The Modern Fairy Tale Collection Read online

  The Modern Fairy Tale Collection

  Aria Cole

  Aria Cole

  Contents

  BLACK - A Modern Retelling of Beauty and the Beast

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  First Epilogue

  Second Epilogue

  Max and Elle - Ten Years Later

  Swan - A Modern Retelling of The Ugly Duckling

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  First Epilogue

  Trent and Chrissy - Ten Years Later

  White - A Modern Retelling of Snow White

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  First Epilogue

  Asher and Eve - Ten Years Later

  Scarlet - A Modern Retelling of Little Red Riding Hood

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  First Epilogue

  Beau and Scarlet - Ten Years Later

  Also by Aria Cole

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  For all those girls who dreamed about Fairy Tales but became women who slayed their own dragons. This one is for you.

  Part I

  BLACK - A Modern Retelling of Beauty and the Beast

  A beast, alone with the horrors of his past, the scar on his face a constant reminder of the man he’s become.

  A beauty, on the run with her life in a tailspin, finds herself on his doorstep seeking protection.

  Deeply misunderstood and dedicated to his life of brooding solitude, Maxwell Black is hesitant to let Elle McKellan into his home where his hideous secrets hide. But he’s unable to resist the allure of this desperate stranger.

  Soon the magnetism between them is undeniable, the temptation unbearable. Elle, reluctant to risk losing her heart to this dark and broken man, struggles against the sexual tension, only to surrender to the combustable heat between them.

  When Elle’s life catches up to her and threatens to tear them apart, Maxwell will protect the precious love he’s found by any brutal means necessary.

  ✭ Black is a SAFE, sexy, insta-love spin on the Beauty and the Beast fairytale and is intended for mature audiences.

  Chapter One

  Maxwell

  From a dark corner in the quaint library, I gazed out the crystalline windows, taking in the vibrant green of the town common and the gently lapping waves of the aqua lake beyond. The sparkle of sunlight highlighted each small crest before it kissed the shore and receded back again. My thoughts spun away as I watched, anxious as I hid away in this tiny upstate town, watching the world from a tiny library window.

  I’d spent summers swimming in that lake—the two months of the year it was warm enough for swimming. I remembered the warmth of sunlight caressing my skin and sending jolts of vitamin D through my cells. Playing catch and running improvised bases in the town common as a boy—I remembered those days so fondly, but fear had strangled out pleasure these last few years and chained me like a beast.

  I loved this library more than myself. My life was imprinted into the inky pages of these hardbacks. My heart came alive as I passed through the aisles, my fingers ghosting along the dusty covers. I liked being locked up here. At least most days.

  Human contact was best kept at minimum; I’d quickly realized that. Sitting up here alone in my palace suited me. I paid the bag boy to deliver my food. I scheduled the mail to come directly to my steps instead of the post office box. I didn’t do gatherings, holidays were pointless as I didn’t have anyone to spend them with, and Sunday afternoons in the park existed in the far distant past.

  I missed the sunlight on my skin, bronzing the body and easing the anxiety. But after that night—the night that changed my life and left me with so many scars, visible and internal—I hadn’t been able to step outside for fear of the shame. The ridicule. The flat-out gawking. Call it what you like, but I wasn’t one for subjecting myself to judgment, and the people in this town had stockpiles of it.

  I might have grown up here, I might have been the town’s golden boy at one time, but I wasn’t one of them anymore.

  Now I was the moody bastard who lived above the library and had a fucking panic attack every time I left my castle. Every time I descended those three steps, flashbacks overtook me, my heart raced and my palms tingled, and a sense of revenge so large it was nearly debilitating hit me. The only time I saw anyone was when they came into my library. I allowed people into my sanctuary in controlled doses, from nine to four each day and never on weekends. Small talk with the librarian was strongly discouraged.

  Thankfully, I didn’t need to announce that last part. The scar did that for me.

  I ran a finger across the worn copy of The Count of Monte Cristo I kept at my desk. Not a library book but mine. A treasured edition. Books were the only things that had been with me through it all. I’d never found solace in people; I’d found nothing but pain and betrayal and lies. Books provided shelter and support and encouragement.

  Once in a great while, I allowed myself the privilege of sitting out on the small stoop of the library when the sun was shining brightly. I only could do so first thing in the morning, before the rest of the town awoke. But despite my disdain for people, I loved sharing books. Sharing the written word with people who could really feel a story and understand it, could sense the loss and blip of anxiety that shudders the heart when you close the pages on a favorite book—I wanted people to feel that.

  I liked sharing the fantasy.

  But was this my fantasy? My gaze crawled across the polished woodwork I’d sanded and stained tirelessly through the night to restore before I’d opened the place. The Spruce Lake Library was a dream come true, but I found myself craving more.

  I hadn’t been on a date in years. What was the point? I’d have to hide too much of myself because baring my dark soul would surely send any woman running the other way.

  But sometimes, on the nights when my thoughts overtook me, I dared to hope for someone to share my life with. I dreamed of a girl with eyes that sparkled, a laugh that made me weak in the knees, and a heart so big she could fit mine in it. S
omeone who could see past my moody, abrasive demeanor and the thousand quirks that made me a man unlike any other.

  Someone who could see past the scar and into my soul.

  A revelation sliced through my heart. For the first time ever, I wanted to feel love.

  I’d just never found a woman brave enough to love a man like me.

  The sun began its slow descent behind the horizon as I pulled my thoughts away from all the things that were too painful for me to consider and noticed it was officially closing time. I took long strides across the gleaming wood before turning the latch and flipping the sign on the door. Closed. Just a few more tasks, then I could retreat to my sanctuary upstairs for the rest of the night.

  I returned to the circulation desk and gathered a pile of returned books before setting off down the aisles to reshelve them. I turned a corner and growled when I saw that the irresponsible little shits who had been here earlier had pulled out dozens of titles, reading and giggling in the back corner of my library after school for the sole purpose of my intense irritation, and not returned the books to their proper homes.

  “Damn.”

  A quick rap, rap on the front door sent a bundle of hardbacks crashing to my feet.

  I took my time lifting the books from the floor and placing them back on the shelf with care—this was a library, not a zoo, and I wished all kids under the age of eighteen could be barred from this sacred space. They didn’t have respect for the written word. Not yet. That took time, experience, an appreciation for the blood, sweat, and tears of life.

  Rap, rap, rap.

  I stalked among the aisles, my eyes steering toward the door as fat drops of rain rinsed down the windows. A drowned-out creature stared back at me, brown eyes as wide as saucers as I approached.

  “What the hell?” I murmured as I twisted the heavy latch that I’d locked only two minutes ago—at closing time. “Closed,” I growled upon opening the door.

  A meek little creature, soaked and in a rush as she shuffled into my library. Her heady, rain-dampened scent curled around me as she stripped off her dripping coat and scarf, hung them on the rack just inside the door, and ran one hand through dark, tangled locks, sending a new burst of her scent into my nostrils. My eyes closed for a moment as I soaked it up, my cock flexing.

  “I’m here for the job.” She thrust a folded application at me.

  My dick pounded in my pants, begging for release. Take. Own. Devour.

  “You’re late. We’re closed,” I informed her, unsure why I was being so abrasive to such a doe-eyed little thing.

  “Sorry, I only just found out about the job. Please? I’m desperate. I’ll do anything you need me to do.” Her voice was surprisingly throaty, as if she’d smoked a few cigarettes or spent a wild night screaming through roof-shattering sex.

  Either way, I liked her.

  A lot.

  Her big, brown eyes peered up at me, and I realized she was waiting for my reply.

  I turned to the circulation desk and adjusted my needy cock before placing the crinkled application on the polished wood and turning to her.

  “Well, you’re the only one who applied, so it looks like you’ve got the job.”

  “Really?” Her eyes widened, and she advanced.

  The soft cotton of her shirt draped across her round and perky tits made my mouth water. I let my gaze linger a moment as her nipples hardened into stiff peaks.

  Fuck, I wanted to run my hands up her curvy little body, tear that flimsy barrier from her skin, and have my way with her. The beast that lived deep inside my gut rattled its cage as my heart slammed in wild beats through my cock.

  “Familiar with libraries?” I stalked back down the aisle I’d been in before she appeared on my stoop. I shelved a few more books, unwilling to look in her direction, irrationally angry that she had this effect on me. Who was this woman walking into my library and making me feel like a goddamn animal?

  “Spent a lot of time in them in school,” she said.

  She was close behind me, much closer than I would have guessed. Much too close for her safety.

  I almost felt like warning her off, but instead I said, “This place is small. Non-fiction, fiction, endcap for the dirty romance novels—lot of women come in asking for that one—” I cut my dark gaze to her as I pointed at one with a sexy cover.

  Her eyes flared, cheeks pinking up the sweetest shade of rose I’d ever seen. I imagined the shade her nipples might turn when she was aroused. Dark rose? Dusky pink? The riddle rattled through my brain on repeat.

  “I-I don’t read those.” Flustered looked good on her. “But I’ve probably read over half your fiction section.” She pointed one long finger at the small sign that hung at the end of the next aisle.

  When I didn’t respond, her gaze flashed back to me then down to the wet boots on her feet. I saw her thighs shift beneath the dark fabric of her leggings, which clung to her legs like a second skin. When she turned away, my eyes ate up the curvy outline of her thighs. The soft swell of her ass begged for my hands. She had curves for fucking miles, and I wanted her in my bed. More than any woman I’d ever seen in my life, I wanted this one.

  “I would expect you to be well-read if you apply for a job at a library,” I responded finally.

  She turned around, her eyes flashing with hurt, and I was shocked to find my heart stutter for a moment. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt her.

  “I don’t have time to train someone, so I expect you to pick up the job without an issue. Now enough of the small talk,” I rumbled, stepping closer to her and invading her personal space by anyone’s standards. “Tell me what you need from me.”

  Chapter Two

  Elle

  I just needed a job. I came here for a job. But there was something about this man. I didn't know how to answer his questions, and his whole demeanor was so intimidating. He was terrifying and yet somehow beautifully ravaged with a thick scar slashed across one cheekbone, almost disappearing in the coarse hair of his well-kept stubble. He didn’t quite have a beard, but it was long enough for someone to push her fingers through. He was the most handsome man I had ever seen, and that scared me.

  I knew a lot about handsome and terrifying men. Men were dangerous. They were scary and mean, but I knew how to keep away. I knew no one would keep me safe. I’d learned at a young age to stay away from men. They took what they wanted and left. They didn't protect but destroyed.

  His words hummed on a loop in my head as his dark eyes roamed across my body in a lascivious manner before he averted his eyes. Men never turned their eyes away; this was new. Usually, the men my father had hanging around would look at me as if I were dinner. Shame never dwelled in their eyes; there was only hunger. Maxwell had that same look—a predatory gaze that would stop a timid being right in her tracks—but with him, there was something more, something gentle and haunting.

  His gaze bore through me like the embers of a fire before it engulfed a forest. His eyes darkened like the calm right before a storm. I knew this man was not one to be trifled with. He was used to having his demands answered, his needs met.

  “Umm,” I choked, backing up against one long shelf that capped the classics row. Right up against Dante and Dickens, he was stealing my sense--and maybe something more. “I don’t even know your name.”

  I hadn’t contemplated those words until I’d said them. This man, who looked at me in such an intimate way, was a stranger. I didn't know him, but I wanted to. Never in my life had I been so intrigued by a man. Never had one touched my body with his eyes the way this scarred stranger did.

  “Maxwell.” He leaned closer, the sharp angle of his surprisingly elegant nose just millimeters from my ear, the heavy pant of his breath washing across my skin and sending shivers down my body. I had a strange desire to gently brush my hand across his scar. “What’s yours?”

  The vibration of his voice shuddered through me like a high-voltage shock. His tone, like currents, pulsed through my veins, st
imulating every nerve ending in my body.

  “Elle.” My eyes dropped closed, and panic consumed me. I started to feel as though the walls were closing in. I felt trapped. This man had trapped me. Fight or flight, fight or flight.

  When men got too close, when they ogled and defiled, my body took over. My survival instincts took over. My mother had always been hurt, but that was my dad's fault. My mother had kept me safe the best she could.

  The next thing I knew, I was curled up in a ball on the floor, completely humiliated as tears streaked down my hot cheeks. Giant footsteps rushed away from me. Great, I had left myself completely vulnerable to a bear of a man I didn't know. A man who looked at me with predatory eyes. When I knew he was far away, I slowly lifted my head from my arms, but way too soon, his giant steps came crashing toward me. Once again, I felt my breaths accelerating.

  “Here, drink this.” His words were curt as he shoved a tall glass of ice-cold water at me.

  My hands trembling, I held the glass and took slow, deliberate sips. His eyes looked confused, menacing, and soft all at once. My eyes, of their own accord, shifted to his scar. I wondered how he’d gotten that violent slash on his face, how it must feel to have scars showing for the world to see.

  I knew all too well about scars. How they were ugly and deformed from the outside in. Daunting slashes scraped across layers of delicate flesh. Maxwell wore his scar on his face; I wore mine on the inside. My scars destroyed me and made me run; his seemed to have destroyed him and made him hide.

  Maxwell clasped my face. His rough palm, though formidable, was remarkably gentle. My breath hitched at his touch. I longed for it. It both excited me and left me agitated. I didn't trust it.

  He slowly moved his hand, brushing his fingers ever so gently along my arm. His touch felt like an artist’s brush and my body a blank canvas before him. I was nothing, yet his touch made me feel like a priceless work of art. I had never been touched like this before, and my body felt like an inferno. I could almost feel my molecules buzzing with warmth and about to ignite.