offer is your presence.”
“ To be loved means to be recognized as existing.” And out beside this, in the margin: MANAGE EXPECTATIONS.
What does that mean? He feels no one loves him, and therefore no one recognizes he exists? That can’t be true.
I flip through more pages, and find another highlight.
“People have a hard time letting go of their suffering.” And beside this: PAN—ATTAX?
I stare down at the handwriting, scrawled into the margin with a thick black pen.
Is that code for panic attacks?
Does Beast have panic attacks? It seems impossible to believe.
I let the breath out I’ve been holding and put the books back. Too many things about this man stir me up. Too much about him haunts me.
I walk to the door and stand there, with my over-hot cheeks and my racing pulse, and wonder what’s the best way to find Clinton.
First, I need to get as far from Beast’s quarters as possible. When I’m found, as I assume I will be pretty quickly, I’ll tell whoever finds me that I’m here to see Clinton. They’ll probably ask me how I got in, or maybe they won’t. Probably whoever mans the cameras is in Beast’s pocket like everyone else, and they’ll remember letting me in on the sly.
But what if they’re in the pocket of Beast’s enemies now? My body goes a little cold. I don’t know anything about prison. About the politics here. About how to take care of myself here.
Surely the people who work here will help me get to Clinton.
It’s a civilized place. The employees are just regular people.
If I get caught, I’ll say I’m here to see Clinton, and whoever finds me will take me to him. Right? He’s not a prisoner. He’s a guard. They can have guests; at least I think they can. I’ve always been able to visit Holt when I wanted. Maybe I have special privileges because I’m his daughter?
Regardless. I will find Clinton.
I need to woman up. Shake off my anxiety and get this done. I push through Beast’s door and spirit myself out into the hall. I’m so anxious, I forget to look around. I just bolt to the right, hoping to get down the short hallway that houses Beast’s quarters before someone sees me. That way they won’t know I was visiting him, and the men who took him won’t feel the need to “take care of it,” or whatever it was they said they’d have to do if I was found.
I’m mid-stride, hurling my body toward the doorway that leads back to the main hall, when strong finger s close around my upper arm. I gasp and whirl.
For a second before my brain registers the face, I allow myself to hope it’s him. Instead, when I blink and my mind clears, I find myself nose-to-nose with a hulking, blond guard. He’s got freckles all across his nose and cheeks, and a wicked-looking scar on his forehead. His blue eyes are so cold, I glance up and down his body to confirm he’s wearing a brown guard’s uniform and not a prison jumpsuit.
He’s a guard, but he looks mad enough to kill. “Let go of me!”
He clenches my arm a little tighter and rolls his gaze down me. His brows draw tightly together, as if he’s never seen a woman before. In a thick, Southie accent, he says, “Who the fuck are you?”
“ I’m…Belle. I’m looking for Clinton.”
“In Beast’s room?” He shakes his head vehemently. “You’re looking to get banned from here because you’re a fucking liar.”
“You’re right. I am.” I open and shut my mouth convulsively, trying to get my brain to come on board. Honesty. Just be honest, Annabelle. “I was looking for him—for Beast—but he’s not—”
“He’s not there ,” the guard snaps.
I nod. “Right. But before I go, I really need to talk to—”
“Clinton’s gone , too.”
“He’s gone? What do you mean?”
“Went home.”
“His shift ended in the last hour? I thought he just got—”
“Doesn’t matter why,” he interrupts. “Clint’s not here. You need to go. You don’t belong here.” He drags me down the hall,
“ To be loved means to be recognized as existing.” And out beside this, in the margin: MANAGE EXPECTATIONS.
What does that mean? He feels no one loves him, and therefore no one recognizes he exists? That can’t be true.
I flip through more pages, and find another highlight.
“People have a hard time letting go of their suffering.” And beside this: PAN—ATTAX?
I stare down at the handwriting, scrawled into the margin with a thick black pen.
Is that code for panic attacks?
Does Beast have panic attacks? It seems impossible to believe.
I let the breath out I’ve been holding and put the books back. Too many things about this man stir me up. Too much about him haunts me.
I walk to the door and stand there, with my over-hot cheeks and my racing pulse, and wonder what’s the best way to find Clinton.
First, I need to get as far from Beast’s quarters as possible. When I’m found, as I assume I will be pretty quickly, I’ll tell whoever finds me that I’m here to see Clinton. They’ll probably ask me how I got in, or maybe they won’t. Probably whoever mans the cameras is in Beast’s pocket like everyone else, and they’ll remember letting me in on the sly.
But what if they’re in the pocket of Beast’s enemies now? My body goes a little cold. I don’t know anything about prison. About the politics here. About how to take care of myself here.
Surely the people who work here will help me get to Clinton.
It’s a civilized place. The employees are just regular people.
If I get caught, I’ll say I’m here to see Clinton, and whoever finds me will take me to him. Right? He’s not a prisoner. He’s a guard. They can have guests; at least I think they can. I’ve always been able to visit Holt when I wanted. Maybe I have special privileges because I’m his daughter?
Regardless. I will find Clinton.
I need to woman up. Shake off my anxiety and get this done. I push through Beast’s door and spirit myself out into the hall. I’m so anxious, I forget to look around. I just bolt to the right, hoping to get down the short hallway that houses Beast’s quarters before someone sees me. That way they won’t know I was visiting him, and the men who took him won’t feel the need to “take care of it,” or whatever it was they said they’d have to do if I was found.
I’m mid-stride, hurling my body toward the doorway that leads back to the main hall, when strong finger s close around my upper arm. I gasp and whirl.
For a second before my brain registers the face, I allow myself to hope it’s him. Instead, when I blink and my mind clears, I find myself nose-to-nose with a hulking, blond guard. He’s got freckles all across his nose and cheeks, and a wicked-looking scar on his forehead. His blue eyes are so cold, I glance up and down his body to confirm he’s wearing a brown guard’s uniform and not a prison jumpsuit.
He’s a guard, but he looks mad enough to kill. “Let go of me!”
He clenches my arm a little tighter and rolls his gaze down me. His brows draw tightly together, as if he’s never seen a woman before. In a thick, Southie accent, he says, “Who the fuck are you?”
“ I’m…Belle. I’m looking for Clinton.”
“In Beast’s room?” He shakes his head vehemently. “You’re looking to get banned from here because you’re a fucking liar.”
“You’re right. I am.” I open and shut my mouth convulsively, trying to get my brain to come on board. Honesty. Just be honest, Annabelle. “I was looking for him—for Beast—but he’s not—”
“He’s not there ,” the guard snaps.
I nod. “Right. But before I go, I really need to talk to—”
“Clinton’s gone , too.”
“He’s gone? What do you mean?”
“Went home.”
“His shift ended in the last hour? I thought he just got—”
“Doesn’t matter why,” he interrupts. “Clint’s not here. You need to go. You don’t belong here.” He drags me down the hall,
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