BRIDE OF THE BEAST

CHAPTER 2: PRINCE JONATHAN

TRIGGER WARNING: THIS STORY IS A DARK FANTASY ROMANCE THAT CONTAINS THEMES OF VIOLENCE, ABUSE, AND INTENSE SITUATIONS. HIGHLY RATED 18+

DOVE FOREST

Mandela burst through the front door, cradling a frightened, bruised boy in one arm and a shivering, injured cat in the other.

Behind him sauntered Mikaela. Her expression was utterly unremorseful, her steps light and carefree as if she hadn't just caused a crisis.

Deep within his quarters, Arthur sat cross-legged on his bed, eyes closed in deep meditation. The sudden slam of the door shattered his focus.

"Arthur! She did it again!" Mandela gasped, his voice ragged from sprinting.

Arthur’s eyes snapped open. In a flash, he moved from the bed and appeared at Mandela's side, carefully transferring the weeping boy onto the mattress.

"She used her power to hurt him," Arthur murmured, his voice tightening as he examined the boy's severe bruises.

"She nearly broke his spirit and trapped his pet," Mandela confirmed.

Arthur cut a sharp, warning glance at Mikaela before drawing a breath to center himself. He extended his right hand over the trembling boy and the injured cat. Instantly, an ethereal stream of golden sparks began pouring from his fingertips. Closing his eyes, he channeled the magic inward. Within seconds, the boy's bruises faded, and the cat stopped shivering, its broken leg instantly mending.

Exactly one minute later, the boy’s eyes cleared. He looked around in a daze, but the moment his gaze landed on Mikaela, raw terror seized him. He scrambled off the bed, desperate to flee, but Mandela anticipated the move and gently blocked the doorway.

The boy looked down at his healed cat, scooping it into his arms as tears of relief spilled over his cheeks. "My cat! You didn't let her take you!"

"Go on home, little one. You're safe now," Mandela whispered kindly.

Arthur approached the weeping child, sinking to one knee in front of him. Gently, he pressed his palm against the boy’s forehead. Golden light flared beneath his skin, systematically unraveling and erasing every terrifying memory of Mikaela’s cruelty from the boy’s mind so he wouldn't carry the trauma.

When Arthur withdrew his hand, the boy blinked, the terror completely draining from his face. "Why am I here? I... I need to go home," he muttered, entirely confused, before turning and running safely out of the house.

Arthur stood up, exhaling a heavy, weary sigh. He turned sharply, narrowing his eyes at Mikaela, his jaw clenched. "Why did you terrorize a child and steal his pet?"

Mikaela crossed her arms, her brow furrowing into a pout. "He refused to give me the cat when I asked nicely."

"As if you had any right to it?" Arthur’s voice vibrated with a dangerous heat.

"I wanted it," she snapped back, her chin lifting with stubborn pride. "How dare a mere human turn me down?"

"He is the third human you have hunted and harassed in these woods this week, Mikaela!"

"I don't care! Why do they keep trespassing into this forest when they know you are the Guardian? The moment I see them, I feel the urge to remind them of their place!" she screamed.

Instantly, Arthur’s eyes flared a blinding, deep gold. The raw power radiating from him made her blink, her arrogance wavering for a fraction of a second. "Father..." she whispered.

Just as Arthur’s aura flared, Mandela slipped back into the room, stepping firmly between them. He placed a grounding hand on Arthur's trembling shoulder. "Calm down, Arthur. Please."

The golden glare in Arthur’s eyes slowly receded. Mandela turned his attention to the girl. "What is it you actually want, Mikaela?"

"I want him to enter the King-Choosing Festival," she demanded, her voice ringing with ambition. "I want him to take the crown. I deserve to live in a palace, not hid away in these woods."

"You know what I am!" Arthur bellowed, his voice echoing off the walls. "How am I supposed to control the affliction inside a crowded palace?"

"We will figure that out after you are crowned," Mikaela shot back, backing toward the door. "All I know is this: if you refuse to become king, I will never stop terrorizing the humans who cross into our borders."

With a final, venomous glare, she stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Mandela turned to Arthur, his expression grim. "You know her. She doesn't make idle threats. What are you going to do?"

Arthur sank heavily onto the edge of his bed, the weight of the world settling onto his shoulders. A long, agonizing minute passed in silence before he finally spoke. "Send my sigil to the kingmakers. Enter my name into the festival."

Mandela’s eyes widened in profound shock. "You're actually going to attend?"

"She leaves me no choice," Arthur muttered bitterly, staring at the floor. "Blame my reckless daughter."

A rare, hopeful smile touched Mandela's face. He bowed deeply. "I will deliver the letter immediately."

Left alone, Arthur looked down at the heavy iron chains resting in the corner of the room. He closed his eyes, a deep dread pooling in his gut.

NIGHT

Mikaela grunted in frustration as she helped Mandela wind thick, heavy metal bands around Arthur, securing him to a reinforced iron chair anchored to the floorboards.

Mandela hauled on the final chain, tightening the lock with a heavy sigh. Mikaela let out another low growl.

"Why the miserable noises, Mika?" Arthur asked, his voice tight with anticipation.

"I could easily bring a human to you," she grumbled, her eyes flashing darkly. "You could use their life force right now instead of subjecting yourself to this torture again."

"I will never harm an innocent soul to satisfy my affliction," Arthur replied coldly. "Get out, Mikaela."

Mandela grabbed her arm, dragging her firmly toward the exit. She kept her eyes locked on Arthur until the heavy oak door clicked shut, leaving him in absolute isolation.

Arthur closed his eyes, bracing his soul for the oncoming storm.

Outside, the full moon slowly broke free from a shroud of ink-black clouds. At first, its light filtered through the window panes in a pale, silver mist. Then, the celestial light turned piercingly bright.

The moment the moonlight struck Arthur’s skin, the agony began.

The veins across his body began to swell, turning a violent, throbbing purple as they forced their way to the surface of his flesh. His muscles seized, a strange, suffocating heat radiating from his skin like white-hot smoke. He threw his hands open; his fingernails elongated into jagged, dark talons resembling a bird of prey.

Behind his lips, his canines lengthened, sharpening into two lethal, predatory fangs.

His dark hair bleached rapidly, turning a stark, ghostly white from the root out. When his eyelids flew open, the irises were gone—replaced by a terrifying, bloodshot crimson brimming with absolute torment.

Suddenly, the sensory overload hit. Every whisper of the wind, every rustle of a leaf, and every heartbeat in the forest flooded his mind at deafening volume. He threw his head back toward the ceiling, his jaw unlocking.

"ARGHHHHH!"

A monstrous scream tore from his lungs as he lunged forward, fighting like a wild animal against the restraints. The rational man was gone; in his place stood a ravenous beast screaming for relief.

Born under an ancient, wicked lineage curse, every full moon transformed his flesh into a vessel of pure agony. The heavy iron chains clattered violently against the frame of the chair as he thrashed.

"ARGHHHHH!"

He roared again, a shockwave of raw, unbridled energy bursting from his body. The sheer force of his agony rippled through the room, causing the stone walls around him to spiderweb with deep, jagged cracks.

THE NEXT MORNING · BAAL PALACE · QUEEN BETH’S SUITE

Jonathan’s eyes snapped open. For a long, breathless moment, he simply stared at the ceiling, shocked to find himself still breathing.

He sat up abruptly, but a sharp, stinging pain flared in his throat. Reaching up, his fingers brushed against a thick layer of medical plaster covering a wound on his neck.

"Jonathan."

The door swung open, and Queen Beth entered, followed by a trio of maids carrying ornate silver trays laden with a lavish breakfast. The servants silently arranged the food on the table before bowing and exiting.

"How are you feeling, my love?" Beth approached the bed, her face etched with maternal worry. She reached out to check his forehead for a fever, but Jonathan violently slapped her hand away.

Though he was only fifteen years old, every soul within the palace walls knew of the young prince's fierce, untamable stubbornness.

"Why did you marry a monster like Father?" Jonathan yelled, his voice cracking with a mixture of rage and betrayal. "Why the hell did you agree to become the queen to a tyrant like him when you’re nothing but a weak human?"

"Jonathan, please..." Beth whispered, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

Swinging his legs out of bed, Jonathan lunged forward and violently flipped the breakfast table, sending the plates and food crashing across the stone floor. He glared at her, his chest heaving.

"I hate you," he spat, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "I f*****g hate everyone in this palace!"

Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the suite.