Page 14 of Wicked Beasts
As I approach the menacing door at the end of the hall, I hesitate, the brass handle cool beneath my fingers. I gasp as it gives way. It’sunlocked. A soft creak breaks the silence as I push the door open. The room is dim, illuminated only by a single, flickering lamp perched suspiciously on a nearby table.My breath hitches as I look around, wondering if someone else is awake and wandering about. There are no obvious movements but my own and the same dancing shadows that draw my eyes to the walls.
They’re lined with portraits gazing down at me, their eyes gleaming with life from the lamp. But one painting stands out, dominating the far wall above the mantle—a large portrait of a man whose features radiate an energy like the sun.
A large painting of Tristan Black.
He’s a little younger, and there’s a kindness in his expression that feels almost alive, a stark contrast to the distant and reserved demeanor I’ve encountered. The colors of the painting, once vibrant, now bear the weight of decay, with cracks spidering through the canvas, threatening to shatter. But it can’t be that old—Tristanisn’t even that old.
A shiver runs down my spine as I step closer, the atmosphere thickening around me, heavy with an unshakeable fear. I can’t shake the feeling that something lingers near the portrait, a presence that sends a chill rippling through me. It’s unsettling, yet I’m drawn in, mesmerized by how different he looks in this captured moment.
His hazel eyes, bright and inviting in the painting, pull me closer, tempting me to explore the layers of his past. I lean in, my heart racing as questions swirl in my mind. Who was he before the shadows crept in? What stories lay buried beneath the surface of that warm smile and bright eyes?
My fingers gently trace along the bottom of the frame, gliding along the layer of dust that has settled upon it. As my gaze drops to watch my finger dance against the grime, I notice a hidden inscription. A frown creases between my brows as I wipe it.
“May this always serve as a reminder of the beast you truly are within.”
Beast?
Just then, a draft sweeps through the room, sending a shudder down to my bones, and the lamp dies out. I step back, my breath quickening as I glance over my shoulder, suddenly acutely aware of how alone I am in this forgotten space. The portrait feels alive, and I can’t help but wonder if I’ve crossed some irrevocable threshold. Like gears suddenly locking into place, my mental map of the house tells me exactly where I am.
This is the east wing.
I’m not supposed to be here.
I quickly retreat and run down the stairs as fast as I am able while still slipping silently through the house until I am safely back in my bedroom. I shut the door with a gentle click and lean my back pressed against it. My heart thumps wildly in my chest, like a bird in a cage, as I try to steady my breathing while trying to make sense of what I had just seen.
Beast? Who is abeast?
Eleven
Irecline on the chaise lounge I’ve claimed as my own, enveloped in the warmth of the sunlight while Tristan toils at the desk in the library. My attention drifts to him, captivated by how his hand glides effortlessly over the pages of his notebook, listening to him scratch his pen against the paper.
The lecture from his laptop spills forth—scientific jargon that remains just beyond my comprehension—but I find myself lost in the mesmerizing rhythm of his focus. His hazel eyes, deep and intense, are fixed on his notes, glancing only occasionally at the screen, like a hunter surveying his surroundings. I watch as the muscles in his jaw flex, a subtle tension that sends a thrill through me. My breath catches as his Adam's apple dips and rises with each deliberate swallow.
In the library, an inexplicable calm washes over me, mingling with a fluttering excitement just beneath my skin. It’s as if the world outside has faded, leaving only the two of us in this intimate cocoon of quiet concentration, where his presence weaves an irresistible spell drawing me closer with each passing moment.
My eyes flicker toward the laptop, and there’s a tug within me that wants to ask him to explain the lecture, but I don’t want to interrupt his studies.
Instead, I sit, I wait, and I watch.
I try to focus on the book in my hands, but the words seem to blur together. I think back on the portrait I saw last night, trying to distinguish whether I had really seen it, or if it had been a far too realistic dream. The way he is now, completely enraptured by his studies, I can’t imagine him as any sort ofbeast. I can’t imagine him as anything but this kind, withdrawn man simply preoccupied with science.
“What are you reading?” His voice breaks the spell of my thoughts, pulling me back to the present in the library.
I glance at the cover of the book, suddenly blanking on the title.
“Oh, just a bit of fantasy romance,” I reply, setting it on the table beside me. As he rises from his desk chair to stretch, the hem of his sweatshirt lifts, revealing the chiseled curve of his Adonis belt nestled at his hips. My breath catches, and I can’t help but part my lips at the sight.
“Enjoying yourself?” he teases, noticing where my gaze lingers as he playfully lifts the front of his shirt to expose his abs.
I bite my bottom lip in surprise as I avert my eyes, my cheeks undoubtedly turning scarlet. “I’m sorry,” I say, inhaling sharply, trying to compose myself. “That was…inappropriate of me.”
I’m sorry, but not really. I’m sorry I got caught.
He tugs his shirt down, yet a devilish smile remains carved into his face, a hint of mischief in the depths of his hazel eyes.
“Don’t be,” he replies, narrowing the space between us with sudden confidence I didn’t know he possessed. “It isn’t as though I’ve been oblivious to the way you look at me, Miss Amara, even when you think I’m not paying attention.” He scales the lounge chair, settling over me just as I recline, my heartpounding with a fierce intensity, his face only a few inches from mine. “Is this what you’re hoping for?” he asks me, his lips lingering near mine. “To be near me?”
I close my eyes and nod. I want to pull him down, against me, to feel his body press up against mine. As I move toward him, my lashes flutter, my gaze settling on his face.
