Twisted: Belle's Story (Destined Book 3) Read online

  TWISTED

  Belle’s Story

  A Beauty and the Beast Retelling

  Destined Series, Book 3

  KAYLIN LEE

  TWISTED: BELLE’S STORY

  Copyright © 2018 by Kaylin Lee

  First Edition

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For information contact:

  Kaylin Lee

  http://www.kaylinleewrites.com

  Editing by Kathrese McKee of Word Marker Edits

  Cover design by Victoria Cooper Designs

  ISBN-13: 978-1985276093

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  Sign up for my email list and be the first to hear about new releases and other goodies. Oh, and get two free short stories set in the Destined world!

  The Destined Series

  Book 1 – Fated: Cinderella’s Story

  Book 2 – Hidden: Rapunzel’s Story

  Book 3 – Twisted: Belle’s Story

  Book 4 – Betrayed: Ruby’s Story

  Book 5 – Hunted: Alba's Story

  Book 6 – Cursed: Briar Rose’s Story

  For JP—my little prince.

  Do not underestimate the power of an enemy, no matter how great or small, to rise against you another day.

  Attila the Hun

  Chapter 1

  Magical luminous lights sparkled overhead like a thousand tiny stars. I relished every detail—the empty ballroom, the carved, vaulted ceiling, the unfamiliar feeling of safety.

  Prince Estevan’s warm hand at my waist made me shiver as he whirled us about the ballroom in a waltz, the music flowing around us in a gentle torrent of sound.

  The prince gazed down at me, his dark eyes softened by blatant interest. “I’ve always found you beautiful, Belle,” he whispered. He leaned closer, and I tilted my face up toward his. “But you’re not only beautiful. You’re smart. You’re strong. You’re perfect for me. I’m falling in love with—”

  “Breakfast, my lady?”

  I jolted up in bed and pasted a bored expression on my face. “Yes.” I accepted my gold-trimmed breakfast tray and ignored the maid as she curtsied her way out of the room.

  I inspected the tray. Hot, black coffee steamed in a delicate, porcelain cup. Three tiny spicecakes sparkled in a perfect triangle on a matching plate beside the coffee, each cake topped with a dollop of spiceberry cream precisely in its center.

  The cook would never dare to serve me anything other than my specified breakfast each morning, but it didn’t hurt to check his work.

  I put the tray on the side table without touching the food and flopped back in my pink and gold monstrosity of a bed.

  Where was I?

  Prince Estevan leaned closer. “I’m falling in love with you.”

  The ballroom faded, nothing more than a glowing, golden landscape for our intimate dance.

  “But what about my father?” I asked. “He’ll never let me marry you.”

  He bent his head closer. “I’ll take care of him,” he murmured. “You’ll never have to fear him again.”

  I let the daydream linger for ten full minutes before I pried myself out of bed and downed the cooling cup of coffee from the breakfast tray. I followed it with the three miniature cakes, wrinkling my nose as their overly-sweet, spicy flavor stung my taste buds. Spicecakes were my least favorite breakfast food, but our foolish cook had once complained that the complex recipe was difficult to make, so now I had to order them every morning.

  Breakfast done, I pulled the first newspaper from the stack on the tray and opened it across my lap. Trade & Commerce first, of course, then the Herald, and then the Procus Social Review. If I still had time when I was done, I’d work on my new financial projections for the bank.

  I was halfway through a boring article about warehouse laborers addicted to aurae when visions of that imaginary waltz distracted me again. The text of the article blurred as my imagination took over for a moment, then cleared as I reined in my wild thoughts.

  Prince Estevan—my guilty pleasure, imaginary hero, and embarrassing infatuation.

  I had no illusions when it came to the Beast of Asylia. He would never rescue me, much less marry me, and I wouldn’t dare ask him for help. I’d be signing my own death warrant when my father inevitably discovered what I’d done.

  Even so, a girl had to have some escape from reality, didn’t she? Prince Estevan was the only one in the city more powerful than my father, and it made him excellent daydream fodder.

  It helped that he was so handsome.

  ~

  “He’s having another selection ball?”

  “It’s only his second, my lady.” My appearance mage watched me in the mirror, her green eyes crinkling with quiet humor.

  I probably sounded jealous. That wouldn’t do. “I can’t stand royal balls,” I added with a dismissive wave of my hand. “Insufferably boring.” I must have missed that page in the Herald. Too much daydreaming. I had to rein in that silly habit, or I’d never survive the next few days.

  Today was the final exam, and the Royal Academy graduation ceremony would be the day after next. I had too much riding on this week to indulge in any more distractions.

  Beside me, Petrina laughed and tucked her wispy brown hair behind her ears. “I suppose he must find a wife one way or another, my lady.” She adjusted the collar of my navy blazer. “It can’t be easy, being the Crown Prince of Asylia and looking to fall in love.”

  I didn’t answer. I could only hope my new appearance mage was too distracted with her work on my appearance to bother wondering why the youngest Argentarius daughter would care about Prince Estevan’s quest for a wife.

  Petrina shrugged and smiled, and I returned my gaze to the mirror.

  Bright, early-morning light filtered in through the white curtains behind me, casting a golden glow around my reflection in the mirror. I resisted the urge to fidget as Petrina did my eyelashes.

  “A bit longer.”

  “Yes, my lady.” She waved her hand over my face again, and gold sparkles hovered over my eyes, then disappeared. My eyelashes lengthened considerably. “How is that, my lady?”

  I leaned closer to the mirror. A trickle of sunlight speared in through a crack in the curtains and caught my eye in the mirror, making me blink. T
he long, dark, mage-craft eyelashes tickled my cheek. “Acceptable. Do the lips quickly now, or I’ll be late.”

  Petrina nodded and waved her hand over my face once again. My mouth shone for a blissful moment with her warm, gold-shimmered magic. Then the shimmers disappeared, leaving a soft, rosy dew of gloss on my lips. The shiny rose color stood out against the smooth, flawless, tan skin of my face, and its hue perfectly matched the rosy flush Petrina had added to my cheeks a few moments earlier.

  “How is this, my lady?” Petrina waited with her hands folded, her eyes downcast.

  I turned my face one way, then the other, and scrutinized my appearance. My long, black hair was smooth and perfectly straight, scented with my own signature mixture of rosedrop oil, and tucked behind either ear. Polished, yet feminine. Attractive, but not flirtatious. Lavish, but not flashy like some of my Procus lady classmates at the Royal Academy. The effect was absolutely perfect. “It’s fine.”

  Petrina bit her lip, nodded, and stepped back.

  I brushed an invisible spec off my navy skirt in the mirror. “Torapetrina, you’re dismissed.”

  Nausea rocked my stomach as I spoke the ancient Kireth tongue. The power in my maid’s True Name filled the room, then evaporated as she absorbed my command, her gaze locked on the floor.

  She curtsied and left without a word, shutting the bedroom door softly behind her.

  I pressed a hand to my stomach and slumped my shoulders as I released a long breath. The closer I got to graduation, the harder it was to hide my nerves at home. I hated using Petrina’s True Name for such a superficial command, but I could never show my true self at home, not even in front of my own appearance mage. What if she, too, reported to my father, just like my last mage had? It wasn’t worth the risk.

  ~

  The grand, polished staircase at the center of our villa was fifty-three paces from my suite. My footsteps echoed through the quiet, gleaming marble hallway as I followed my morning path, counting out the familiar walk to keep my mind off the danger waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

  My legs shook as I started down the twenty-five steps between the top stair on my floor and the foot of the staircase at the entryway. Ten. Nine. My palms grew sticky. I took a long, slow breath. Don’t falter now. He’ll know. Eight. Seven steps to go. Then I was in view of the entryway, where my father waited, a nervous-looking manservant hovering at his side.

  My father smiled up at me as I descended the last few steps of the staircase, and I forced myself to smile back.

  Lord Basil Argentarius—owner of the largest bank in Asylia, patriarch of the city’s most powerful Procus family. Grieving widower, doting father.

  What nonsense. If only the city knew.

  “Good morning, Father.”

  My father nodded to me as he shrugged into the jacket the manservant held. “Belle. Good morning, Daughter.” His strong, wiry build was encased in the crisp fabric of a fine, mage-craft suit. He was of modest height, with dark skin and hair like mine—typical Fenra.

  His clean-shaven lips twitched, and my stomach twisted. He looked pleased. That couldn’t be a good sign.

  “This fine servant here has something for you. A message from the bank, he says.” My father raised a questioning eyebrow as the manservant handed me a small, folded piece of paper, sealed with my secretary’s distinct wax seal.

  I took the paper and willed my hands not to shake. What had Ambrose been thinking, contacting me at home? I could never be certain that my father wouldn’t read my correspondence. We couldn’t take the risk of communicating outside the bank.

  I slid the folded paper into my bookbag without reading it, then raised my chin and pressed my lips together.

  The manservant gave me a shallow bow, and as he straightened, I wiped my hand on my skirt, as though the brush of his hand had left an unpleasant feel on my skin. From the corner of my eye, I saw my father smile. “Thank you. You must be new.” I’d seen this particular manservant around the villa for months now, but now both our lives depended on my rudeness. “I have no other notion as to why you’d ignore my explicit instructions not to bother me with tedious bank operations at home. Anything the bank needs can wait until I arrive after school today.”

  The manservant’s eyes flickered with fear and panic that mirrored my own. I only hoped my expression didn’t show my emotions as clearly as his did. “Yes, m-my lady,” he said, bowing again, studiously avoiding looking at my father. “It won’t happen again.”

  “See that it doesn’t.” I turned my back to him and stepped up beside my father, taking his arm as he offered it. “Are you ready, Father?”

  He chuckled and led me out the front door of the villa to the waiting fomecoach. “My firecracker,” he said, patting me on the arm as we descended the front steps.

  I knew it would work. The tactic never failed. My father always loved it when I bullied the servants.

  ~

  Ambrose’s message burned in my bookbag as it sat between me and my father on the seat. I fought the urge to lift the bag and clutch it protectively to my chest. Instead, I kept my hands folded and still in my lap, my face set in what I hoped was a calm, neutral mask.

  The fomecoach sped smoothly down Cosse Street, toward the Royal Academy. When we turned to come alongside the harsh, gray stones of the Royal Palace, I glanced out the window before I could stop myself. I couldn’t help the old habit of checking the prince’s private balcony each time we passed the palace.

  Not that I expected to see him, or that I expected him to notice me. I’d given up that hope long ago, but in the nightmare of my ongoing war against my father, it still felt nice to have an imaginary escape. At least, that was what I told myself when I couldn’t stop daydreaming about Prince Estevan.

  I turned back to my father and froze at the look of disgust on his face. Had he noticed where my attention had gone?

  “That rat of a prince asked about you yesterday when we convened the Court of Lords.”

  My heart stopped. “What do you—”

  “You will not interrupt me,” he growled.

  I shifted on my seat. Between my secret fascination with the prince and the traitorous message in my bookbag, it would be safer to leap from the moving coach than to face him right now.

  “I made it clear that you are my chosen heir, and I already have plans for your marriage. You are absolutely not available for any other purpose.”

  Available for any other purpose? He made me sound like an empty serving dish. No doubt that was exactly how he saw me—he and every other Procus lord in the city. A beautiful, clever, fantastically wealthy serving dish, with just the right, pure Fenra blood, to be maneuvered in whatever direction was most economically beneficial.

  “I don’t know what you did to draw his attention,” he continued, “and I don’t care. You will have nothing to do with that man.” He leaned closer, his hands clenched into fists, and I shrank back against the door of the fomecoach. “He may be the prince in title, but no one—not royalty, not any Procus family—has more power in this city than me.” His voice grew hard. “Accept that now, or you’ll learn it the hard way.”

  “I understand completely,” I said quietly, as though his ominous threat meant nothing to me. I wasn’t lying. I had always understood completely. I just didn’t accept it, and I never would.

  My father finally pulled away. He leaned back against the plush fomecoach seat and sent me a sidelong smile, his threatening demeanor suddenly melting into a façade of sincere, concerned fatherhood. He was a master at terrifyingly rapid twists of character. I’d learned to play along without flinching years ago.

  “Final exam today, eh? Nervous?”

  Incredibly so. Just not about the exam. I cocked my head as though considering his question. “Not particularly.”

  He nodded. “That’s my brilliant Belle. See that you get top marks this time. We can’t have that stinking kitchen girl taking the honor for the final exam, can we?”

  “Of cour
se not, Father.” If only he knew the truth. Ella Stone was one of the smartest, hardest-working students in our year, but she was no match for me. I remembered everything I read, and I could do impossible sums in my head, without pencil and paper to work out the equations. I only let Ella surpass me on exams occasionally because if my father realized how easy the Royal Academy was for me, he might recognize the danger I posed to his power.

  He nodded and echoed my words with a mocking tone. “Of course not.”

  The fomecoach swung around a corner, and we approached the tall, grand building of the Royal Academy. I tried to keep from tensing. So close. “I’ll see you at the bank this afternoon.”

  He twisted in his seat, so that his body faced me.

  I turned and met his eyes, my heart racing.

  “We’re more alike than you know.”

  Stay calm. Keep breathing.

  His eyes flicked to my bag and then back to my face. His lips formed a knowing smile that made my skin crawl. “I’ll let you keep your secrets, Daughter. I’ve plenty of my own. An Argentarius never apologizes for keeping a confidence. Remember that.”

  Was it a trap? If I accepted his words, I’d be admitting to keeping secrets. If I insisted it wasn’t a secret and he wanted to read Ambrose’s message, he’d destroy me. Even if Ambrose hadn’t found anything concrete, there was no chance the message contained anything safe for my father to see. I was doomed either way.

  My father’s gaze shifted to the fomecoach window behind me. “There she is now.” Disgust dripped from his voice.

  I turned to see Ella Stone—Cinderella, as our classmates called her—striding down the footpath, her dark, wild hair twisted into a loose bun, her shoulders hunched under the weight of her torn, faded bookbag. Her eyes were on the footpath, and she chewed her lower lip as she walked, no doubt agonizing about this morning’s final exam.

  “Top marks. Do you hear me?” He kept his eyes on Ella.

  I exhaled silently. “Of course, Father. Have a good day.”