Blog Tour: Beauty (A Hate Story #2). By Mary Catherine Gebhard



Once upon a time, I thought love was a fairytale.

My prince was a Beast with blood on his hands and ice in his veins. My family offered to save me. The only price: leaving the tattered pieces of my heart behind.

Our love was irrational. Cruel. Unforgiving. Nothing like the storybooks said it should be—but it was perfect.

The longer we were apart, the more I lost myself. He was vicious and domineering, but I craved the submission. Together we were destructive, but I was addicted to the devastation. Still, I thought titles mattered. To my family I was princess, and to the Beast I was slave. I was too naïve to understand that even though he’d been my captor, he’d broken the shackles on my soul.

Once upon a time, I thought love meant happily ever after.

Now I know better.

Are you going to punish me?” I whispered.

A smirk came to his lips. “I think you’ve been punished enough for today.”

Disappointment hit my stomach in an odd ache. I was fucked up. I actually wanted to be punished. His gaze slimmed as if he could read my mind, and then his fingers darted back between my lower lips, spreading them.

“Unless you want to be punished.” His thumb worked a taunting rhythm beside my clit, not ever touching it, just enough to drive me mad. I clawed his neck, head falling with a sigh into the soft fur rug. “Do you want to be punished?” I nodded frantically and he said, “Say it.”

“Please punish me.” There was no hesitation. The words fell from my lips the minute he demanded it.

He laughed, rumbling and low. “Too fucking bad, little slave. You’re mine. I’ll use you however the fuck I want.” I groaned then caught the glint in his eye. This was his punishment: making me admit my need, making me beg, then having him deny it.

His grin widened. Before I could protest his punishment, he plunged his fingers inside me.
Mary Catherine Gebhard bites off more than she can chew. She’s lived in Salt Lake City, Utah her entire life but occasionally goes on vacation from reality. Don’t worry, she sends postcards.

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