Vicious Beast

By Julie Thorn

She's a butterfly caught in a spider's web.
I'll make a meal out of her for sure.
There's not a soul alive who can stop me.
She'll never escape my nightmarish, medieval castle.
It was built in the 14th century and was made to withstand enemy invasions.
There's no way in...and no way out.
Unless I order my men to stand down.
And I won't.
Just picture this: scary gargoyles, pointed turrets, heavily armed men milling outside the castle and an imposing drawbridge, which sits above a cavernous moat.
She can beg all she wants, but there's no changing my mind.
I promised her a fate worse than death, and I intend to deliver on that promise.
If nothing else, I'm a monster of my word.
Hell, fulfilling my father's dying wish is the only thing that matters to me. The rest be damned. Or at least that's what I tell myself.

*WARNING: This is an over-the-top book with explicit sex scenes, violence, adult themes and adult language.

 

***PLEASE NOTE: This book was previously published as Punished By The Beast. Only the title and cover have been changed. All other content remains the same.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Julie Thorn
• Release date: Jun 13, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227147172

Book preview

1

THE TORTURE MUSEUM

Katarina

Torture Museum

Hunedoara, Romania

Horror is my happy place, a voice says from behind me.

I jump, startled to hear someone. I’m sorry, I thought I was alone.

You were. I just got here, the man replies as he steps out of the shadows.

Uh-oh.

He’s wearing an ominous black hood that covers part of his face. My stomach does a flip-flop as I size him up. He’s a formidable man who looks to be around 6-feet 4-inches tall.

Is he a visitor, or is he part of the exhibit?

His black hood fits right in with the menacing tone of the torture displays.

Ughhh! I’m suddenly regretting my decision to take shelter from the rain inside of this museum. But I didn’t have a choice. My ride is late and getting sick while traveling is not fun. I can’t take that risk.

You know ‘horror’ and ‘happy’ don’t generally appear in the same sentence? I ask, referring to his creepy comment about horror being his happy place.

Identify the nearest exit, my inner voice advises me. Think fast.

I have enough street smarts to know to scan the room for a way out, just in case he tries anything. This is not my first encounter with someone who gives me creepy vibes. I lived for years in a high-crime neighborhood. He seriously picked the wrong girl if he thinks⁠—

Oh God.

I choke back a gasp when our eyes meet. He has a scar on the right side of his face, but it doesn’t take away from the fact that he’s gorgeous. My eyes study his nearly perfect features for a moment.

Jeez, he has the most beautiful eyes that I’ve ever seen. They’re sapphire blue with a black ring around the iris.

Macabre museums are not for everyone, he says ardently. Speaking of which, and pardon my forwardness, but you seem troubled by these exhibits.

That’s because, um, I-I disagree with the use of torture, I admit, my eyes taking in the rest of him. He has a muscular physique, broad shoulders, a chiseled jawline and perfect lips.

He cocks an eyebrow in amusement. Is that so?

Yes, I say, nodding. Much to my confusion, his friendly tone contradicts the dangerous and creepy vibe that he’s giving off.

Serial killers can be attractive and charming. They aren’t always monstrous, my inner voice reminds me.

A spark of interest flickers across his face. Can you elaborate on that?

Sure. With a gulp, I glance over at the mannequin hanging from a fake gallows, a lifelike replica of the agony of the wheel, and the gruesome Iron Maiden. Torture has no place in civil society, I explain. As humans, you would think that we’d evolve in our punitive approach. Evolution is the key to survival, is it not?

We did evolve. Torture progressed gradually over time. Mirth dances in his eyes. Take, for example, the guillotine: a cutting-edge apparatus designed to eradicate miscreants. It’s cost-effective and time-efficient. What do you think? he asks, looking over at me.

I blow out a breath. It’s horrendous. I find torture to be a gross human rights violation.

He tilts his head to one side. You’d assign rights to criminals who violate yours?

Yes, I respond quickly.

Oh, really? He gives me an unconvinced look. That’s a Pollyanna answer if ever I heard one.

I exhale a laugh. Needless to say, torture is a repulsive example of human’s proclivity toward cruelty. It’s as immoral as it is unsustainable, I say primly. A society ruled by fear will inevitably collapse under itself.

His eyes search my face. You have a heart that bleeds for the degenerate members of society.

Is that a question? I ask, tilting my chin up.

He blinks a few times. It’s not a question, it’s an observation,

Having a lack of empathy is a sign of psychopathy, I point out.

I see the side of his mouth twitch up. Is that a question?

It’s not a question, it’s an observation, I chirp.

Empathy is a weakness, he states firmly. And a luxury reserved for those who’ve never been hurt before.

Some might say that the relatability of hurt engenders empathy for the condemned, I counter.

That’s debatable, he says, laughing.

His laugh puts me at ease. Maybe I’m worrying over nothing.

I gaze into his beautiful eyes. All things are debatable.

Hm. This conversation has been very interesting, he mutters thickly. Sorry, I didn’t get your name.

My cheeks grow warm. My name is Katarina.

Katarina... he replies, his sexy voice making my skin tingle. From where? He looks me up and down, and then he bites his lower lip.

Sweet God…he’s beyond gorgeous.

Much to my surprise, my thighs clench briefly, and there’s a fluttery feeling in my chest. From New York, I say, my breath quickening a little.

New York, huh? Something in his eyes darkens. "You’re very far from home, Katarina."

I don’t have a home anymore.

To mask my sudden lack of confidence, I shrug one shoulder. For me, home is a state of mind, not a place, I admit.

That’s a very revealing perspective, he remarks under his breath. "Well, it’s been a pleasure to finally meet you."

To finally meet me?

I blink, confused. I didn’t get your name. I-I, uh⁠—

Shit!

When I turn around, he’s gone.

A few moments later, I get a text message from the transfer-student program that financed my master’s dissertation.

SB-Study Abroad Program: We’re deeply sorry for the delay and for the inconvenience. Your car is outside and ready to take you to your host residence. We hope that you enjoy your stay in Romania.

Me: Thanks for the update. I’m on my way.

Seconds later, I’m exiting the torture museum through the front entrance with the smell of petrichor filling my nose.

Great! It finally stopped raining.

Jet-lagged and eager to settle into my hotel room, I pull my rolling suitcase across the old cobblestone pavement.

Hmm…there’s only one car sitting in front of the museum, so this has to be my ride. It’s an SUV with tinted black windows.

In a flash, a short man exits the driver’s seat and opens the door to the backseat for me. Good afternoon, Ms. Kensington, he says with a stiff smile.

I smile back at him. Good afternoon.

Allow me to help you with your suitcase. He motions me forward. Please have a seat inside the car.

Um, okay. Thank you. This is very fancy. I wasn’t expecting the SB-Study Abroad Program to send such a lavish car service to pick me up.

Ouch. My feet are killing me. After arriving at Sibiu International Airport, I took a bus going west to be in the vicinity of Hunedoara County. The plan was to meet my tour guide on Marius Street, but then I received word that my ride was running late. Shortly afterwards, it started raining so hard that I was forced to seek shelter in the creepy torture museum with my suitcase in tow.

I’m happy to finally be able to sit down and just⁠—

Oh shit!

My lips part. What are you doing here? I recognize the man sitting in the backseat beside me. It’s the good-looking man that I met inside of the torture museum.

I’m your ride, he announces before taking his hood off. Sorry for keeping you waiting this long.

I blink, confused. Seriously? You’re my ride?

It’s me or no one, he says with a devilish grin.

Uh-oh.

Alarm bells go off in my head and every muscle in my body tenses. What’s going on? Is this a joke?

Take a deep breath…and relax, he responds nonchalantly. You’re here to study Romanian history, right?

How does he know that?

Um…yes, I answer reluctantly.

Fierce resolve darkens the man’s eyes. Well then, your first lesson will be on the perils of the blood feud and the unforgiving nature of monstrous men.

Monsters? I ask with a gulp.

Yes, and every lesson thereafter will be nothing short of your worst nightmare, he comments with a chilling laugh. My advice to you is to pay attention like your life depends on it. Because it does.

I gasp. WHAT?

You heard me, he replies, his eyes growing eerily serious.

What’s this all about? I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing…b-but I don’t want any part of it. I reach for the car door handle, but it won’t open. Why can’t I open the door? I pull and push on it a few times to no avail.

You can’t open the door because the car’s child lock is on. He sighs like he’s bored. And honestly, it’s a waste of energy to keep trying the handle.

No no no no…This can’t be happening!

A wave of panic washes over me. Let me out of this car right NOW!

Bind her wrists, Ludovic, my captor shouts over to the short man who helped me with my suitcase. I don’t want to pay to remove kitten scratch marks from my car’s interior panels.

Yes, sir! the man answers quickly, and then he reaches over from the driver’s seat. Now, Ms. Kensington, please be still. Much to my horror, he pulls out a black zip tie from his blazer pocket.

Oh my God!

No! Let me go! Anger races through my veins as the short man grabs my wrists and tries to tie them together. Get off of me! I try to pull away, but it’s no use. Let go of me! I thrash my arms, trying to break free as he tightens the zip tie around my wrists.

Play nice or you’ll be punished, my captor warns.