Beauty and the Rose: a Beauty and the Rose Novel Read online

  Logan crouches before me and hands me an open bottle of water. I let the cool stream wet my throat, being careful not to rinse off any makeup. As much as I want to wash my face and admit defeat.

  “My makeup is probably ruined.”

  “It’s fine,” Logan says curtly. His big form practically vibrates with tension. I know he’s wishing he could go back and punch some of the reporters in the face.

  My fingers find his. “Logan, I’m fine.”

  “You did good. My brave girl.”

  “Now I just have to get through the ribbon cutting.” I stare at the lighted numbers signaling our climb to the rooftop garden.

  Logan paces to the panel. He considers it a moment before he punches a button.

  The elevator shudders to a stop.

  “Logan! What are you doing?”

  Logan turns and eyes me as if he didn’t do something crazy, like stop a moving elevator. “Who did Cora invite to this?”

  “You didn’t check the guest list?”

  “I’ve been preoccupied,” he admits. And of course he has.

  “Just a bunch of donor types,” I answer. “Cora’s friends. Why?”

  “Not the Belladonna board?”

  My heart melts. Logan’s afraid for me. My self-appointed guardian. “Probably not. Even if she did invite them, it’s fine.”

  “I won’t let them bother you,” he vows.

  “I know.” I force a smile. “Now come on. One hour, and we can go home. We can get through this.”

  He gives an unhappy grunt. “But do we have to?”

  “It’s important to Cora. She’s a friend now. So it’s important to me. Just grin and bear it. Or… lie back and think of roses.”

  He studies me a moment. “I won’t be thinking of roses,” he says softly. “I’ll be thinking of you.”

  He paces in front of me, hands in his pockets. The way he looks at me makes my pussy clench.

  “Um, Logan?” I tilt my head towards the door.

  “That’s not what you call me,” his deep voice rolls over me. My body quivers, attuning itself to Logan the Master. Just the sound of his commanding voice is enough to prime me.

  “This is a scene?”

  “It is now.” He circles me, then crouches in front of me. He’s so big, even kneeling before me he’s still taller than me. “Part your legs, baby.”

  Yes! “Now?” My voice comes out breathy.

  He raises a dark brow.

  I slide my legs open. My skirt is so tight, they can’t go far.

  “Wider,” he commands and I wriggle to pull the sheath skirt up. Logan watches me fight to obey him. I get the fabric bunched around my hips and push my knees wider.

  He plants his hands on my knees, touching me like he owns me. Which he does.

  Casually, he slides his right hand up my bare thigh. Eyes locked on mine, he reaches between my legs to stroke the gusset of my panties. I squirm.

  “Be still,” he orders. I grab the arm rests of my wheelchair, my knuckles whitening as I fight to obey his commands. My heart thumps like I'm running a race.

  “You’ve been such a good girl,” he croons, still caressing me. And suddenly I’m on the edge of orgasm. My pussy is purring, as if all these months of illness, she’s been waiting, desperate for stimulation.

  I half twist, rising up in the chair in an automatic attempt to avoid his touch. My arousal is on a hair-trigger. And Logan knows just where to pet me.

  “Logan,” I pant.

  He stills his hand. No! So close! “That’s not what you call me.”

  “Master, Master, please please please—”

  “Come, sweetheart.” His finger resumes brushing my pussy, butterfly light. Sensation knifes through me, snapping me in half. I bow over his arm, shaking as pleasure burns white hot.

  I can barely whimper as Logan strokes me through the aftershocks, then takes out a crisp white handkerchief, removes my panties and cleans me up.

  Dimly, I register him bringing the lacy scrap of my thong to his nose before making it disappear deep in his pockets. Twin red spots burn the tops of my cheeks.

  He’s going to make me go out and schmooze with New Olympus’ richest without panties. I press my knees together.

  “There,” Logan says. He’s not quite smiling but an air of satisfaction surrounds him like cologne. He presses a button and the elevator resumes it’s smooth ascent. “Now I can grin and bear it.”

  * * *

  Logan

  I lurk on the edge of the garden, as far away from the milling crowd as I can get.

  I glower like a brooding gargoyle at anyone who comes my way. People see my expression and detour to inflict their small talk on someone else.

  I despise these sort of events, but it’s worth it to watch Daphne blossom. She’s lively and smiling in her wheelchair, sitting opposite Cora Ubeli at the very epicenter of the party. The wheelchair might as well be a throne.

  She’s so beautiful. Turns my heart. Every so often, she looks my direction and directs a dazzling smile my way.

  It makes me want to throw her over my shoulder and drag her away from all these potential vipers. The Ubelis might be good people, but I’d toss any other one of these fuckers off the building with no regrets. I take my station of watch seriously. Nothing will happen to Daphne while she’s away from home.

  Home.

  It still knocks me on my ass sometimes that I finally have one. Because of her. And I refuse to lose her, to death or any other damn thing.

  Down on the flagstone courtyard, Cora Ubeli steps up onto a raised dais to make a speech. She is a striking, glittering woman dripping with jewels. There are many rumors about her rise to power at her husband’s side, but people in Olympus learned early not to gossip about the King of the Underworld’s beautiful new bride fairly early on after a couple of bloody spats.

  Over the past decade, she’s only solidified she has a right to her place by his side. She stands like a queen surveying her kingdom from the raised podium, and her voice is rich and welcoming when she begins to speak. Still there’s an undertone of command that goes beyond polite matronly society.

  “First of all, I want to thank Dr. Daphne Laurel, without whose research, none of this would be possible.”

  There’s a scattering of applause and then Cora continues. She leans into the mic. “I knew I wanted to design a garden—a healing space where people could soak in fresh air and sunlight even while they’re recovering. But it was only through my discussions with Dr. Laurel that I realized we could do something much more special. That we could educate as well as appreciate beauty. The plants here all have medicinal uses.”

  “For example, the yew tree,” she points to a tree, “which is used to make a chemotherapy drug. And that’s just one of the plants in this garden that is used to fight cancer. I encourage you to read the signs along the walkway and learn about the life saving properties in these humble flowers and plants. There are some amazing breakthroughs being made every day in some of the diseases that have plagued humanity the longest. Cancer. Autoimmune diseases. Even allergies.”

  The crowd smiles and nods along, completely with her.

  “This Healing Garden is dedicated to one who lost her life in a battle against one such disease. Dr. Laurel’s mother, Isabella.”

  Even from halfway across the space, I can see that Daphne’s eyes are glistening.

  And then Mrs. Ubeli calls Daphne up on stage to say a few words. I smile and clap harder than anyone there as my beautiful Daphne rolls up the ramp made especially for her as she ascends the dais beside Cora.

  She’s the only one I’m here for. Her and that smile on her face. I’ll be forever grateful to Cora Ubeli for giving her this night. I thought all rich, powerful people were the scum of humanity but the Ubelis might just be one of the few exceptions. Then again, from the rumors I’ve heard, they don’t exactly color inside the lines.

  I’m still grinning, about to move closer in spite of my dislike o
f crowds—Daphne’s voice is quieter than Cora’s and I don’t want to miss a word—when other voices filter in.

  Loud, obnoxious voices from behind me. One in particular familiar loud, obnoxious voice.

  “Phew, dodged a bullet with that one,” Adam Archer says. “It’s too bad, ‘cause she’s hot. But I could never have a wife who couldn’t get on her hands and knees and suck me off at the end of a long day.”

  Some hearty laughs and other uncomfortable laughs follow his statement.

  But I’m already swinging around, hands fisted.

  They’re only standing about five feet behind me, a group of three men, Adam their ringleader.

  He smirks when he sees me coming. The son of a bitch.

  I point a huge finger at him. He said those things on purpose, close enough so I’d hear him. “You’re a dead man.”

  His smirk changes into an expression of fear far too late.

  I’m already swinging for his perfect face.

  Eight

  Daphne

  The ride home from the Healing Garden is frosty. There’s no other word for it.

  Logan tried feebly to congratulate me on my speech and I snapped at him, “How would you know? You were too busy punching out Adam Archer to hear anything I said.”

  I couldn’t believe my eyes when, during the middle of my prepared remarks about my mother’s love of gardening and how much the beauty of nature reminded her that life was worth living—

  Only to look up when there’s a ruckus at the back of the seated area, and then to further realize that it’s your current boyfriend punching out your ex-boyfriend and ruining everything.

  “Look,” he says gruffly, running a hand through his hair when the car pulls to a stop in the garage of the castle. “I’m sorry.”

  I barely contain my scoff but apparently not well enough because he asks, “What?”

  Is he serious right now?

  “They were two seconds away from calling the cops.”

  Logan’s jaw flexes. “But they didn’t.”

  My mouth drops open. Does he really think that makes it better? “Then what are you even sorry for? It doesn’t sound like you feel like you have anything to feel sorry about.”

  Right now I really wish I could slam my way out of the car and storm up to my room…but humiliatingly, I have to wait for Logan to set up the ramp for me to get out of the van. Because this is how it will always be. Him waiting hand and foot on me and never listening to anything I say.

  I knew we would get to this point. It’s exhausting being a caretaker. He’s too busy taking care of my physical needs to care about what I really want— He couldn’t even care that I was excited about the garden.

  More like he cares more about his revenge than he does about you.

  He comes around the car, opens the door and sets up the ramp. But before I can roll down it, he drops his hands to both sides of the wheelchair and forces me to look him in the eye. “Look, I know I screwed up tonight. But I’m going to make it up to you. I swear.”

  Oh, Logan. He doesn’t even get it. It’s not about making it up to me. It’s about letting go of the past so we can have a future.

  I gave up everything. But he’s obviously not willing to do the same.

  I reach up and caress his face. “I’m tired, hon. Really tired. Can I just go sleep? We’ll talk another time?”

  It’s not a lie. I’m exhausted after going out and then when Adam kept shouting for the authorities to be called after Marcus Ubeli’s security finally pulled Logan off of him… There was blood running from Adam’s nose. People were taking video with their phones. It was horrible. Normal stress is tiring, but that?

  I need to sleep for about a week after that.

  Logan continues staring at me, eyes searching mine, before finally nodding and pulling back. I wheel down the ramp and fifteen minutes later, I’m scrubbed clean of all my makeup and fast asleep.

  * * *

  A week later and winter is still alive and well in our household even as spring begins to bloom outdoors. But there’s little thaw between Logan and me. He tries and sometimes, halfheartedly, so do I.

  We talk about the weather and politics and documentaries we watch together in the evenings…but that’s it. The ground is too frozen to dig any deeper.

  The garden party tired me out more than I expected… Or maybe it’s everything with Logan. I don’t know. All I know is that I’ve been less motivated to get out of bed. Logan asks me if I want to go down to the basement and work in the lab with him.

  But the thought of hours working at his side, pretending everything’s fine… It’s no lie when I say I don’t have the energy for it.

  Maybe I was right, before, back when I shut out everything and everyone. Maybe I’m like my dad. He never had time for anyone, not even his family. He didn’t even always have time for Mom, when she was the one he was supposedly trying to save.

  It was probably idiotic to get my hopes up for more. No matter how amazing Logan is. Some circumstances are just too much.

  He’s too angry. Maybe if I was healthy, I’d have the energy to help him past it. But with me ill, every day is a reminder of my father and Adam, always in danger of another relapse that might take me from him…

  I look out the window as clouds gather overhead for another springtime shower. Logan will never be rid of the anger. He’ll never stop wanting revenge. Against the whole world if I die, no doubt.

  Am I just supposed to live with my head in the sand about what’s really going on? Am I supposed to just pretend that he loves me first above everything else when I know in my heart of hearts it’s not true?

  And how can I blame him? When I’m this…thing. I look down at myself, covered in blankets, not having showered in two days, and I think—

  I think maybe he’ll be better off when I’m gone.

  Maybe then he’ll have a chance.

  I turn away from the window and bury my face in the pillow.

  But right then the door bangs open and Logan stomps through. He’s rarely one for stealth. “It’s time for a bath.”

  I keep my eyes shut and pretend I’m asleep.

  “You snore when you sleep so I know you’re awake.”

  Then the covers are ripped off of me and my eyes jolt open. “Hey!”

  “Up and at ‘em,” is all Logan says.

  But when I still don’t respond, he just starts to undress me like I’m a petulant child.

  “What are you doing?” I yelp as he yanks my shirt off my head and then tugs the bottom of my sweatpants, tipping me backwards on the bed so that my head is hitting the pillow again.

  I feel like a little kid being maneuvered by a giant. Two seconds later, my pants are off, and then my underwear and bra.

  I cross my arms over my chest, covering my breasts, and glare at him. “I am not having sex with you after that.”

  For the first time since he’s come in the room, I finally see a spark of emotion across his face. He grins at me. “Never say never. But like I said, we’re heading for the bath.”

  And then, still not asking permission or waiting for me to agree, he hikes me up and over his shoulder, fireman carry style. My shrieks and yelps are ignored.

  He takes me out the door, ignoring my own en suite bathroom and taking me across the hall to his larger jacuzzi tub, the jets already roiling. With no ceremony, he deposits me into the steaming water.

  I make one last screech of protest, but then I sigh as the wave of hot water hits my body and starts to seep into my aching muscles.

  And apparently it’s bath time and a show, because as soon as Logan finishes dropping me in the water, he starts to undress. I can’t take my eyes off the way the light hits his rippling muscles. His back is as broad as that of two lesser men. And the cut of his abs, leading down to that enticing V…

  I yank my eyes away, but not before he notices where I was looking and snickers loudly.

  “Like what you see?” he asks cockily.


  I’ll blame the flush of my cheeks on the hot water.

  “No time for funny business, though,” he says, much to my surprise. “We’re here to get a job done.”

  Since when?

  But then, heart sinking, I realize that I’m not the only one who’s noticed the changes around here. Logan really isn’t attracted to me anymore, is he?

  I mean, he just tore off all my clothes, handled my naked body, and all he wants to do is…bathe me?

  Oh gods, I must smell. That has to be it. He leaned in a little too close and got a whiff of Hermit Daphne’s body funk. It was just one day I skipped my bath and it’s not like I get that sweaty just sleeping, I didn’t think that it would matter that much—

  But Logan’s already picked up a washrag and he’s going to work with the efficiency of a practiced home care nurse. Washing underneath my arms. My feet. My back.

  Because he’s a loyal caretaker.

  My head drops forward.

  “Keep your head like that, I’m going to rinse your hair now.”

  Can I please sink down through all the floors of the castle into the belly of the earth and disappear now?

  I keep my eyes squeezed shut and my mouth closed as Logan washes my hair, not even able to enjoy the sensation of his hands against my scalp, which is usually a highlight.

  But unlike normal, he doesn’t spend any extra time lathering my breasts and he barely skirts a fresh washrag between my legs before he’s pulling the plug and letting all the water out.

  Bathtime’s over.

  He didn’t even get all the way in with me. He washed me from the outside of the tub, never even taking off his pants. And he’s wearing nice ones like always.

  He helps me out of the bath and towels me off with as much ruthless efficiency as he washed me. Apparently talking is overrated, too, because he doesn’t say two words, even as he wraps me in my favorite fluffy purple robe.

  He’s not even trying to pretend this isn’t our new normal anymore. Doctor and patient.