A/N - i don't own Danny Phantom or Beauty and the Beast

One

The smashing cacophony coming from downstairs was hard to miss. Shouts and screams interlaced with the sounds of shattering glass and china. The volume of the sounds increased, more and more, until eventually hulking footsteps could be heard on the stairs.

Her heart was pounding as she listened, each noise grating at her soul. Terror threatened to break the barrier of her control as the twisting of her hands around each other increased.

There was a very loud thunk in the hallway. Her head snapped up when she heard it. She knew it well enough to be able to tell that it was the sound of a body falling to the floor. She prayed fervently that it was him.

Her hands moved into the position of prayer, her lips moving in a silent but rapid pleading.

Please let it be him who fell, please let it be him, oh God please let it be….

Her hopes were dashed as the door to her room suddenly flew open, smacking against the wall behind it with a slam. The noise made her neck jerk painfully and she scrambled off her bed, shrinking back into the corner of her room, as far away from him as she could possibly get without sinking right into the shadows around her.

His bloodshot eyes scanned the dark room almost unseeingly.

Almost.

His eyes fixed on her and her chest constricted.

"Come here," he growled.

Every muscle in her body tensed, especially the ones in her throat, as she hesitated, then obeyed. She knew that she would not escape his wrath no matter what she did, but there was no point in causing him more angst – eventually it would lead to more pain.

"Yes, uncle?" Her voice was strong, but fear still quivered beneath the surface.

He strode forwards, his heavy boots thumping across the floorboards towards her. She held her ground, though every part of her was shrieking for her to turn and run.

He still wore his coat, the end of it swinging around his knees, at the turned over tops of his boots. His breeches puffed out over them, his un-tucked shirt falling midway down his thighs. All the buttons were open, his necktie loosened almost to the point of falling off. His long hair whipped around his face with his motions, only the tiniest bit of it still left in the brown ribbon at the base of his neck.

His eyes were worryingly red; the pupils dilated almost enough to swallow the irises whole. They were rimmed with dark pink, the color of his swollen lips. His gaunt cheekbones were accentuated by the dim light and harsh shadows in her bedroom.

He walked right up to her until his body was less than an inch from hers, and he lifted his hands, burying them in the fabric of her nightdress at the base of her neck and lifted her from the ground. She felt the thin hem of the light fabric press into her neck like a rope and, eyes wide with fear, she locked her fingers around his wrists, struggling to pull herself up enough so that she could breathe. She only barely succeeded.

His horribly stinking mouth drew right close to her face, but she was too busy fighting not to be strangled that she didn't even notice, though her eyes were open fully. Her tongue was curled in the middle of her mouth, her eyes looking at the ceiling, rolling slightly as she gasped and squirmed.

"Why are you undressed? In the company of others? You're no different from your mother," he spat out the word, a biting contrast to his scratchily rasped speech. "Just the same – a whore. A whore!"

With that he lifted her further, as her face reddened and swelled, her struggles weakening. He then gathered his drunken strength and threw her slight form clean across the room. She slammed into the opposite wall with a horrific thunk. Her broken body instantly fell to the floor. Her shoulder connected with the edge of her pine vanity, flipping her onto her back as she landed on the ground.

The agony in her back warred with the searing, burning pain across her crushed windpipe. It felt as though it was pushing itself back into shape, causing her as much pain as its distortion had.

She took haggard, gasping inhales of air, the smell of her uncle now easily detectable in the air. Her face was filmed with sweat, the red stain on her cheeks dying down slightly as she clasped her neck with cold fingers.

She was still recovering when he stormed over to her once more, grabbing her hair and pulling her up by it. He jerked her delicate face right to his, pulling her right onto the very tips of her toes to match his height.

"Well, I guess I won't have to deal with you much longer now – will I?"

His lips contorted into a sneer that could be interpreted as a grin, and threw her sideways onto her bed. She rolled over on it, slipping down the side and sitting, her whole body screaming, on the floor, relishing its soothing coolness.

He stood over her, his fists on his hips, swaying slightly.

He answered the question she could not have physically asked even if she had been brave enough.

"I'm marrying you off, dearest." Scorn dripped from his voice as her head came up just enough for her to stare at him in shock from underneath her dark eyebrows.

"To who?" He once again answered her unspoken words. "Dominic Baxter's son. Lost to the idiot in cards tonight. But don't worry – your good old guardian isn't stupid enough to gamble away our money, like most men would. No, I gambled something far less valuable – you."

His words didn't even register in her mind as black swirled into the sides of her vision.

She heard him turning and walking towards the door. Her strength completely failed her, and she fell sideways and smacked onto the floor. Her whole body shivered painfully, and out of the thin tunnel of vision she had left she saw him retreating down the hallway, before her eyes closed and her whole body went limp.

The servants in the Manson household had learned well how to be silent. But when the master of the house stumbled back late at night, drunk, they had learned to be invisible.

The sunlight spilled through a window with one boarded pane, a memento from a drinking night of a month or so before, the curtains unclosed from the previous night, forgotten. It bathed the small room in gold, illuminating the vanity, a chunk of wood from the side snapped off and lying on the ground. Lighting up the long crack in the plaster just above that, a few chips of paint missing from around it.

The tiny, crumpled figure huddled at the side of the bed, messily lying there like a discarded piece of clothing.

The figure stirred slightly. Her hand crept out, stretching and clasping at the ground, then constricting once more, before reaching out again; using this caterpillar motion to move a few inches from her body.

Her body shakily rose, pushing up on her arms. She pulled her legs under her chest and rose up onto her knees, sitting on her feet. Her mouth was pursed against the pain of movement, but she rose onto worryingly unsteady legs. She pulled off the nightdress and walked over to the pail of water sitting by the door that someone had thoughtfully closed last night. She sunk once more to her knees before it, splashing the cold water on her face.

Her mouth was wide open as she trailed the water across her whole body, wincing as she touched her neck, feeling the swollen flesh.

She dressed next, slipping on first her undergarments, forgoing a corset as her petite frame had no need for it. The dress she wore was just past knee length, a thin, cheap grey fabric, showing her black boots below it. She eased a scratchy shawl over her shoulders, moaning in pain as the agony seared across her back, stabbing at her shoulder blades and pulling at her spine.

She took a glance at the blue-purple skin of her neck in the vanity mirror, her stomach tightening, grabbing a familiar gauzy piece of material from the top drawer, then turned and went downstairs for breakfast.

Later she was walking through the village, a basket over her arm, and a light hooded cape pulled as far down over her face as she could get it to hide her throat, which was also enshrouded with the thick grey necktie she had grabbed from her room.

She had already collected the foods and supplies she needed, and had an unpleasant encounter with a cruel girl she knew was called Paulina. Apparently the news of her 'betrothal' was spreading through the small town of Amity Park, and this slutty girl was furious that Samantha was to marry the most eligible bachelor in town.

For all Samantha cared, he could have been a god sent right from heaven, she still wouldn't have wanted to be chained to him forevermore. The whole idea of marriage made her shudder. With her father, after they were thrown out of their home, and even before, they had had adventures together. And that was what she wanted. Adventure. She needed to escape this boring little town and do something with her life.

She suddenly felt a wide hand on her shoulder, interrupting her thoughts, and she wheeled around as fast as her injuries would allow.

A blond-haired man was standing before her. He was taller than her, and quite well built, but she noticed on him the soft hands typical of most of the richer men in this area, showing that he did not do manual work – ever. Subconsciously she pulled her own calloused hands deep into the folds of her cape.

He grinned, but it was a grin she did not trust. Something pompous practically radiated from this person, and it swelled distaste in her stomach.

"Excuse me, but are you Samantha Manson?"

Her eyes widened at his knowing her name, though she did not have any idea who he was.

"How?" She croaked.

He shrugged. "I heard the baker calling you Miss Manson, and I put two and two together."

You're a genius, she sneered in her mind.

"Who?" Her throat rasped painfully. He didn't give any signs of noticing her pain.

"Dashiel Baxter – I'm your betrothed as of last night."

Shock struck her like her uncle's fist into her stomach. This unpleasant creature was what she was going to have to endure every day for the rest of her life, until the second she died? Her life practically flashed before her eyes.

She forced herself to not run away, and dipped her head curtly. "Dashiel."

"Call me Dash." He put one hand on his hip, shifting his weight onto one leg. She smiled inwardly when she realized that his pose was decidedly feminine. "So, what's with the hood? You that ugly?"

A snarled reply bubbled up in her throat, but before she could try to croak it out, his white hand slipped up to the rim of the hood and jerked it back, revealing her delicately fine, pale features. Her light violet eyes sparked in anger at the unwarranted action.

He whistled – much like her uncle had done that time the Baron gifted him with Persephone, the most magnificent horse Samantha had ever seen. Her lips curled in annoyance when she heard that noise coming from him for her.

She slapped his hand away from her shoulder, where it was resting, his fingers still curled around the fabric.

"What?" he said defensively, leaning in close to her and trailing his finger down her jaw from her ear. "You're mine anyway."

She refrained from slapping that leer right off his snide little face then and there, knowing her uncle might kill her for that. Instead she backed away, clutching the basket to her chest.

"Goodbye Dashiel," she hissed, turning on her heel and stalking quickly away.

"It's Dash!" he called after her. She ignored him and continued on along the path to her house.

She fumed silently as she stomped up the dirt track. By the time she reached the weeping willow tree the anger had died down a little, and she could not resist the urge to sit down by her favorite tree.

Flowers splayed their petals for her beneath the silvery blanket of the willow. She loved nature so much. She looked down at the little flowers lovingly. They were silently beautiful. They did not hurt her. They never shouted at her. They never made her feel stupid and small. They were the best friends she had.

She laughed half-heartedly at how pathetic that was. Truth be told, most people in town found her very strange. She was rarely seen there, and never without her cape, to hide the damage her uncle did to her so frequently. Rumors circulated in earnest about her, and some of them hurt her. Her uncle delighted in sharing the worser ones with her as often as possible.

After a long while she rose to her feet and continued on to her home. As she traipsed up the drive she suddenly noticed a carriage in the driveway. She recognized it instantly and the basket fell, completely forgotten, to the floor as she sprinted to the front door.

She span into the house and saw the tall blond figure as soon as she did. A gasp of happiness escaped her and the man turned. His face broke into a grin and he opened his arms wide for her.

She ran into them, silenced with joy. She buried her face in the crook of his neck as he held her tightly. He was hurting her bruises, but she didn't care.

"Father," she whispered, her slender fingers grasping huge chunks of fabric from the back of his coat.

"Hello, darling," he said, pushing her away from him to study her. "You are even lovelier than the last time I saw you. You remind me so much of your mother," he fondly flicked the end of her nose. A smile played on her lips.

"I've missed you."

"I know." He squeezed her hand. "So, how's it been here with Uncle Philip?"

Philip took that as his cue to slip in and greet his brother before she could answer. "Jeremy, good to see you. What on Earth brings you back here?"

"Just passing through. I'm on my way north, just looking for money. Heard there's plenty to be made up there." He turned to his raven-haired daughter. "Soon I'll be able to take care of you, Samantha. You won't have to look after her for too much longer, brother."

Philip slipped his arm round Samantha' shoulders, grinning. "Shame, that. Sammy and I get on so well."

She resisted the urge to push him away. Her father would not like knowing she was unhappy, but she could not burden him with herself. She would stay here and wait until he had enough money and came for her. She forced a smile, though her body was still slightly removed from that of her uncle, who seemed to have mostly recovered from the excesses of the night before.

Her father smiled, clueless, and ruffled her hair. "Well, I have to be going. I just dropped in to say hello to my two favorite people in the world."

Samantha escaped her uncle's grip and ran to hug her father once more. She buried her face into his shoulder, savoring her precious time with him.

As he left she watched from the front door, watching as the carriage lurched down the driveway. She watched as it disappeared in a cloud of dust into the village. She watched until it was no longer visible and she remembered to blink.

She walked up to her room and fell onto the bed. Sorrow encased her, though she did not cry. She couldn't remember the last time she actually cried. Eventually she slipped into a depressed sleep.

Hours later her eyes flickered open. She moaned sleepily and rose from her splayed position on the bed. She swung her legs over the side of the cot and walked across the room, opening the window. In the distance the great castle on Amity Mountain could be seen. She felt afraid just looking at it. Its gothic turrets and black stone, though perfectly suited to her grim demeanour and outlook, made it seem more like a prison than anything else.

But as she looked at it, suddenly something clicked in her mind, and fear fanned through her. Her father had said he was going north. North was the direction of the castle.

The direction of the mountain no one had set foot on in almost a century.

The direction of the woods people were known to disappear into, never to be found again.

Her eyes widened and her fingers gripped the windowsill worriedly. "Father – no!"

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FunkyFish1991 xXx