CHAPTER THIRTY
Belle exhaled a tense and shaking breath through her nose as she regarded her pale, and somewhat ashen reflection in the mirror opposite her in the bell ringer's tower, the very man who was about to become her husband in little less than fifteen minutes, and she looked towards the balcony terrace and out at the sky, at the darkening rolling purple thunder. It was rumored to be good luck if it rained on your wedding day, but no one had ever mentioned thunder.
She played with the edges of her pinkish tipped fingers to keep them warm in the drafty cold of Quasi's bell tower, lovingly twirling the gold band she was to wear permanently on her finger, unable to keep still as she felt herself practically explode into motion.
The inventor's daughter could not decide which was worse. The rolling nerves in her stomach brought on by a bout of nervousness followed by morning sickness surrounding her unplanned and unexpected pregnancy, or the fact that the ceremony the Archdeacon was about to perform for the two of them was, while strictly and perfectly legal, very much a secret, or at least, she hoped, for if the man's maître and caretaker were to find out, then Frollo would most assuredly not be pleased with what Quasi had done.
She heaved a heavy sigh and glanced for what had to be the tenth time at her reflection. Her wedding dress was of brilliant sky-blue color, the color of a robin's egg, or the sky after a fresh summer rainfall, and brought attention to the differing myriad shades of brown with rich undertones of copper that had a tendency to catch the light of the sun whenever she moved in such a way.
The dress had a wide skirt and sleeves, the garment itself made of natural cotton that allowed for her to breathe, the sleeves made of thin blue batiste.
Her dark hair cascaded in natural curls to just past her shoulders, and atop her head, she wore a brass circlet crown, simplistic but truly a marvelous thing of beauty that Father Darius had loaned to her, though when prompted where he had gotten it, he refused to speak and had become uncharacteristically somber.
Belle bit the inside wall of her cheek and ran her tongue over her teeth, hoping that no one would bear witness to their ceremony that was not supposed to, save for the Archdeacon, Sister Alice, and Captain Phoebus.
For if Frollo found out, Belle shuddered as a tremor of revulsion went down her spine. She did not like to think of that thought. Just that thought alone of what the cruel, tyrannical judge would do, the type of harm he would inflict on Quasi was enough to make her stomach churn and she thought she might vomit as she tasted the bitter acidic stomach bile coat the back of her throat, though she swallowed it back and set her face to passive neutrality.
She hoped that her eyes did not betray her fear. It was not that she minded wedding the cathedral's bell ringer. On the contrary, she thought that Quasi would make a wonderful husband and father to the baby growing within her, never mind that the child was not his by blood. He was as good as, at this point.
Quasi was far from the worst man she could marry, and she'd had her fill in the life of terrible men surrounded by men like Gaston Dupont and LeFou.
Notre Dame's bell ringer treated her with respect, was good-looking enough, she supposed if you were fortunate enough to look past the contusion over the man's left brow bone, which she had learned to do upon the first night the man allowed her to truly see his face.
Though it did nothing to quell the vicious rumors that Alice and Sister Maria had told her during the last week.
Rumors of that vicious Prince somehow finding a way to manage to attend her wedding, though she wondered how that could be, for the members of the royal family had no say within these stone walls, in this safe sanctuary.
It was this fact alone that rang in Belle's ears like a mantra, refusing to part from her thoughts, though it did nothing to quell the raging storm in her stomach or the fact that she needed to head downstairs to the nave. It was time.
The moment she had both been dreaming of and dreading was here. Belle descended the stairwell of the north bell tower loft alone, her eyes closed once she reached the final step, wishing for nothing more than for her father to be here.
Were that you were by my side, Papa, I might have strength enough. Belle's dark eyes flung wide open and she blinked back the beginnings of briny tears. Belle had to lift the skirts of her long gown to avoid tripping over it as she dared to step off the final step, and in some ways, she supposed, towards a new future, hopefully, a better life for herself than the one she had with Gaston.
Belle suppressed a shudder as she looked at the pathway before her, and every second with every step forward in her slippers that she forced her body to take another step forward, left her chest heaving with breathless woe and worry.
This is not right. Though I am to marry a good man, Papa should be here by my side, she thought in obscurity. This is not the way that things should be.
Upon the sight of both Father Darius Barret, looking regal tonight in a set of simple black robes that he'd swapped his brown monk's habit for, his boots shined as well as his thick tuft of dark hair, his amazingly brilliant cobalt blue eyes fixated solely on her as though she were but the last woman in all of Paris.
Though the minute his eyes alighted on how ashen her face was, and seeing her face beginning to twist and crumple under the strain of grief at mourning her father's death on what should otherwise have been a happy day for her, and every inch of her protested as she neared the length of the nave.
But there was naught that she knew of that could turn back time and send her back to her sweet sanctuary, her safe haven when it was just her and Papa.
"Lady Belle." Darius's voice was curt though soft, and his reserved voice cut through her haze of conflicting thoughts, and Belle blearily looked at him.
He was waiting for her with an outstretched arm, and Belle quickly ascertained that the priest had been kept waiting there for quite some time now.
But before Belle could numbly accept the handsome priest's arm and allow the man to escort him down the aisle towards where her future husband lay in wait, an unexpected, much taller, and more imposing figure towered behind him.
"Oh, You," she whisper hissed through gritted teeth, taking a huge step back. "What are you doing here? You have some nerve daring to show your face to me again after what happened. Monsieur?" she quickly added, and against her better judgment, she gathered the skirts of her dress and sank into a curtsy.
Though she despised this nobleman, who was not a noble man at all, Belle was not apt to forget proper edict, though it was much less than this one deserved. The Prince from a few weeks ago stood behind Father Darius, who turned and regarded the cathedral's newest arrival with a look of utter outrage.
Prince Adam was looking every bit the Prince Charming from the fairytales and folk tales her father had used to read to her when she was little.
Though, admittedly, there was something…off, about his initial appearance. Dark circles had formed underneath his face, which was paler than usual, and it appeared as though the man had not held a decent night's sleep in a matter of days. Perhaps weeks. His blond ponytail now looked disheveled and mused, though there was no denying that despite these minor discrepancies, he still looked a Prince very much, though his cobalt blue eyes had not changed.
Belle doubted they ever would. Still as cold and listless as the last time she had laid eyes on this man.
She felt herself instinctively stiffen as the Prince, clad in a black leather overcoat a thick crimson dress shirt underneath, stepped forward and offer the young woman his arm, his gaze briefly traveling up and down her body, admiring the brunette's form in her light sky-blue gown.
"I merely wished to congratulate you, little dove, on your…wedding," the Prince began in a tone laced with false courtesy and joy as he turned towards Father Darius, whose face was now beaded with sweat and he was at a loss. "Father," the Prince murmured lowly. "I should like your permission to escort this lovely little dove of a bride the rest of the way down the aisle to receive her future… husband. I would not dare to miss my beloved former friend's widow's special day, would I? I have merely come to pay my respects."
"Then pay your respects to me by leaving," Belle whisper hissed angrily.
"Belle." Father Darius's previously stunned expression had hardened in response to Belle's admittedly warranted aggression and replied to the young mademoiselle in a clipped tone, "You will mind your tongue in present company, mademoiselle. Such talk outside of these walls would normally be considered treason, and you would be tried and most likely executed for daring to speak out against the royal family. The Prince is of noble blood, Belle. It is not my place to speak on such matters, but…if you do not allow him this simple request, then it is my fear that your life will… become much more difficult."
Something about the priest's hesitant tone laced with fear gave Belle paused and she slowly stilled in her movements to retreat from the Prince.
She cocked her head to the side and regarded Darius in confusion, knitting her brows together in quandary. What did Darius know that he was not saying?
Belle's frown deepened as she bit the inside wall of her cheek in anguish. Though the briefest flickers of anger darted through the handsome priest's orbs as his gaze wandered between the Prince and Belle, the man quickly bowed his head in submission and relinquished his grip on Belle's forearm.
Belle could only watch hopelessly as Darius was forced to step aside for the Prince, and as he did so, he offered an awkward little half-bow in the Prince's presence. "Of course, Your Grace," Father Darius murmured courteously.
But Belle was not at all fooled. She recognized the tell-tale signs as Darius's jaw jumped in agitation, the signs of a man whose patience was being tested.
Soon, Belle was left alone with the Prince, who just the very sight of the blond-haired, blue-eyed nobleman made her blood curdle within her veins, as if soured by lemon and old milk. Belle's mind screamed at her to recoil in disgust as she felt the Prince latch onto her arm, the man's nails digging into the fabric of one of her sleeves, his spindly fingers tightly clutching onto Belle's left arm.
It was almost possessive in a way, and it was not until the Prince took a casual step forward that Belle was pulled back to her gaping future, a life with Notre Dame's bell ringer. Without her father by her side, instead, this vicious serpent of a Stranger was wound around her arm like a poison ivy tendril, and it was enough to set her blood aflame and burn.
"What are you doing? And why?" Belle snarled through gritted teeth as the man proceeded to escort her down the aisle. She was careful to keep her voice low, barely above a whisper, though it was not enough to prevent the fuming rage and fear from seeping into her voice.
The pathway before them was lighted with candelabras, and as the Prince and Belle passed them, the inventor's daughter was sure it equaled despair and hopelessness in her face, though a little hope returned when she saw his face. Quasi stood tall and proud, perhaps taller than she had already seen him. When he stood up straight like he tended to do around her, he was almost as tall as Judge Frollo, standing at around 5'8 or 5'9 if Belle had to hazard a guess.
The man's shimmering crystal blue eyes were fixated on her. Solely her, and if he recognized the Prince, he did not notice, nor did he comment on it.
He merely proceeded to look at her as if all of Paris had become devoid of anything else, and she was the only thing left in his desolate and small world.
His eyes were an electrifying blue that sent a tremor down her spine, though not one of fear or revulsion, but one of a strange almost giddiness.
Belle could have sworn she saw Quasi blush, a light pink blush speckling high along his cheeks before he promptly looked away, that one stubborn thick lock of fiery red hair hanging limp in his one good eye as he promptly lowered his head. She thought her future husband looked as dashing as one could in a plain black tunic and black leather breeches, his black boots shined and gleamed.
For a moment, she quite forgot the bastard that was clinging to her arm. At least, until he dared open his mouth to speak to her, and Belle visibly flinched.
"You think that I would truly miss this opportunity to give my former best friend's widow away to an accursed wretch? This is a fitting punishment for you, little dove. After all, I did offer you this chance of a lifetime, and you scorned it. You denied me, and you have betrayed me. And that is your answer as to your 'why,'" the Prince retorted coldly to Belle, murmuring under his breath. The Prince cast a wary glance towards the cathedral's bell ringer and scrunched his nose. "You truly are marrying a monster. The monster and a witch, for only a witch, would marry a demon. You are perfect for each other."
Prince Adam scrunched his nose in disgust. "Glorious day indeed…"
There was a strange glistening in the man's darkening cerulean blue eyes that Belle was not at all sure that she liked, and she gulped nervously as the nobleman squinted at Belle out of the corner of his eye as he continued to escort her down the aisle through hardened eyes that would have, perhaps in another life, been Belle's salvation, or so she had foolishly believed when she was a young girl with naïve dreams of meeting and marrying a Prince one day.
But now, they only brought the unfounded accusations of a jealous would-be lover, though she knew that she would never align herself with the likes of someone with the mannerism that the Prince possessed. Or rather, his lack of manners. Their color during his last visit reminded Belle of the sky, where the blue of the oceans blended into the blue of the sky, but now…now they were simply chilling. Ever muscle in the Prince's face was tense and without a single word, the nobleman communicated to Belle a sense of intense mistrust, anger, betrayal, hurt, and a myriad of other unidentifiable emotions within his eyes.
The way the Prince's facial muscles tensed, the way he glowered at her, silently seething, clenching his fist not curled around her arm repeatedly.
And the horrible way the man was smirking at her as they stopped a moment. Belle couldn't prove it, but she knew the Prince was planning something, though what that thing might be, Belle had not the faintest idea.
Belle bit the inside of her cheek and before she could fathom what was happening, she felt her arm move of its own accord and untangle itself from the wretched Prince who had dared attempt assault within the cathedral's own walls, and she moved away from the man with the head and eyes of a pit viper serpent, the true head of a Beast, as he stared back at her as she wrenched her arm away violently, as though the very touch of his hand on hers burned her.
She tasted bitter, acidic bile creeping its way from her throat, wherein it settled upon her tongue like a disgusting and bitter poison that only lingered.
The words that tumbled unchecked out of her lips to the miserable excuse for a member of the royal family walking in tandem next to her erupted before Belle could even fathom a prayer of stopping her temper from imploding.
"I can walk by myself, Your Grace, thank you," Belle answered stiffly, resting the urge to stomp her foot and kick the Prince in the place where she knew it would hurt him the worst. Tempting though it was, she was still a noble, albeit a widowed noble, and especially here in the sanctity of the church, such behavior was condemned and deemed unladylike and not appropriate.
Belle promptly turned away from Prince Adam and stiffened her facial muscles, preparing for another one of the man's childish outbursts as she turned her back on the Prince of these lands here in Paris and left the vicious man-boy standing in the middle of the aisle of the nave, a flabbergasted expression etched on his face, with his lips parted open in shock and mouth agape, at a total loss.
She knew as she walked up the rest of the aisle and towards where Quasi and the Archdeacon waited that she had, perhaps, made the gravest mistake of her life just now by behaving so abhorrently towards a member of the royal family, and yet, Belle could not even remotely bring herself to care an ounce.
What she did know, was that she did not want to see the murderous expression in the noble Prince's eyes, and she could not quell the sinking feeling that had begun to form in the pit of her stomach as it churned and swooped.
Belle swallowed down the bile and briefly clenched her eyes shut, praying that she wasn't about to be sick. Thankfully, the momentary spell of nausea passed, and she slowly opened her eyes to regard the man she was about to wed.
There was a rather uncharacteristic way that her bell ringer was looking at her just now, a mixture of admiration at how she had just behaved towards the Prince, for there were not many in all of Paris, much less a woman, who would dare to have the audacity, the gall, to refuse the Prince, and perhaps a mixture of something else, something that Belle could not quite identify what that was.
Belle was startled out of her thoughts as the Archdeacon spoke, his baritone voice resonating from this burly, aging man in his white pristine robes.
"Who comes before God on this evening to be wed?" the man asked her.
"Lady Belle, of the House Dupont," Belle heard herself speak, her voice cracking and wavering slightly as she was forced to raise her voice so that their four attending witnesses: Captain Phoebus and his wife, Fleur, Sister Alice, and Father Darius, and she supposed now, a fifth, the fifth being the Prince, could hear her.
Belle swallowed past the lump forming in her throat. "I have come here to be wed. I am a woman grown, trueborn and noble, and widowed, sire. I came to seek the approval and the blessing of God in holy matrimony tonight. To…be one with my own kin. The choice is mine. I give of myself on this night since my father is no longer with us on this earth to give away the bride. I would like to take this man as my husband, Your Grace, if it pleases you, sir."
"And who claims this woman?" the Archdeacon asked of Quasi in return.
Notre Dame's bell ringer cleared his throat once and took a slight half-step forward. "I do. I have come to claim this woman." His voice was sure, resolute.
It did not escape Belle nor Quasi's attention that as he spoke the words, the Prince's look lost the impassive look on his face and replaced within it was a silent, but cautious and fuming expression as he moved to stand next to Alice.
The Archdeacon coughed, clearing his throat once. "Do you take this man?"
Belle bit the inside wall of her cheek as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other to silently regard Quasimodo, who was starting to look rather tense and timid, as though afraid that perhaps Belle had changed her mind in this regard, which could not have been further from the truth. His eyes were narrowed, suspicious, and yet, strangely hopeful, which Belle found endearing.
It was the hope she chose to cling to instead of the other emotions within. The hope that she would treat him well, as his wife, and mother of their child the moment it emerged from the womb and drew breath. Belle would certainly try, though she felt it was she who did not deserve him.
She exhaled nervously through her nose and shifted her head to the left slightly to regard Quasi, shot him a brief, curt smile to ease his discomfort, and stated, "I, Belle Dupont, take this man." She stifled her smile as she again heard the guests murmured their blessings and approval of the match, one which Belle accepted. Quasi stepped towards her and looking into her eyes, she could not stop the feeling of squeamishness that rolled through her stomach in painful cramps.
Though Belle could not help but think that her about-to-be-husband had beautiful cobalt blue eyes for being disregarded and different. The bell ringer sighed and looked at her with those blue eyes touched by storm clouds. She had never seen any other emotion lingering within them other than contempt.
But now, it was as if they embraced the wind. A brief gust before returning to a calm sea.
The emotion in her bell ringer's eyes was fathoms deep, yet they carried the warmth and life of the sunlit surface. They had a thousand hues of blue and a small touch of hazel radiating in softly swooping arcs. To say that his eyes were blue was like saying that the sun was yellow.
Sufficient but not accurate to capture the burning. Belle blinked, pulling herself out of her stupor as she realized she had lost herself in staring at his eyes.
How sad they looked. Tinged with melancholic, and angry at the world.
The people often said that eyes were the window to a person's soul. But the thing is, she could see right through Quasi. She could see his pains and his gentleness just the same, as she could see his overwhelming desire to be loved and accepted by people who just quite frankly did not give a damn about him.
Belle saw how every single emotion came together to form the art of his soul. It formed a picture she could see in a split instant and comprehend with full depth. So, she saw Quasimodo at this moment, for what he was. Who he was.
When she would tell him later that she believed his eyes to be beautiful, the best quality about him besides his mind and his thick tuft of ginger hair atop his head, Belle knew this to be the truth, for it was not about the eyes' colors or shapes.
No. It was about the human essence that was so clearly there.
Those angry eyes of his were his pains untold, and Belle suddenly wished that he would tell it, given they were about to become man and wife, that she could better understand Quasi and understand how his mind worked, she did.
As his wife, she would be forced to be his in any storm, but…here was the thing. He would have to keep her safe from them. He would have to let Belle all the way in so that he would always trust her, and she only ever saw his kind eyes, because God below only knew that she had seen enough anger in this life.
Because…, and she could not believe she was admitting this next part, that she wanted to stay with Quasi if it meant that she would be safe if there was even an inkling that she might be able to return home one day, but he would have to be good for her too.
The Archdeacon spoke again in an ancient, warbling old tone. "My son, you will give your token of promise to Belle, that you will promise to keep her and cherish her, as a signature to her and her house."
"I do," he answered solemnly, and even Belle was surprised at the seriousness of Quasi's tone. The man who laughed often made jokes…
If she was being honest with herself, there was a small part of her that looked forward to keeping the company of a man who could make her laugh, for she could not honestly remember the last time that she genuinely laughed or smiled, save for the moment in the tower but a few days ago when they'd had that wonderful discussion of books and discussing philosophy at length.
The Archdeacon mumbled something to the pair of them, but Belle was not paying very close attention. She watched, inhaling a sharp breath of air as Quasi took a somewhat hesitant step forward, bound out of a sense of duty to his house to seal their union with their first kiss as husband and wife. Belle immediately tensed, though upon seeing the hurt look in Quasi's brilliant blue eyes, she let out a sigh and gave an apologetic nod.
Belle found herself staring deep into Quasi's ocean blue eyes, hating the thudding of her heartbeat as it rattled against its cage in the confines of her chest, beating so damn loudly she couldn't even concentrate on what had just happened.
It felt like she was going to explode as Quasi carefully stepped forward and slipped the plain gold wedding band onto her finger. They were…they were wed. She let a tired sigh escape her lips, closing her eyes in anticipation for whatever was coming next, though she knew it, and he did. They all knew it.
Then, without warning, something warm yet coarse pressed themselves against her lips. Belle's eyes flung wide open as she fought against the urge to press back, knowing that right now, with all eyes in the nave watching, such an unexpected gesture on her part might be too much for him.
It took Belle approximately one point three seconds to realize that Quasi had—was—kissing her and a further three-point eight seconds for Belle to realize she was returning it. His lips were slightly chapped, and she could taste the metallic tang of blood on her tongue, but she did not care because all she could focus on was this.
For now, just forcing her body to relax and keeping still would have to be enough. She had to remember to keep things slow, for her sanity, and for his.
Belle firmly believed that there was no doubt in Quasi's mind that she reviled him, repulsed by his appearance, his scar, though she knew that not to be the case. In fact, his lips felt warm against hers and created a strange, burning tingling that she did not know could ever exist, but nor could she have ever imagined that her first kiss to a man that she actually loved would come from him.
But, still, it felt nice, and perhaps a little bit of pressure was not going to overwhelm him? She breathed slowly through her nose, taking a deep breath and returned the strange pressure that was against her lips. Quasi's reaction was more startled than she expected, and she wondered if she had gone too far.
Yet, when she tried to pull away, her now-husband's hand came up and cupped the back of her head, slowing her movements.
"It is all right," he whispered, pulling back slightly so that he could see her clearly, taking note of how high and flushed her cheeks were, bright pink in color. His own face was flushed a deep crimson, which made the ragged pink and white lines of his scar that much more shocking against his skin, and he looked rather apologetic.
He relinquished his hold from her cheek and untangled his hands from her hair, pulling away as though she had burned him, looking rather put off and sheepish. "Come," he murmured, gesturing with a curt wave of his arm as the few witnesses in the nave began to disperse and talk amongst themselves, heading back towards home.
Belle exhaled shakily through her nose as she followed her husband's lead, her head held high and actively avoided everyone's gaze, though she could feel the Prince's glacier cold stare practically burning a hole in the back of her skull, hotter than any branding iron for cattle, horses or sheep as the boy-prince fell into line behind them, and she flinched.
She sincerely hoped their Prince of these lands would depart, and soon.
Quasi noticed her look and cast a wary glance back over his shoulder towards Adam, who still had the strange little gleam in his cobalt blue eyes, and he furrowed his brows into a frown. "Our Prince will remember your refusal of his arm, Belle," he murmured, lowering his voice so that only Belle could hear.
She scowled, feeling her brows knit together in a frown. "I hope so!" she chirped, not bothering to fight the beginnings of a smile on her face as she glanced down her nose at Quasi. "He does not frighten me, Quasi."
He nodded, though Belle could tell he did not quite seem convinced, for he glanced back over his shoulder again and quickened his pace as best as he could to match Belle's strides as they headed towards their tower.
He wore the look of a man who wanted nothing more than to get this little farce over with, and Belle supposed she could not blame him, though she hoped he would at least allow himself a little enjoyment in the evening and stayed away from the copious amounts of red wine that was sure to be in excessive supply this evening.
For even Belle could not deny as her curiosity finally got the better of her and she risked one glance over her shoulder, back towards where the Prince lingered, there was no mistaking the look of burning animosity in his orbs.
Belle swallowed nervously as she quickly averted Prince Adam's gaze and made to follow Quasi, hoping that if she could just stick close enough, the Prince would leave behind and forget the incident of Belle refusing the Prince's arm. A blatant show of disrespect towards the insolent Prince of these lands and Belle resisted the urge to reach down and take Quasi's hand, knowing full well that doing so would prompt yet again another vicious round of gossiping tongues.
"How do you feel?" Belle heard herself asking, her own face flushed as she could practically feel Quasi lift his head blearily to look at his new wife. "Did you feel comfortable?" Belle was, of course, referring to their kiss.
Quasi made a strangled little noise from the back of his throat, as though not anticipating being asked such a question from a woman who he had previously been led to believe despised him and reviled him as some form of monster.
His face flushed even deeper red still, yet he slowly nodded his head as he looked at her incredulously, as though hardly daring to believe his wife's words.
Belle returned the nod, feeling the heat creep onto her own cheeks as she took another shaking breath to steady her rapidly pounding heart and quell the rolling nerves in her stomach. "Then…that is all that matters, love." She offered him another reassuring smile and this time, she leaned down and put her hand on his shoulder again and gave it a light but firm squeeze. "I am learning, so I hope that…you can be patient with me, I—if we could…go slow?" she asked.
She bit the wall of her cheek and then stuck out her bottom lip in a slight pout and bit down hard as she waited for Quasi to say something—anything—in response to her request. What his response to her request would be would determine if she would be able to respect him and perhaps even grow to love him. Belle exhaled in relief as he nodded, feeling her shoulders sag in relief.
"Yes. We will go as slow as you need to, so do not feel rushed, Belle. Besides," he added, a light little smirk forming on his face that Belle found she rather liked, for she could detect no malice in the gesture. "I—I am learning too, and I rather like it this way. If you are comfortable with this, with me, then I am."
But still. Even Belle could not deny that a part of her craved some form of comfort, whether that was to hold his hand or just to sit with him. Anything to seek some form of reassurance that the Prince would not bother her this evening.
She could not shake the feeling that as long as she remained in close proximity to Quasi, that somehow, everything would be okay, and Adam would not bother her on her wedding night. Still. There was no point in trying to deny that Belle, by refusing Prince Adam's arm, had publicly shamed, humiliated the man. Belle swallowed nervously, the intensity of the Prince's staring practically burning that hole into the back of her skull deepening.
She could no more avoid conversing with the Prince than she could the beating of her own heart as it pounded with futility against its cage of bone and cartilage.
The dread she felt at the Prince himself confronting her over what she had done to humiliate him was an invisible shadow demon, sitting heavy on her shoulders, and she could only hear the sharpening of its knives as it whispered evil thoughts of malice into her ear.
She started to sweat and became pale, and then the tremor in her hands began. Her head became a little giddy and her stomach nauseous, suddenly no longer hungry. The dread crept down her spine like a careful spider leaving a trail of silk. Belle could feel her feet on the skin of her neck, causing the hairs on her neck to stand on end, descending until she almost felt frozen on the spot. Something was wrong. She could not shake the feeling as if Belle were being watched.
Her stomach felt full of lead, her feet set in stone; her mind worryingly empty as she followed Quasi up to his tower, to the sanctity and tranquility of the familiar loft.
Belle swallowed as her mouth suddenly felt dry as she accidentally met the Prince's gaze and he smirked that infuriatingly little smile at her, so cold and devoid of warmth. The Prince would have had the face of an angel or a saint if his lips would ever break farther apart.
The edge was pushed up as he met Belle's gaze, scrunching his left eye up, making his blue eye appear gray.
Prince Adam's lips parted a little, making it seductive to many women. All but her. Yet the faked smile on the man's face made him appear even more arrogant. The dread crept over her like an icy chill in the winds of winter, numbing her brain.
She could not shake the sense that she was about to pay for humiliating him but a few precious moments ago in the nave, and in her frozen state, her mind only offered her one thought.
It was tonight. There was no avoiding this…
She felt like a cow being herded into a pen for slaughter, only the cow did not know where it was going, and Belle did. Straight into the arms of Death. Belle licked her lips to moisten them, though no moisture came and before she could even fathom, she felt her arm move instinctively of its own accord and grip onto Quasi's, not giving a damn that she had to stoop slightly in order to do it.
As long as I stay by his side, he wouldn't let him do anything to me…
But if only she could have known how wrong she was…