I Feed Her to the Beast and the Beast Is Me (I Feed Her to the Beast, #1)

by Jamison Shea

TO THOSE WHO FIND FREEDOM IN BECOMING A MONSTER WHEN DENIED THE SPACE TO BE HUMAN

In every room was a chance to have our graceful suffering acknowledged.

Firm but still broken. And always beautiful. Just like the perfect ballerina.

Almost everyone who

made it into the company also had a legacy name or an inheritance big enough to make you blush, while Joséphine had neither to pave her way. It was rare for a nobody to climb high society’s ladder, and for Joséphine to reach so high so fast … that was terrifying for them. Enough to inspire endless gossip. People always manufactured excuses to deny us our successes.

Even Chaos has rules. To receive, we must be willing to take. To win, you must be willing to fight. To drink in life itself, you must be willing to bleed. And there will be blood.

was a dog, guarding their purses while they celebrated and fetching their drinks when I wasn’t even allowed one of my own.

Forget your drinks, I threw over my shoulder, hoping the command took hold. It was my money now. Compensation for their disrespect.

I hated their entitlement and their jokes, the way Joséphine’s career amounted to nothing more than chum, how they looked down on me.

These people perched above the gutter and didn’t look where their spit landed, and I was starting to think it didn’t matter if I danced ten shows or two hundred, wore the latest jewels, clung to Sabine’s side or cast her away.

And this time, when I seized those strings that tethered him to my primal imprint, I knew what I was doing. I understood very well what would happen when I squeezed just like this—he twitched—and closed my fist around that blistering heartbeat. Just like I had Andor. Tight enough for my knuckles to crack, for my nails to begin sharpening and breaking skin.

Paris was beautiful in the ugliest way, and I only dreamed of being loved so unconditionally.

She poured a glass of water, her smile still painted on, too rigid to be natural.

But then it rumbled: What is life but hunger and resilience? Persistent thriving no matter the conditions? What better kin to have?

Three years, it said as filaments parted skin, and forgiveness. For your loyalty and the mark stripped against your will.

And there was only one desire in my blood, one thing I needed most. I craved annihilation.

I fed her to the beast, and the beast was me, and the beast was within me.

As my first love’s body sank to the bottom and I raced to the top, to our rightful places for the last time, I glimpsed her face. Angelic, eyes closed, a halo of golden hair, a smile on her cracked lips.