"He possessed her…" — and honestly, about forty minutes in, I paused my work, looked at Frida (who was sprawled across my keyboard like she owned the place), and said out loud: "Abuela would have FAINTED."
Not clutched her rosary. Straight-up fainted.
Look. I knew what I was getting into. Anne Rice writing as A.N. Roquelaure. The fairy tale retelling where the Prince doesn't kiss Beauty awake — he claims her. Completely. I read the paperback in college hidden inside a typography textbook, felt scandalous about it, loved it. So when I saw the audiobook was only four and a half hours, I figured — perfect for a Friday night design sprint. Glass of wine, a logo project for a local brewery, and Anne Rice whispering filthy fairy tales in my ear.
Reader. I was not prepared for how different this hits in audio.
The Problem with Hearing Someone Else Say It Out Loud
Here's the thing nobody warns you about: reading explicit content with your own internal voice is one experience. Having someone else's voice deliver it to you is something entirely different. Genvieve Bevier has this low, measured delivery — almost ceremonial — that works beautifully for the court scenes, the rituals, the power dynamics Rice constructs so deliberately. When she narrates Beauty's internal surrender, there's a genuine emotional weight there. She doesn't rush through the erotic passages like she's embarrassed; she leans into them. And that's both the strength and the challenge.
Because at some point around hour two, I realized I'd stopped designing entirely. I was just sitting there, wine untouched, listening to what felt like eavesdropping on something deeply private. One reviewer nailed it — it felt like a private matter being read aloud. That's not necessarily a flaw in Bevier's performance. It might actually be a sign she's doing her job too well.
But then there's Winthrop Eliot handling the male voices, and — okay. I don't want to be cruel. But the shift between Bevier's controlled, almost hypnotic delivery and Eliot's Prince is jarring. His register feels off, like he's reading from a different book entirely. The Prince is supposed to be commanding, darkly seductive, someone who makes Beauty's submission feel inevitable. Eliot's version sounds more like a guy reading stage directions at a community theater rehearsal. If Bevier had narrated the entire thing? Different audiobook. Different rating. Someone in the reviews said they'd give it a 5 out of 5 if the woman read the whole thing, and I felt that in my bones.
Fairy Tales Were Always About Power (Rice Just Said It Out Loud)
What I'd forgotten since college is how Rice structures this. It's not just erotica with a fairy tale skin. The world-building — the castle, the rules, the hierarchy of trained "tributes" — is genuinely detailed and specific. Beauty isn't just a passive figure. Her internal narration tracks every shift in her understanding of submission and desire, and Rice writes her psychological journey with a precision that surprised me all over again. There's a scene where Beauty is displayed before the court, and it's less about the physical act and more about the architecture of shame transforming into something else entirely. That duality is what makes Rice's version stick with you.
At 4 hours and 32 minutes, this is compact. Rice doesn't waste time on world exposition the way fantasy writers might. You're dropped into the rules of this kingdom and expected to keep up. The pacing actually works for the most part — it mirrors Beauty's own disorientation. But there are stretches in the middle where the repetitive nature of the scenarios starts to blur, and without strong vocal differentiation between characters, those passages drag.
Who This Is For (And Who Should Run)
If you're comfortable with explicit content and you want to experience Rice's particular brand of literary erotica — where the language is lush and almost gothic, where power exchange is explored with genuine intellectual curiosity — Bevier's narration will carry you through. Listen with headphones. Obviously. (I had a moment of panic when my Bluetooth disconnected and my apartment speakers kicked in. Diego did not need to hear that.)
But if flat male narration pulls you out of a story, or if hearing this content performed aloud feels too intimate to enjoy, this specific audio version might not be your format. The print version still exists for a reason.
Content warning: this is wall-to-wall explicit. I had a similar "know before you go" moment writing up High Voltage — different genre, same energy, same advice about reading the room before you press play. Dominance, submission, punishment, public display, complete power exchange. If those aren't your thing, this is absolutely not the book.
The Wine Is Gone and So Am I
Did I cry? No. This isn't that kind of book. But did I feel something? Yeah. A weird cocktail of fascination, discomfort, arousal, and a strange tenderness for Beauty's journey that I wasn't expecting at midnight on a Friday. Rice understood something about desire that most romance writers still dance around — that surrender isn't weakness, it's its own kind of hunger.
The audiobook is half-brilliant, half-frustrating. Bevier deserved a better co-narrator. The story deserved a full performance that matched its ambition. But even with its flaws, this book still felt like sneaking something forbidden — which is exactly what Rice intended.
