Page 12 of Wicked Beasts
As I stand before the mirror in my room, the soft glow of candlelight dances across the surface, casting fleeting shadows. I can already picture the dining room, with its dark wood and rich fabrics wrapped in the kind of elegance that feels both intimidating and intoxicating.
I smooth down my dress, a deep emerald that catches the light just so, hoping it will complement the warmth of the evening. I know I am probably overdressed, but I want to look impressive—not just for dinner, but forhim. The man who moves through the world like a breath of fresh air, despite his withdrawn disposition. His glasses frame eyes that seem to hold galaxies of knowledge, and when he looks at me, even if just for a moment, I feel as if the whole universe shifts.
In a vague room of my brain, I wonder if I’m acting crazy. I’ve never felt so captivated by anyone before. Every inch of me lights up when he’s near, and even though we’ve only spoken twice, my mind constantly wanders back to every detail of our interactions. I always judged other women for describing themselves as “obsessed,” but I am. It’s not that I feel particularly possessive of him—I’m not a psychopath—but he’s in my mind like a planted tree, growing and taking root in every part of me.
I rake my fingers through my hair, trying to tame the loose strands that cascade down my back. It’s silly, really, how much I want to impress him, but tonight feels different, charged with an energy that makes my heart quicken. Perhaps it was our passing encounter in the foyer that has ignited a new fire within me, one full of new hope that was beginning to slip away through our monotonous and detached text exchanges.
I take a deep breath.
I know the household staff will be there too, yet as my thoughts spiral back to him, they all quickly fall to the background. Before I slip on my heels, the coolness of the polished floor beneath me sends a shiver through my spine, matching the flutter of nerves that twist in my stomach. I glance once more in the mirror, adjusting my plunging neckline, willing myself to exude confidence even as the shadows in the corners of the room seem to draw closer, as if they too are curious about what will unfold tonight.
With a last look at the darkening sky through the window, I step out into the hallway. Each step toward the dining room feels like a descent into a deeper mystery, but so does the uncharted territory of my heart.
As I reach the door, I pause, heart pounding. This is more than just dinner; it’s an opportunity, a moment to connect with the man who haunts my thoughts and frequents my dreams. Am I ready for this? I suppose it doesn’t matter if I am. I push the door open and step into the mystifying glow of the dining room, forcing myself to leave my doubts behind me.
There he is, seated at the head of the table, a soft smile gracing his lips as he speaks with Mrs. Wong, who stands beside him. I can feel my breath hitch in my throat as I take in his presence—he emits a gentle vigor, an undeniable charm that pulls me closer. With his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his forearm muscles tense, and the veins emerge like intricate riversbeneath his skin. The light catches the contours perfectly, and I feel the urge to trace them with my fingers, to explore the strength they represent and where they might lead.
My heart races as I try to pull my gaze away, but the allure is magnetic as it draws me in. Every glance feels like a shared secret between me and the shadows lingering around us.
“Girl, are you okay?”
Gisella’s voice cuts through the air, light and teasing, but it startles me as I approach. I look up to find her staring at me from across the table, her deep brown eyes sparkling with mischief. There’s a hint of amusement etched into her expression, a subtle curve of a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. I’m grateful to see she’s also dressed more formally, but I still feel a bit overdressed.
My cheeks heat up as I slide into the chair diagonal from her and beside him. The fabric of my dress brushes against my skin, suddenly too tight and too revealing under her scrutinizing gaze. “Never better,” I manage to say, the words tumbling out like a hasty promise. I can feel the tension winding tighter in my chest as my freckled cheeks turn a deeper shade of scarlet.
I deliberately avoid looking at Tristan now, who sits so close yet feels miles away, while Gisella watches me like a hawk, her grin widening as her piercing gaze darts back and forth between us. Her playful demeanor contrasts sharply with the whirlwind of emotions churning within me, and I’m not sure how long I can keep this façade intact under her watchful eye.
As Mrs. Wong steps away, Tristan’s attention suddenly falls to me.
“You look lovely, Miss Amara.” His voice is warm, smooth as silk, while his hazel eyes drink in the sight of me. I tilt my head, raising an eyebrow and teasingly giving him a warning look, a playful challenge lingering in the depths of my dark eyes. He responds with a closed-lip smile that somehow feels both shyand confident. “Amara,” he says, taking the hint with a slight nod, as if he’s savoring the sound of my name on his tongue.
The way he says it—like a gentle caress to my cheek—sends a rush of warmth cascading through me, igniting a heat that settles low in my core. It’s a simple utterance, yet laced with unspoken possibilities, each letter drawing me closer to him in a way that leaves me breathless.
I cross one leg over the other in an attempt to calm myself as Mrs. Wong serves dinner.
To my unpleasant surprise, Mortimer sits directly across from me, and Mrs. Wong sits beside me once she’s through setting the food down, bringing unnecessary tension to the dinner. Tristan is unfazed by them as everyone begins to serve themselves, and I feel myself shrinking in their presence.
“How is your first week going?” Tristan asks, his eyes scanning my face for a hint of dissatisfaction as his fork rakes through the mashed potatoes on his plate.
“It’s wonderful,” I say, my voice steady and sincere. “And your home is truly lovely.”
“Yeah? It’s not too much?” he asks, his brow slightly furrowed as he leans in, curiosity sparkling in his hazel eyes.
I shake my head. “Not at all. Though, I must admit, I’ve always been drawn to the darkness,” I reply, a hint of mischief in my tone.
A gentle flush creeps across his cheeks, a soft rose that contrasts with the pale light of the dining room. He looks down at his plate, the corners of his mouth lifting into the faintest smile. In that moment, the hold he has on me tightens its grip, wrapping around my heart like an unyielding vine.
Just like that, I am powerless.
But just as quickly as it flickered to life, the kindness dissipates, leaving behind an icy mask as he withdraws. Tristan’s demeanor shifts as he turns to Mortimer, the conversationveering into the realm of science as he now discusses the latest experiment from his class lab at the university. I sit in stunned silence, grappling with the abrupt transformation. What just happened? I glance at Gisella, who is absorbed in her phone now, oblivious to the tension. Manu is in his own world too, scraping at the remnants on his plate. Meanwhile, I can feel Mrs. Wong’s piercing gaze drilling into the side of my face, and I stubbornly avoid meeting her eyes.
There’s a warmth to him that he buries intentionally.
But why?
He’s not well.
Mortimer’s gaze flickers toward me, as though he just shoved the thought into my mind himself.
