Beast

They called him Beast. No one knew exactly why; they just knew it struck fear into the hearts of men on both sides of the war. At well over six feet tall, his size may have been the culprit. Or, maybe, it was his fearless reputation, or the blood of the seven great families that flowed through his veins, or the amount of men he’d killed without blinking an eye. Who knew? The question of the day was whether he’d finally shown the chink in his armor. 

They called her the Maid. The tiny woman named Joan of Arc who’d been a great thorn in the side of the English. Did the Beast really have pity on her? Did he fall in love with her? These were pressing questions, which required answers—especially on the part of his wife.

Decadent. Like an expensive wine or luscious chocolate, “Beast” must be savored, slowly taken in, and appreciated for the beautiful piece of art it is. Books like this prove that every bit of research and investment in a novel pays off. Enthralling and real, “Beast,” like its main character, demands ones attention and respect, requesting the disregard of everyday menial tasks whilst one indulges in the swooneriffic view. One can’t help but fall in love, and worry, and cry, and melt, for this chivalrous Beast. De Russe est magnifique!

Sofia St. Angeles