Winter's Beast: A Beauty and the Beast Novel Read online

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Twyla Turner

  Connect with Author

  Winter’s Beast

  By Twyla Turner

  ©Copyright 2017 by Twyla Turner

  Cover Design by

  Oliviaprodesign

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events are purely coincidental.

  To the freaks with kinks, you are not alone.

  This is for you. My kinkilicious tribe. ;)

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Twyla Turner

  Connect with Author

  Author’s Note

  Dear Reader,

  STOP!!! BEWARE! USE CAUTION WHEN ENTERING! DANGER BEYOND THIS POINT!

  I kid! I kid! Kind of. But I do ask that you enter into this novel with an open-mind. And please, please try to leave any slut-shaming here. This novel is filled with angsty, consensual non-consent. Yeah, you read that right. I’ll say it again…consensual non-consent. It might be triggering for some. As for everyone else… Shake off those strict Puritan morals and enjoy… Because Ivan Petrov, The Sexual Sadist certainly has.

  With Love,

  Twyla

  Prologue

  Moscow

  I stare at the other boy warily. He’s bigger than me. By a lot. We circle each other, deciding who’s going to strike first. I’m a good fighter. Probably the best in my home, but I’ve never fought a kid this size before. They call me the runt because I’m small. I’m also really fast. Hopefully, I’m fast enough to dodge this kid’s punch. Or else, I’ll be a goner.

  It’s hot and muggy in the dim basement, crowded with people. I can’t make out the words the adults are shouting. Spit flinging from their lips. It’s like I’m inside of a tin can. All their voices sound really loud but muffled. I feel sweat drip down my bare back. The waistband of my tattered pants catch the perspiration and sticks to my skin.

  My heart pounds in my ears. That’s probably what’s blocking out half of the voices around the makeshift ring. I see my owner/handler/trainer scream something. He punches at the air with fists filled with money, signaling me to fight. I know he is nervous because he’s sweating a lot. He always sweats really bad when he’s worried he’s going to lose. He shouts something, but it’s all in slow motion. Saliva shoots from between his brown teeth.

  I feel hands on my back before someone shoves me hard. I stumble forward. Right into the swinging fist of my opponent. Even with the adrenaline pumping through my body, I feel pain explode behind my eye as his right hook connects with my face. Bare, boney knuckles slice across my eye, and it feels like something cracks.

  Blood instantly pours over my eyelid, and the punch leaves me jumbled up. My good eye can barely focus, I’m so woozy. And that’s how he gets in another shot to the one good eye I have left. The other eyelid is already swelled shut, and now this one is on the fast track to being shut too.

  I can’t see, but I can feel the kick to my ribs. I don’t cry out. I don’t make a sound. I haven’t in three years. Not since I was taken from the orphanage in St. Petersburg and brought to Moscow when I was five and saw what they did to kids who talked too much, cried too much, or tried to tattle to the police. I had to watch when those kids had their tongues cut out. I stopped talking then. Now people just think I’m mute.

  Finally, a punch to my jaw puts me out of my misery. I crumple to the dusty floor, and everything goes black.

  My last thought.

  Boris is going to be mad.

  Boris is my owner/handler/trainer. He hates losing.

  I wake up when I feel ice cold water hit my face. I sputter and sit up. My head turns in every direction, but I can’t see nothing. My eyes. They’re still swollen.

  “Do you know how much money you lost me, you little shit?!” Boris screams at me in Russian, right before I feel a kick to my already bruised ribs.

  I think I hear a crack.

  I just grunt and clutch my side. I have learned not to cry or be emotional, or he will beat me more.

  “You are worthless and of no use to me anymore,” Boris says with disgust.

  My heartbeat races. I don’t like where I live. I don’t like Boris. I like to fight, but not for him. But the Cell is home. That is what we call it. The Cell. That is what it looks like, a dirty dungeon prison. And all the kids there are my friends. I have no idea what I’d do if Boris kicked me out.

  “Feed him to the dogs,” Boris says casually. I hear him spit on the floor near my ear, and then his footsteps stomp away.

  Oh…

  That’s what I’ll be doing. Dying. As dog food.

  I feel hands on either side of me grab my arms. I try to flinch away, but it is too late. They already have a tight grip on me. I know I should scream. I open my mouth. I haven’t spoken in so long, I forgot how to speak or scream. My throat is dry and unused.

  I hear a door creak open, and I hear dogs barking. I’m dropped, and then I hear the door slam shut behind me. I blindly reach for the door. I find the handle and pull just as I hear the lock click.

  Behind me, I hear growls that raise the hair on my arms and the back of my neck.

  These are fighting dogs. Like us. Like me. They’re trained to fight. But they usually fight to the death. Not us. We become dog food.

  I raise my arms to protect my face just as one dog jumps at me. Probably the alpha. Then I feel the rest. I curl into a tight ball, half of my body pressed against the door, as much good as that does me.

  I won’t give details. It would give you nightmares.

  I don’t hear the sound of the lock clicking or the door opening over the sounds of my skin tearing under sharp teeth.

  Thwack! Thwack!

  It s
ounds like something being hit and the sound of dogs whining lets me know it is them. Then I feel my body being dragged across the floor. I come in and out of the blackness that keeps trying to take me.

  I feel a cool hand on my hot, torn face. Then a deep, soothing voice comes through the fog in my head.

  “Your name is Yury, yes?”

  I try to nod my head.

  “I am Ivan. And I will take you under my wing now.”

  I wish I could see his face. To see if he is cruel. You can always see it in the eyes.

  “They call you, runt. But I’ve watched you. I see the size of your hands and feet. You will not always be a runt. The size you will become with that heart of yours, the heart of a lion, you will become my best guard. And if you are loyal, I’ll give you anything you’ve ever dreamed of.

  “What do you say, Yury? All that you’ve ever wanted? Or bleed out on the dirty floor in the basement of some building in the middle of nowhere?”

  With what strength I have left, I raise my arm and point my finger in the direction of the voice. I nod my head once.

  The darkness takes me.

  ~~~

  Detroit

  “You look weird,” one girl frowns at me.

  “Freak!” A older boy screams at me.

  It’s my first day of kindergarten, and I wanna go home. People always stare at me. They call me freak.

  It's recess, and some of the big kids circle me.

  “You’re not black. You’re white!” A girl with beautiful brown skin I wish I had shouts at me. “You don’t belong here.”

  She shoves my back, and I fall down. My knee hurts. I feel tears in my eyes.

  “I AM black!” I cry. “My skin’s just white. I have albin- albi-”

  I can’t remember how to say the word, and my throat is squeezing. I can’t say no more words. I can’t stop crying now.

  “She’s an albino!”

  “What’s that?”

  “Ew!!! Like a rat!”

  “Where’s your pink eyes, rat girl?”

  My face feels real hot. I’m so mad.

  “I’m not a rat!” I scream and jump up.

  I run and shove the girl who started it all. She’s bigger than me, but I don’t care. She fall down, and I hit her over and over.

  My teacher Miss Sasha pulls me off, and I kick and scream.

  “Shh… Calm down, Winter. It’s okay. It’s okay.” She says real soft.

  I stop kicking, but I can’t stop crying.

  “I heard what every last one of you said. You should all be ashamed of yourselves. All of you to the principal’s office…NOW!”

  All the kids hang their heads and walk to the building. Miss Sasha gets down to look at me. Her skin is light, but not like mine.

  “Don’t let those kids make you feel like you’re less than, Winter. You’re a beautiful girl. Don’t let anyone ever tell you differently. Okay?”

  I nod because my throat still don’t work.

  Miss Sasha takes me inside. She wipes my face and cleans the boo-boo on my knee.

  For the rest of school, the other kids look at me funny and won’t talk to me. They still think I’m a freak.

  After a long time, the bell finally rings, and we can leave. My mommy is waiting for me in her car.

  “What happened to your knee, Winter?” She says with a frown.

  “Big kids picked on me and pushed me down,” I say real quiet.

  My mommy don’t say nothing for a minute, and I look down at my pink bookbag. I feel her hand on my chin, and she makes me look up.

  “Even if you had brown skin like me, they would find something to pick on you about. Eventually, Winter, you’ll find out that you’re special. More special than most.”

  “Because I’m albino?”

  “You’re not albino. You are Winter Rose Harris. And you have albinism, and it doesn’t define you. And no, not because you have albinism. But because you’re extremely talented. Gifted even. It will take you far, and many people won’t like you for it. But never let them steal your shine. The Lord made you perfect. Okay, baby?”

  “Yes, mommy.”

  “Now let’s get you to your voice lessons.”

  Voice lessons are my favorite time of day. Because I get to sing. That’s why I like church too. I love singing. I love to sing everything. My mommy says that I have a beautiful voice. Like an angel.

  I can’t wait for her to hear my new song.

  We get to Miss Danielle’s house and go inside for my lesson. Her house always smells like cookies. I like it here. Most times my mommy drops me off and runs errands, but today Miss Danielle asked her to stay to hear what she taught me.

  Little butterflies float in my stomach. Not cause I’m nervous, but cause I’m excited.

  Miss D turns on the music and smiles at me. I nod, and when I hear my mark, I start to sing O Mio Babbino Caro from the opera Gianni Schicchi. It’s a really pretty song and very famous for opera. Opera is my favorite thing to sing.

  As my voice takes off, as Miss D calls it, my mommy’s eyes fill with tears. I say all the Italian words right, just like Miss D taught me and I hit all the high notes. My voice floats down, and the song ends.

  My mommy’s lip is quivering. I hope she liked it.

  “Baby, that was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard,” she says when she hugs me tight. “Thank you so much, Danielle. You’ve been amazing so far.”

  “I wish I could really take credit for it. But I can’t. Winter is just that amazing. All I do is teach her the Italian, which she picks up so quickly, and that’s it.” She takes a deep breath. “I usually don’t like to say this. So since I’m about to, I really do mean it. I think she may be a prodigy and would benefit from a school or teacher that can really teach her more than I can. I’m just at the intermediate level. She needs serious professionals.”

  “Would that mean we’d have to move?”

  “It might. Depending on the school or teacher. But she’s entirely too talented not to try.”

  I look up at them, and my head goes side to side as they talk. I’m not sure all of what they’re talking about, but my mommy looks worried.

  “I just hope that I can afford it.”

  “If it’s too expensive, I’ll help you find scholarships that can help pay for things.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “Absolutely. She’s going to be a star. I’d selfishly like to say that I helped in that.” Miss D says as she touches my cheek and winks at me.

  “Did you hear that baby? You’re gonna be a star!”

  A star…

  Chapter 1

  Twenty years later…

  Moscow

  “Ugh! I’m so ready for this tour to be over. Tell me again, why did we have to add Russia to the list?” I hear myself, and even I can tell that I sound like a whiny baby. “It’s pretty much summer everywhere else, and yet it’s cold here.”

  I turn on my phone and check the weather the minute the private jet touches the pavement.

  My manager, Faith Kym, gives me a long suffering look before speaking. She’s Blasian and gorgeous. That’s half Black and half Asian. Korean to be exact. Her outward appearance when she’s working is strict and serious. Today, her hair is in a severe bun at the nape of her neck, and she’s wearing a crisp gray pants suit. Yet her personality is anything but. She is a firecracker and a self-proclaimed freak.

  She’s only been with me for a little over a year since I had to fire my last manager. We were dating. Scratch that. He was using me to further his connections is a better wording for it. And then I caught him screwing my understudy for the opera I had been in at the time. I have a new rule now. No more male managers. Hence, Faith.

  It was the best decision to hire her. She’s become more than a manager. I now consider her my friend too.

  “Winter, first of all, it’s not like your skin and eyes can handle the sun for long periods of time anyway. So Russia is perfect for you. And all you have is
a one-month residency here, and then you are officially done with this tour.” Faith says it like she’s said it a hundred times. She has, but that’s beside the point.

  I’ve been on a months-long tour of all of the most famous opera houses around the world. New York, Buenos Aires, Sydney, Milan, Paris, and London. A month spent in each city. You do the math. Yeah, that’s six months. The Bolshoi Opera House in Moscow is the last one. Seven months total, living out of my suitcase. I’m exhausted.

  But I wanted to do this tour before going in another direction soon. I love opera, but there are some other genres I want to dabble in for a while. So this whirlwind tour is for my hardcore opera fans. Almost like a farewell-for-now tour.

  I sigh heavily, and I stare out the window at the gloomy sky as the plane taxis on the runway. “Fine. I’m just ready for Paris already! It’s been a while since I’ve been there on an actual vacation. And all the times before, I was too young to really enjoy myself. My mom kept me under lock and key and wouldn’t let me out of her sight.”

  After the tour is over, I plan on going back to Paris to spend two relaxing weeks there in a luxury 5-star hotel. When I tour, I have a fairly strict no speaking or socializing rule. With just a handful of exceptions. I talk with Faith or the theater crew a little here and there. Sometimes I go out for coffee at a café to write and when I have a successful opening and closing of a show, we go out for a glass or two of champagne. But that’s about it. For the most part, no fun during tours or shows.

  In the past, if I turned into a jabber jaws and go out drinking and the like, my singing voice is crap the next day. I can’t afford to sound bad. It would be different if I were a jazz club singer where husky, gritty voices are sexy. But my main singing style is opera, and my voice has to be clear as a bell. Though a jazz club singer is the new direction I’ve been wanting to take. After this epic tour, I want something more small and intimate. Besides, something seems incredibly sexy about jazz singers. I’ve never felt sexy. I want to.