, was rendered in perfect clarity, Belle thought for a moment she had been granted the sight of God Himself. The grass on the bank was sun-warmed beneath her feet from the fading light of the sun which had set long ago and dipped beyond the horizon.
From the night air alights a duck, and Belle jumped back a few paces, hand over her heart and let out a startled cry of surprise. Ducks and beetles. The two things she tended to forget could fly. It landed with a splash, making a long wake behind it, the ripples spreading out, meeting the banks before rebounding and fading. Underneath the surface, its legs were working hard to move it along at the speed it was going to hunt for fish.
The effort never showed on its little face, but then, ducks, Belle knew, had the emotional range of a teaspoon. Still though, it momentarily drew her attention away from the cathedral's bell ringer, a welcome distraction after…after…what had almost happened to her but a mere half hour ago. She watched, biting the wall of her cheek as the duck swam to the far side of the riverbank and out of Belle's line of sight. She inwardly groaned and was forced to return her attentions to her friend, who had not once taken his eyes off of her, for she could feel him staring at her backside.
Belle swallowed past the lump forming in her throat and tersely, her gaze flickered between Quasimodo's and the edge of the River Seine. She pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger and sat at the river's edge, content to look out at the moonlight's beams casting its pearls of light down onto the water's surface. Perhaps if he did not have to look at her while they spoke, then he would become more comfortable around her and open up and confide in her whatever it was that was ailing his troubled mind, though Belle had a pretty good reading on him by now, and guessed.
"You truly have such a low opinion of yourself, my friend?" she asked, actively averting his gaze and bringing her knees up to her chest and resting her chin on top of her knees, just as a gentle breeze kissed her hair and pinked her cheeks. "You are…you are jealous of that Prince, Quasi."
It was not a question, coming from her, and she expected an answer. Belle watched as the cathedral's bell ringer swiveled his head so sharply to the left to regard her and was currently eyeing her as though she had grown a pair of horns that had suddenly sprouted out of her head, as if by witch's curse. He gestured towards the contusion over his brow bone and scoffed.
"I do," he growled bitterly, which sent a swell of pain to Belle's heart. "Do you not see what I am, Belle?" he remarked dryly, and the inventor's daughter could not mistake the underlying tones of bitterness in the disgruntled bell ringer's voice. "I am the 'Almost-Made.' The 'Monster'. Shall I continue? This list of mine that I'm spouting to you on our walk is quite long. Please don't make me tell you the rest, Belle…I beg of you."
Belle stuck out her bottom lip and bit down hard in a slight pout. She glanced down nervously and fidgeted with the gold wedding band Gaston had bequeathed her and nervously slid the long trumpet sleeve of her gown over her hand, effectively concealing the piece of jewelry from his vision.
Were that she could fling this damn ring in the River Seine right now, she would, but…but…she could not do it, for she had promised her Papa.
Belle pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. "The people might call you all of those things, Quasi," she murmured darkly, lowering her voice as they passed by a pair of late evening wanderers, also aimlessly walking about the edge of the River Seine, though she did not spare them a second glance, though they shot the pair of them curious looks and gawked at him.
"And?" Quasi prodded gently, quirking a thick brow Belle's way.
"And," emphasized Belle, attempting not to allow traces of annoyance intermingled with her hopelessness at her predicament seep through her tone, though the young woman feared that was already too late, for even she could hear it within, and she cringed. "But that does not make you any less of a man, Quasimodo. You bear the same burdens the rest of us do. You share similar thoughts, feelings. You want more of life. You are a man, my friend. All of those things. Whereas I," she commented, hating hearing the dip and crack in her voice as she briefly looked away, "I have no choice."
Belle fell silent, flinching only once as she felt the nails of her hands dig into the skin of her palms, hard enough to pierce the supple, unblemished flesh and bleed, though she felt her ironclad grip slacken and she relaxed.
Belle glanced down and sideways out of her peripherals towards Quasi and for a moment, she was startled. The left side of her new friend's face, more specifically, the left side of his faint pink lip tugged upwards, creating a sinister smirk on his face, casting an eerie spell of lust to any pairs of wandering eyes that dared to look his way. "Ah, yes. The Monster and the woman with no choice. Just look at us," Quasi growled irritably. "We are perfect for one another. Truly."
Belle watched with no small measure of growing amusement in her eyes, though her face remained neutral, for she had, during her time spent in the company of men like Gaston and that wretched Prince, learned how to perfect the look of passive indifference. It was perhaps her only chance at staying alive this long, really.
She watched as the bell ringer cast a strange, longing glance backwards towards Belle and blushed and promptly looked away.
Belle repressed the urge to roll her eyes. She had seen that look all too well in the young man's eyes, and in the eyes of her husband as well. The look of lust. Not love, no. Though at least, she suspected what the redheaded bell ringer felt for her was not love, but…but.
But. The one thought that had been plaguing her thoughts more than most as of late. That familiar prickling feeling of doubt that pierced her skull hotter than any branding iron for cattle and sheep could ever hope to. But she wondered if there was an element of Quasi that was not so bad. He had, after all, saved her life from the Prince.
Belle furrowed her brows into a frown as she contemplated this as they continued to sit at the river's edge, watching the ducks. Belle blinked owlishly, startled out of the inner musings of her mind as she realized that Quasi had asked of her a question that she had missed.
"My apologies, my friend," she stammered, dipping her head in acknowledgement towards Quasi, and then her embarrassment deepened as she realized that this gesture perhaps only made things even worse and she had somehow offended him by it. "I meant no offense. I am afraid that I was woolgathering. Please repeat that."
Quasi scowled, though there was no mistaking the look of jest that briefly lit up the man's face, making the bell ringer look, for just a split second, dare Belle even think this next scandalous thought, almost…handsome.
The bell ringer huffed in frustration, though it did not sound to Belle as though the man were too entirely perturbed at her lack of attention.
"I said," he repeated, his annoyance seeping through his tones, "that I will do what I can to ensure you are comfortable as long as you're in Notre Dame with m-me a—and the other caretakers, but I can only do so much. I can only ask that you only venture to the places that you are permitted, such as the kitchens o—or my tower. There are, however, certain…places that remain off limits. Have you ventured anywhere that anyone might have seen you? M—Master's study in the church is o—off limits to everyone, I'm afraid."
Belle mutely nodded, her mind slowly processing Quasi's words, only half-listening to him, if she was being honest with herself. She was becoming too fixated on his cobalt blue eyes, how they were a myriad of different hues.
Though she did her best to ignore the piercing stares, horrified whispers from some, others shot Belle Dupont sympathetic glances as they passed, she could not help but to wonder what Quasi really wanted of her. If his master, Judge Frollo, that brute, had ever asked of him what he wanted, though, if the current look on the man's face was anything for Belle to go off of, she highly doubted that.
Belle's frown deepened as she gripped her fingers together and glanced downward at the man that she knew she was slowly but surely developing feelings for, and she did not at all know how to take this revelation. She could not act upon her urges with him, for she was still married, and yet…it felt so…right. She could not help but to notice how his face had hardened, compared to this morning when she had last seen him.
If Gaston were to find out of this, she thought and repressed a moan as horrible images of her new friend suffering at her husband's hand danced through her mind. She gulped and shook her head to clear her mind of the repulsive thought. As kind as Quasi was being to her, she knew that Parisian society would never condone such a match, as different as the man was.
Her father might, perhaps. He had the uncanny ability to see the good in everyone, even when and, perhaps especially most, when that person could not see it in themselves.
"Papa…" she whispered, biting the wall of her cheek as her heart gave a painful lurch at the thought of Maurice. She felt her face relax as the tension practically melted away from her shoulders as she glanced down her nose at the man. Strangely enough as it was, she found it easier to look upon Quasi now in his current state of disgruntlement as the man grumbled darkly to himself than before, when in the library and dealing with that vicious bastard of a Prince, when he had hardened and he had looked every bit the monstrous man Belle had heard rumors about.
The tension in the atmosphere began to rise, and Belle felt herself overcome with the overwhelming urge to apologize to Quasi.
"Quasi, I…" started Belle hesitantly, biting her tongue and swearing internally that she could taste the metal and iron that lingered upon her tongue, a sweet sort of bitterness, before she realized that she had bitten down hard enough on the tender appendage to draw blood.
She had to raise her voice slightly so as to capture Quasi's attentions.
"I must apologize to you again. I know that I ought to have waited for you a—and come up to your tower. I can only offer my sincerest apologies and reassure th—that you will not have to save me like that again." Belle let out a muffled squeak of surprise and was taken aback as the cathedral's bell ringer rolled his eyes, carded back that one stubborn lock of coarse, fiery red out so that it was out of his eyes and threw up his arms in exasperation and groaned out loud, much to Belle's astonishment, before turning to regard the inventor's daughter with an immensely disappointed look upon his face.
It was almost as if he had expected better of Belle, the corners of his mouth twisting downwards into a scowl. A look that did not suit him at all.
"Belle. Don't." The plea escaped from Quasi's mouth as a low growl, and Belle could not quell the tremor of fear that traveled down her spine as the man fixed Belle with a strangely glacier-cold stare, no warmth in his eyes, and for a split moment, it was Belle who felt incredibly small. "If I hear you apologize to me one more time, I swear with God and the angels above as my witness, that I should throttle you with my own two hands," he growled angrily, his deep and yet smooth, melodious voice sounding quite languid but irritable as well. "We both know that you and I could never…we could never…"
But he swallowed hard past the lump and promptly looked away from Belle. When he turned back to face Belle, there was a strange moisture glistening in his eyes that Belle did not know how to interpret. "You did not answer my question," came Quasi's voice again, breaking Belle's concentration as the young woman effectively tore her quizzical gaze away from the Seine. "Where have you ventured? How did the Prince find you?"
Belle startled, not having anticipated the man's question. "The halls," she answered simply, after she had taken some time to form a reply as she cleared her throat in the process, well aware Quasi's uncharacteristically hard gazed remained fixated upon her as he awaited Belle's answer. "T'is true, my friend. I do not sleep well. I—I frequent your church's library from time to time, Quasi. It is truly fascinating."
Belle inhaled a sharp breath of humid warm air that almost caused her to choke on it as she felt Quasi pause to consider his friend's words.
"Is that the only place?" And before Belle could even answer, he asked a follow up question. "Our cathedral's library. What do you think of it? It suits your needs? What troubles you so oft that you venture to the library at night when you cannot sleep?"
Now, Quasi sounded merely curious. By the Gods, what a question! Just the words themselves felt loaded, as if the man had loaded his list of questions into a crossbow and had the arrow pointed directly at Belle's heart. Where to start? Everything ailed her. She would oft awake in the middle of the night, brow drenched in terror and a scream of anguish at her lips as she frequently revisited the black day of marrying Gaston Dupont.
Feeling him move on top of her the night of their wedding. Hurting her, bruising her, hitting her, disrespecting, and humiliating her in ways that even to this day she could not comprehend. Belle could not remember a night last when she had slept soundly in dreamless slumber, not awaking drenched in sweat, tears running in tracts down her pale cheeks. She furrowed her brows into a frown, looking away.
"Nothing troubles me. I just have trouble sleeping." Belle heard herself speak the words through clenched teeth and rooted jaw, fully aware that she was literally lying through her teeth. But such could not be helped.
"Really. And reading helps?" Quasi sounded as though he did not quite believe her, though Belle was grateful that her new friend was seemingly choosing not to press the issue, and she felt an immense wave of gratitude overcome her chest, and a feeling that she could not quite place.
"It does. Yes. It calms me down." Belle replied, beginning to feel a little jittery and when she glanced down at her hands, she was hardly aware she had begun the incessant, unceasing nervous habit of fidgeting with her gold wedding band again, and bit the wall of her cheek, praying that Gaston would never find her here in the heart of Paris. "It distracts me, and stops me from thinking about—"
"About things you would rather not think of," Quasi interjected, right as Belle lifted her chin blearily to look over at the bell ringer in pure surprise. "It helps you to escape for a while." The man allowed a dark little chuckle to escape his lips as he regarded Belle in amusement, finally having reached the edge of the River Seine, and paused, looking up at Belle with something akin that could only be described as a newfound respect, maybe even pride.
"Y—yes," Belle breathed, not sure why she was confessing this to Quasi. There was a long uncomfortable pause, and Belle thought that if the tension in the arboretum would have been a visible color, then the air itself would have been scarlet.
There was so much that Quasimodo would not say, and though she did not want to go back to Gaston if she could help it, and what he would say if he were to learn of her new friendship with the church's bell ringer, that did not mean that she was about to continue the long line of scorn and ridicule that Quasi had no doubt been on the receiving end for his entire life so far.
Finally, Quasi emanated a tense, slow exhale through his nose, effectively shattering the silence after several long, excruciating minutes spent in contemplative silence. "Belle. I know that I may not be much. I know that I cannot change…what I am," he began hesitantly, sounding pained and refused to look at her. "I hope that…in time we can…we can be… that if you should have me, then I should like to sit by your side. As a…"
Here, Quasi's voice faltered and cracked, and Belle was apt to believe that the redheaded bell ringer had meant to say as her lover, but he didn't.
When he spoke again, he seemed to have found his inner resolve. "As a friend." Now, his voice was steady, and much more resolute.
Belle blinked, startled at the man's admission. However different and unique Notre Dame's bell ringer, even Belle could not deny that the strange man standing in front of her was rather endearing towards her, and she was not about to continue the scorn and the jeering that Quasi had been subjected to his entire life. She bit her bottom lip and regarded Quasi in silence.
As shocking as his appearance was, Belle could sense the man had no malicious intent. At least…not towards her, and Belle felt the edges of her lips curl up into a smile, her first genuine smile since she had stepped foot into Notre Dame all those weeks ago. "I would like that very much, my friend," she responded warmly, her voice a soft susurration, little more than a flutter on the cool autumnal breeze that wafted through the night air, which rustled the skirts of her gown and kissed her hair and her cheeks, for a moment, reviving her shattered spirit.
Quasimodo was not necessarily the 'monster' that everyone made the poor man out to be, and yet, even now, as they stood here by the edge of the River Seine, watching the ducks float on the surface of the water, something within the confines of Belle's heart still harbored a twinge of caution towards Quasi, and she reviled this part of her mind.
She despised this feeling. Belle knew it was her wariness talking from all the terrible stories and rumors she was privy to about her new friend whilst living here among the cathedral, she picked up tidbits of gossip from parishioners during various Mass or Vespers appointments.
At her words, Quasi looked a little shocked, but less so than she had expected him to be, for Belle could discern that the young bell ringer had steeled himself, for she recognized the flashing of the man's eyes, how he had been preparing himself for Belle to claim that the sight of him revolted her. It did not, and it was because of her admission that a hesitant, crooked smile crossed his features and the pair sat in silence together for a while.
As friends. Finally, Belle could bear the silence no longer. "Do you think that the Prince will remember it was you who attacked him?" The question tumbled unchecked from her lips before she could stop herself. She bit the wall of her cheek and waited for the man to answer her.
Quasi snorted and rolled his eyes. "I hope so. If he forgets, then I'll just have to remind him again."
He turned to look at Belle and she was surprised to see that the young man had such a look of shock on his face that she snorted and immediately clamped a hand over her mouth and nose to cover it, though the sound had already escaped her and it was too late to take it back, which in turn prompted Belle to erupt into a giggling fit.
Her laughter was so free and pure, so childish despite the young woman's adult years.
It came to Quasi's ears as a tickle and bounce—and the only thing his rocky heart could do was join her. Her laughter was the summer rain and the birdsong too, and every time Quasi heard it, no matter the weather, the sun itself brightened and warmed. It was as if her sound lifted a veil from our eyes and allowed the church's bell ringer to see the world more clearly. Quasi thought it funny how laughter can do that, those honest rumblings of the soul. Belle had told him just the other day that she had always hated her laugh, but even now, as he heard Belle giggling through her nose, snorting adorably, he fell a little harder for her.
Belle continued her giggling, the sound like a brook flowing merrily through a well-lit wood. Her laugh was like a waterfall, free, flowing.
And Quasi could not help but to laugh along with her, becoming lost in the moment of sitting with the woman to whom by the end of the morrow, he would be married to. He did not know how long they sat like this.
"I—I'd like to…to try something I—if I may," Belle began hesitantly, painfully twisting her fingers together and fidgeting with her wedding ring, careful to keep the long flared tow sleeve of her green gown hidden over her hand. By the gods, am I really about to do this to him? Am I? Her stomach swooped and churned, creating an uncomfortable pit in the depths of her stomach and the voices of her conscience were screaming at her to leave.
Quasi mutely nodded, not at all sure how to react to the sudden, quiet shift within Belle's personality. She swallowed hard past the lump in her throat. She licked her lips to moisten them, but nothing came. Her throat ached and felt dry, and the churning waves of nausea in her stomach deepened. Belle knew what she wanted was wrong, that to want to be with someone as…unique, as the cathedral's bell ringer, and she, a married woman at that, was committing a cardinal sin, one that would surely see her excommunicated from the Catholic Church, but if this was sin, then so be it.
Exhaling a shaking breath through her nose, Belle clasped her hands on either side of Quasi's face, and he hesitantly met Belle's hardening, intense gaze, though he did not dare avert his gaze. The swirls of emotions swimming in Belle's eyes made him ponder what the hell it was that she wanted with the likes of him.
A look that could only be described as desire and affection met his quizzical gaze, unblinking and unwavering. However, before the bell ringer could ponder about it further, whatever it was that his friend wanted to try, she cradled his face in her hands and covered his mouth with a hungry kiss.
As their lips met, it felt like he was walking on air. It was witchcraft, magic, the way Belle's lips connected with his. Her mouth was so warm, the caress of her lips softer than he could have ever imagined, and he opened his mouth with a low, surprised moan.
He tried to kiss her back, but a woman had never kissed him in this way before, and he had no idea what he was doing. Sparks felt like they flew in every direction. Belle's hands looked like they were moving of their own accord, her hands wrapping around Quasi's neck as she pulled him closer, closing off the gap of space.
Her hands on the back of his neck played with the ends of his hair. A smile grew on Quasi's face as it startled to tickle and she pulled apart.
As they parted, Belle saw her friend's azure blue eyes sparkle with an emotion she had always longed to see there, directed at her. For her.
He wrenched apart from the embrace violently, and the hurt and shock must have registered on Belle's face, for Quasi felt his drain of what little color remained and he stammered, immediately trying to correct himself. The bell ringer wrung his hands together painfully and felt his nails pierce the thick leather hide of the fingerless gloves he wore on his hands. His tongue felt thick in his mouth and when he tried to speak, it was as if there was a gag on his mouth.
"I—I wh—what was that…?" he asked hoarsely, allowing the pads of his fingertips to ghost along Belle's cheeks.
"A kiss." Her answer was immediate and simple, and the edges of her lips curled upwards in a soft smile, her light pink blush speckling along her cheeks as her blush deepened. "D—did I…did I hurt you? Did you like it?"
Quasi bit his tongue, not sure if he should answer truthfully. Honestly, he had expected her to pull away the minute her lips had pressed against his. To explain away the slip in her balance, though it had not happened.
Belle felt her lips part open slightly to answer, but before she could do so, the sound of someone coughing to clear their throat interrupted what she had been about to say, that yes, she had liked it, and had been about to ask him if he would let her do it again, when the disgruntled noise came again.
Blinking owlishly, she craned her neck upwards, having to see who it was, and felt her heart give a painful lurch and her stomach churned again.
Waves of heat coursed through her blood, a cold sweat glistening in her rapidly paling and gaunt features. Her eyes sunken and her skin sallow and clammy, she swallowed nervously past the lump in her throat as she found herself looking in the eyes of her husband.
"Belle. Found you." Her name escaped Gaston's lips as a low threatening growl, and the way his hands balled into fists as his side suggested he was not at all pleased to see her in this manner.
When he finally spoke, his cold baritone voice was flat, his blue eyes listless, and when he turned at last to face Belle, there was no trace of tears or any indication that he was upset with his wife for fleeing their home, not in his eyes or in track marks on his paling face. His eyes were narrowed, rigid, cold, hard. In that moment, Belle knew Gaston was already far away.
Once more she was the prey, and he the hunter, and she was trapped. Belle swallowed nervously as she watched as the whites of his eyes almost seemed to darken the angrier her got as his gaze flitted from her to Quasi.
Her husband's lethal stare felt piercing and painful, as if his glare were tearing Belle's heart apart with a blinding stare devoid of warmth and love.
She swallowed, her throat feeling like it was on fire and in agony as she looked up at Gaston, this time, with widened, fearful eyes, completely ignoring Quasi's hand settling into a firm grip on her shoulder, as if he thought the simple gesture was enough to protect Belle from Gaston.
But it wasn't. Belle let out a muffled whimper as a final glance at her husband's furious eyes confirmed her possible outcome.
Gaston had finally found her. And he was going to kill her.