His Blessing, Her Beast

By Shreya Solaris

After she is unwillingly sold in an auction, a spirited village girl romantically connects with her buyer—a masked king haunted by his past.

 

Born into a poor village and sold into slavery, twenty-three-year-old Radha doesn't expect to be bought, and by a King no less. But this King has secrets and a blurry past, one he hesitates to reveal to her. With a timer set on their blossoming relationship and an old suitor bent on reclaiming his possession, will Radha manage to uncover the dark beginnings of her midnight lover? Can she prove that she can love him, a broken man? A Beast?

 

Cover made by Guinealove2005

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shreya Solaris
• Release date: Apr 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393251651

Shreya Solaris

A girl who loves to write romance, werewolves, and billionaires! Waiting to be swept off her feet by an Alpha!

Book preview

Prologue

Once upon a time...

In a hidden land invisible to the human eye, there lived a prince and his family in a large, magnificent kingdom. He was a young man, hardly twenty-years-old, and he was his father's heir, next in line to the throne.

The prince lived in Mukhauta, a glorious kingdom where all the inhabitants lived in luxury and leisure. A place that in the present now harbored criminals and thieves; rapists and monsters of all kinds.

The old Mukhauta was never like that.

The city was large, and it was beautiful. Sheets of pink clouds drifted over the dark blue skies, the sun gently sprinkling their rays over the houses and farmlands of the kingdom. It was covered by a large dome, a barrier separating the lands from the human world, from the war and the arrows.

A long, narrow strip of cobblestone paved through the streets, houses on either side of the long road. Over time, the rocks eroded into a smooth path, a walkway in which farmers used to carry their heavy loads of fruits and vegetables to make a living in the crowded city.

Houses carved from stone and precious gems glittered in the sunlight, their bodies swaying in the light wind, but never toppling onto the ground. The brisk heat forced many into light articles of clothing, but nobody in the kingdom minded. Men worked in the fields, bringing home enough money to buy food and clothes while women helped around the house and cared for the children.

The streets were always busy, no matter what day it was, or how the weather was forecasted. They never failed to be cluttered with sellers from nearby cities bargaining on the streets, their turbans flaring in the wind as they waved their goods around in the air, the atmosphere thick with yelling and bidding. 

The scent of Mukhauta was rich with fresh vegetables and sweet, juicy fruits that had been waved and sold in the air by their sellers. The mouth-watering sweets that accompanied them were only the icing on the cake, as Mukhauta was known throughout the Lokon realms as a very cultural and very delicious kingdom.

Yes, Mukhauta was very beautiful.

But it was also very dangerous. 

Hidden underneath the layers of the thick, juicy fruits and the satin wraps or turbans; disclosed underneath the cries of children, the footsteps of families, there was a threat; a menace so obscure, yet so obvious.

The prince.

The prince had grown up in a life of luxury, just as every citizen in Mukhauta had, but he was not narcissistic. He was a kind, gentle prince, who only portrayed dominance when he was most needed to. Handsome and muscular, he was every girl in the kingdom's dream man—

—except, he wasn't.

Concealed underneath that shiny smile and those rich robes, there was a sizzling power sitting in the prince's palm, a danger his parents had fought immensely to conceal. They had done everything they could to make sure the prince's magic was a secret only the royal family had rights to know about.

There was nothing wrong with having magic, however. Almost everyone in the Lokon tribes had it. It was only the power that the prince had. The fatal, murderous power that he held in his palm that made his parents wary; that made them afraid. 

The prince was not locked in his tower. He was not forbidden to do anything he wasn't supposed to be doing. He was simply only to wear gloves on his hands. He was told never to allow anyone to witness his miracle. He was never allowed to touch anyone with his skin, to feel their warmth flow through his veins, or feel their chill sharpen his senses. 

For a while, the prince obeyed his parent's will, keeping the gloves they had made for him secured on his hands. He would have stayed like that; he would have kept the gloves on for the rest of his life—

—had he not met her. 

She was an exquisite beauty; a female warrior of the nearby Lahasa kingdom. She was by no means a princess, and she was by no means royalty, but she was gorgeous. 

The prince became infatuated by her. By her pale skin, the color creamier than milk. By her dainty hands, hands that would mercilessly murder any man or woman who so much as produced a drop of blood from the prince's body. 

Her lips were dangerous, soft, and enticing all at the same time. They regularly pressed against his skin, bringing out a flurry of butterflies in his stomach. Her hands smoothed against his body, her blade a sharp prick against his throat. He'd often been her toy, not that he'd minded. The prince had fallen hopelessly in love with the warrior, with her lips—

—but not with her eyes.

Alas, the maiden who had grown on him had no desire for the prince to catch a glimpse of her eyes, of the orbs hiding under a curled, golden mask and dark veil. Of the cherry red or plush pink lips that teased his skin and his heart every night, every day, every second of his life. 

The prince longed to touch her skin; to feel his hands against the slope of her belly, to feel her gasp underneath his smooth fingers, under his touch, his warmth. He wanted to know if she was warm, or cold. If she became wet for him or was only content to pleasing his cries. 

His parents, while supportive of his love for the warrior, forbade him from touching her with his skin, with his hands. 

Although he had been upset, the prince was content with pleasing his warrior with his gloved hands and his talented lips, but over the years that they had been together, something had begun to change. 

The maiden came to his chambers less and less; her lips unable to meet his like before, like when they had first met. It didn't bother the prince at first. He simply assumed that she had been under the weather, or that she had been tired from training.

But as the days turned into months, and the months turned into years, annoyance and resentment began to crawl upon the prince every time he laid eyes on the maiden. He met her lips no more; his hands stayed limp on her body. The pain of what she had done behind his back was too much for him to bear; his heart crumbling faster than anything he had touched before.

The maiden grew confused over time. What had happened to her beloved? Why was he not pleasing her like he used to? Had she done something wrong?

She questioned the prince one day during their stroll through the palace gardens, something that had once been another form of pleasure to both of them. She brushed her long fingers over the flimsy flowers, interrupting the dance they had been doing throughout the whole day. The petals cooed against her skin, but the prince scoffed. He wasn't fooled.

You have been doing something behind my back, he sneered sharply, turning on his heel. His gloved hands clenched together, taking in the shaky arms of his love. You have changed, Mohini. You are not the woman I once loved, not anymore. Your kisses are no longer deep, your whispers are no longer mine. They belong to someone else, now, do they not?

W-What...? Mohini trembled. She clutched her boney hands together, her mask shaking on her eyes. Her throat felt dry. My love, what do you mean?

I am not your love, not anymore, the prince growled. He took a step away from her, his stomach squeezing. You have been with another, Mohini. Look me in the eye and tell me that I am slandering your name.

Mohini didn't look him in the eye, and the prince knew that he was right, despite a little part of him hoping that he had jumped to conclusions too quickly. He felt as if his heart had been shattered, the bits of glass a sharp weapon on the ground. 

Why...? He whispered brokenly. He reached for the handle of a clay vase, and Mohini winced. Why? What had I done wrong?

You did nothing wrong! Mohini cried. I—please, Rohan! It was an accident! It was a mistake! Please, I did not mean for it to go this far! I—!

You what?! Rohan's voice boomed across the gardens, the trees around him cowering. His voice shook with the emotions he had been compressing for days. I did everything you wanted, Mohini! I gave you everything you desired! Was my love not enough for you?! Were my gifts unable to sate you?

Rohan...

No. Rohan snapped. You don't deserve to call me by my name, Mohini, not anymore. It was as if his eyes had hardened when he looked at her, the sheets of ice glittering cruelly in his dark eyes. How did I ever love someone like you?! How could I ever have loved a woman I could not see?!

Anger flared in Mohini's chest, the feeling sudden and sharp. How dare you! She cried. I admitted to my mistakes, Rohan! I apologized, and you call me—!

An apology doesn't heal my heart, Mohini! Rohan snarled, facing her as though he were facing an enemy in battle. An apology does not heal all those years I loved you! My pathetic mistake! A mistake for loving a woman who cowers underneath her own lover!

Rohan, please—!

I, Prince Rohan Rajput of Mukhauta, reject you, Mohini, of the Lokon clan as my Queen, my wife, and my lover, Rohan spat, his icy eyes glinting in the sparkle of the shadowy sun at Mohini. 

She crumbled to her knees at his words, but no tears spilled from her eyes. Anger coiled like a python inside of her, squeezing her core. When she opened her eyes again, all of the hurt that had once spilled from her dainty eyelids glowed in vibrating anger, the orbs glowing a bright blue. She rose from the ground, floating in the sky, her arms spread around her, her robes billowing in the turbulent wind she had created. 

The sudden tornado around him came as a surprise to Rohan. He staggered back, the gloves peeling from his hands and flying into the forest from the wind Mohini created. The sky, once berry blue, now dissolved into a dark grey, the clouds thick and heavy around the kingdom. Lighting flashed in streaks on the grey sheets, but the rain did not tumble.

Now do you see? Mohini cried, her voice vibrating over the large expanse of the kingdom. Now do you see my face? My eyes? My lips? Her fangs pressed against her ruby red lips, her eyes a reptilian green. Blue scales covered her dark cheeks, her ears twisting as if she were a troll. Bumps trailed under her eyes and over the bridge of her nose. 

She was truly hideous. 

Rohan swallowed the gasp that had threatened to split his lips. His dark eyes widened, his bare fingers pressing against the pillar the vase once stood on, the stone crumbling into ash under his skin.

I curse you, Prince Rohan, Mohini boomed through the tears now coming down on her scaley cheeks. I curse you with the looks of a beast, with the eyes, the ears, the stance of a monster; a monster who hides from humanity. Only if you can find a maiden willing to look past your mask, then, and only then, will your curses be broken. The light that had been accumulating in her palm blasted at Rohan, forcing him to kneel.

He roared, but it was no use. He was no match against her power. He felt his body beginning to change; his skin was no longer brown, his eyes were no longer chocolate-tinted. He was no longer smaller than the carriage they had set up for display. Claws jutted from his fingers; fangs pressed from his lips. His hair tumbled in a dark, tangled canopy over his face, the ground around his hands crumbling to ash. 

W-What have you done? Rohan roared. He looked up at the sky in despair, and as Mohini floated to the ground, his kingdom began to change. Cries echoed from the streets, streets that were morphing into forests and vines. People froze in their attempts to escape the pandemonium, molding into trees or dark ivory statues. The sky remained a charred grey, the castle became a dark black.

You are to be alone, Mohini spoke through the tears dribbling down her cheeks. Your family, your kingdom; they are gone.

W-What...? Rohan's large black eyes surveyed what had once been his magnificent kingdom, now all gone and in ruins. His despair churned in his stomach, but soon, that despair flared into something hotter, more powerful.

You! The warning's Rohan's parents had given him disintegrated in Rohan's mind as he grabbed Mohini with his bare hands. She screamed, electricity slamming and charring her insides, but Rohan was too in anger to care what he was doing, what his curse had only magnified. 

Around him, the dome protecting the now lifeless kingdom shook, electricity pouring in waves around the forcefield. A blast shot through the city again, but this time, Rohan could hear voices. Voices he knew; voices who would keep him company, although he was too occupied with keeping a struggling Mohini in his arms to comprehend anything around him. 

It was only once Mohini was dead, lying lifeless in his arms, did Rohan realize the extent of his anger, of his fury. Of what he had done. He laid her gently on the ground, gazing brokenly at her pale face, at her blue lips, at her lifeless pink eyes. 

He was a monster, a beast, a broken prince wrapped in dark cloaks, and cursed with not only the power to kill but the monstrosity of a beast. Left with only a broken mask, an accessory that held his life in his hands, Rohan dissolved into the shadows of his palace, waiting till the day the last piece of the gold-laced article fell.

He was a beast, and who could ever love a beast?

RADHA: Chapter 1

3,000 years later...

There goes the baker with his bread like always, I sang quietly, reaching for the spatula I had left discarded on the marble countertop. The same old bread and jam to sell.

I pinched my fingers together, gathering the small amount of salt that I needed and popping it into the wooden bowl I was using. I dipped the spoon into the bowl, mixing slowly. 

Damn, Belle had such an easy life, I grumbled, the rest of the lyrics to the song fading in my memory. All she had to do in the village was read and complain. 

I added more effort into my mixing, just as my dad had told me the night before. I think some of the hidden resentment that I had for Belle further increased the amount of strength I used to mix the batter for the bread I was making. In only a few seconds, I had the bubbly yellow batter ready for the oven.

There. I can only hope Mr. Fanchise will like it, I said, wiping my brow. This is, what, his fifth loaf of bread from the shop today? How much bread does his family eat?

The questions were rhetorical, but I couldn't help but wonder them. When I had nothing else to think about, my thoughts tended to wander out of my comfort zone. 

Shaking my head, I dusted the excess flower from my hands, sighing in fatigue. I reached for a rubber-band beside my spatula, wrapping the dark locks of my hair into a messy ponytail. I had no time to check a mirror to see what I looked like, so that was going to have to suffice.

Sliding past the crystal countertop to check on the bread, I caught my reflection in the bowl of water I had placed for the dishes. My hair looked okay, but my eyes...they looked as dull as always. A faint purple color that circled my blank orbs. 

Despite the majority of Indian's having brown eyes, I was part of the group of exceptions to that rule. I had a dark shade of brown, not chocolate, but not regular either. They held an undercurrent of violet, something visible only in the sunlight. I didn't bother too much about it, though. It was only the shading of the sun, nothing more, nothing less.

I picked the wooden bowl up from the countertop, glancing up at the door to make sure nobody had walked in yet. Business today was slow, something I knew my father would berate me for later, despite it not being my fault. 

The spoon lifted into my hands with a sharp clatter, and I winced as the sound resonated loudly in the house. Luckily, Dad was upstairs, and probably wouldn't be downstairs until he was finished looking like a millionaire.

I rolled my eyes at my own comments on my Dad. He wasn't a millionaire, everyone knew that. He liked to carry himself as such, though, and while there was nothing wrong with that, he also liked to believe that he was superior to the other people living in our small village, which he wasn't. We weren't in the slums, but we also weren't in the city, either. 

I, using the spatula, helped the batter into the pan I would be using to create the loaf of bread. The cups of berries sat patiently by my side, and with a quiet chuckle, I sprinkled the juicy fruits over the bread, carefully placing it into the hot oven I had preheated earlier in the day. 

Once again, I wiped my brow, the summer heat pounding on my back. My dad had absolutely refused to get an AC, even though I knew that we had enough money to afford one. I didn't resent my dad for it, but I did wish he would stop being so cheap for once so that I could actually sleep peacefully. 

I looked around the shop, my eyes feeling heavy from the lack of sleep that had crept on my back, a burden on my shoulders. It was a small shop, resembling the bakery shops in America, which my Dad spent much of his money on recreating. 

The walls were dark and bright pink, the strips of paint repeating throughout the square corners of the shop. The door behind the counter led to the rooms my dad and I stayed in, although nobody really went there except us. 

Around the shop were display cases filled with cakes and other bakery goods that I (on my own) spent the whole day making. My dad had been too cheap to hire someone else to help in the kitchen, so I was forced to learn how to cook and bake, which took my mind off of the piles of debt my Dad drowned in but tried to hide. He had the money; I knew he did. He just refused to pay the bills.

I always told him: Dad, the debt is going to come back and bite him in the butt one day. But does he listen to me? No, of course not. I'm just his daughter who went to four years of college and has a degree in literature and cooking. Of course, I wouldn't know anything. 

I played around with the spatula in my hand, cleaning it and the bowls I had used to make the bread. Mr. Fanchise was a regular in our shop, and Dad always said that if I didn't make a good impression, he wouldn't come back. 

I don't know why Dad was so insistent on me making a good impression on Mr. Fanchise. I hardly knew the man! All I knew was that he had a wife and a son from America, Gabriel and that he owned a chain of factory companies.

I toyed with the curly tendrils of hair that tumbled onto my chest, twirling the strands as the timer ticked on the countertop. I decided to start mixing the coffee and tea for other people who came into the shop, just in case they needed some.

Man, I wish I had a Prince, I mumbled under my breath, biting my lip.

The tune to a random Disney song from Beauty and the Beast returned to my head, the lyrics a mumble on my lips. I used the tune to block out any other thoughts I had; to focus on the moment and the blurry image of the scene in my head. 

Unlike many of the other girls in my village who even had a brain, I didn't want an exact Prince Charming. I didn't want the guy from Cinderella, who could only remember me by my foot size! I wanted someone like the Beast. The Beast was a broken man, a prince who needed to be fixed and who needed to be loved. Despite my dislike of his love-interest, the Beast was the one who got be caught up in the movie.

Radha! 

The sharp, condescending tone of my name on my Dad's tongue brought me out of my fantasy, the bowl I was rinsing clattering against the metal of the sink.

Hey, Dad. What's up? I asked, wiping my hands on the apron I was wearing and turning the water tap off.

My Dad's eyes narrowed; the nightly dark orbs reminiscent of a tiger's. What's up? Radha, have you finished baking the bread? Mr. Fanchise will be here any minute!

He adjusted his tie, smoothing the brown suit that he insisted on wearing every day. Brushing his chiseled jaw and running a hand through his gelled hair, he approached me with caution, probably because I still had flower over my clothes. 

Dad, bread doesn't bake in one second. Relax! There's— I paused to glance at the timer, Two minutes left. Then I can ice it and it'll be ready to go for Mr. Fanchise!

Two minutes. Of course, you're late, again, Dad grumbled. He dragged his thumb over the counter that I spent an hour to clean, and I swallowed the tick of irritation that had formed in my throat.

I'm not late, I said just as the timer dinged. I gave my Dad a pointed look and he huffed, looking away while gritting his teeth.

Giggling to myself, I gently pried the bread from the pan I had baked it in, reaching into the cabinets to grab the cup of icing that I had made months ago. I took a spoon from the container and spread the thick, creamy white icing over the bread, wondering how a man could enjoy eating his carbohydrates with something as sweet as icing. 

Dad tapped his knuckles on the counter, glancing from the bread I was holding to the clock above the pink and magenta door. He huffed. 

Are you done? He asked. 

I didn't answer him, only giving him a pointed look. He looked away, his dark eyes narrowed, and I took the opportunity to slide the bread into a dark pink box with our bakery logo on the side. The logo was something my Mom had spent days designing. The whole bakery had been her idea...

I shook my head, feeling his eyes drilling holes into my skull. Scoffing, I slid the pastry box on the glass part of the counter just as Mr. Fanchise appeared in the doorway, the bell jingling to make his presence known. 

Mr. Fanchise was a large man; the CEO of some big factory company in the city. He was fat, not as much as to be obese, but just enough to have his belly protruding from his shirt. He always wore suits, his mustache rivaling that of Ranveer Singh's. He sighed a lot, too. Almost like a moan. It made my stomach churn, but since he was my Dad's best customer, I was, like many women, told to zip my lips and remain quiet. 

He had an American wife, a shocker, but not too shocking. She came with luggage, in other words, her son, Gabriel Fanchise. I shuddered at his name. 

Good morning, Mr. Mohan, Radha, Mr. Fanchise boomed, his loud voice shaking the pictures on the paint-chipped walls.

I grimaced, but my Dad shushed me before I could speak. Mr. Fanchise! Welcome back! Your usual, I presume?

Mr. Fanchise laughed, rubbing his belly. Wouldn't you know it, Karan! He chuckled. Because of the high amounts of money, he paid for his bread, he was the only man allowed to call my Dad by his first name. Believe me when I say anyone else that does is promptly added to the blacklist for our bakery. 

Radha, can you give him the box? Dad asked, nudging my elbow slightly. 

I swallowed the sigh that had threatened to slide from my throat and plastered a fake smile on my lips, handing Mr. Fanchise the box of bread that I had just made. He eagerly took it, his warm hand brushing against my fingers for a moment too long. 

I pulled away quickly, offering a weak smile and ignoring my Dad's stern glare. If Mr. Fanchise noticed, he didn't say anything. Instead, he opened the box, taking a large, and very loud, whiff of the bread.

Delicious, as always, Radha, he said, his sleazy eyes framed on my chest. I couldn't tell what exactly he was looking at, but I so badly wanted to slap that over-eager grin from his lips. I clenched my hands to keep them from carrying out my desire, however, and smiled at him again.

Thank you, sir, I replied, my voice almost robotic. 

Dad laughed nervously, the gears in his head turning to find a way to make small talk, which would eventually turn into him prompting Mr. Fanchise to buy more cakes. Ah, well, have you heard of the recent activity in the forests? I hear it's getting dangerous to travel...

I have heard, Mr. Fanchise replied, his face stuffed with bread, raspberry, and icing smeared on his lips. I resisted the urge to vomit as his thick tongue slipped from his mouth. But I wouldn't worry about it too much. The elders are just making a big fuss over it. Monsters and other childish gibberish, you know?

I do, Dad agreed. He glanced at me. Actually, Mark?

Yes?

You probably know by now, but Radha is twenty-three and still single... he gritted through his teeth. Do you have any...suggestions?

Here we go again, I thought, grasping my hands to keep from shaking.

Ah, of course! Mr. Fanchise belched loudly. There are many eligible young men, Radha. Why don't you pick one of them? Even my Gabriel is of marriageable age now. 

I knew what he was insinuating, and it disgusted me. Gabriel was ten years older than me, and I was in by no means interested in marrying the likes of him, unlike my father, who believed I was simply too caught up with fairytales and Disney movies to care about my own life. 

Thank you, Sir, I laughed in a sickly-sweet voice, but I am still looking for the right man for me to marry, and—!

What my daughter means to say, Dad interrupted, leveling yet another glare at me, is that she is still considering her options between the men in the village, your Gabriel included, obviously.

Mr. Fanchise smiled, pleased at Dad's answer. Of course! Marriage takes time, does it not?

You mean planning your dowry payment takes time, I thought in my mind. Dad nudged me again, this time, rougher, and I snapped my