Page 15 of Wicked Beasts
He opens his mouth, but no words escape. His face contorts, twisting into a monstrous visage created from the depths of my nightmares, a creature woven from threads of my darkest fears. A scream rips through the silence, raw and desperate, clawing its way out of my throat.
I jolt awake, sitting upright in my bed, heart pounding like a war drum echoing in the silence of the night. Sweat beads on my forehead, trickling down the sides of my face, chilling me as the remnants of the delusion cling to my mind.
It was only a dream.
I rub the remnants of sleep from my eyes, my fingers trembling slightly, and wipe the sweat from my brow, trying to shake off the lingering fear reluctant to let me go. I reach for my phone, dreading the sight of the time. I let out a groan as the screen comes to life, revealing the mocking hour offourin the morning. Kicking the silk sheets from my body, I slip out of bed, the floor ice cold to my bare feet as I head for the door, convinced it will be for the best to just start my day early.
The door leads to utter darkness, and a cool breeze engulfs me. I step out of my room, and my breath hitches at the sight of movement. A dark figure looms at the end of the hall, obscured by suffocating shadows that twist and writhe like living things all on their own. He stands tall, a formidable silhouette that feels both familiar and terrifying. It sends a chill creeping up my spine, instinct urging me to flee. “Tristan?” I call out, my voice weak, echoing softly against the cold stone walls.
He takes an imposing step toward me before suddenly changing course and heading to the east wing through the foyer. I place my hand against the base of my throat, collapsing back against the corridor wall as I try to steady my beating heart.
Perhaps I am still partially asleep, I tell myself, my fingers rubbing my collarbone in a soothing manner.Perhaps the terrors from my dream are now haunting me in my wake.
Without giving it another thought, I dash into the bathroom, flicking on the light as I shut the door behind me, seeking refuge from the shadows before another dark figure can frighten me. I slide down against the wood, where I will remain in the sanctuary until the sun peeks through the grimey glass of the window.
Twelve
I’m jolted from a restless slumber, a sharp knock echoing through the bathroom. Startled, I realize I must have fallen asleep against the door, and my body aches with fatigue as I try to scramble to my feet. The sudden noise reverberates in my mind, pulling me from a world of darkness into the harsh light of reality.
Is this even reality? Am I awake?
I’m finding it harder to tell.
“Amara? Are you alright?” His voice, smooth and velvety, yanks me from my daze, making my heart skip a beat. “It’s Tristan,” he reassures me from beyond the door, a hint of concern lacing his tone.
A smile plays across my lips, and a familiar warmth spreads through me. Did he really think I wouldn’t recognize that enchanting tone, the melody that haunts my thoughts? I am not petrified by his presence, not with the door between us—even with the memory of the nightmare looming over me like a stormcloud.
“I-I—um, I’m fine,” I say quickly as I look at myself in the mirror. I quickly rake my fingers through my brown hair to makemyself just a tad presentable, but there’s nothing I can do for the dark circles wrapped around my eyes.
Breathless and flustered, I finally manage to unlock the door, only to find myself staring up at his familiar face, etched with concern. The sunlight from the bathroom window plays across his features perfectly, highlighting the benevolence of his gaze against the backdrop of dim light in the hallway, his glasses tucked into the collar of his shirt, the slight weight of it pulling it down to expose the edges of his collarbone. He stands tall, his hands hidden in his pockets, but his eyes search mine with an intensity that sends a welcoming shiver down my spine.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” he asks, his voice dropping to a raspy whisper, as if we shared a secret. “Gisella says you’ve been in here for a while.”
“I…I fell asleep,” I murmur, feeling vulnerable under his gaze.
“In the bathroom?” He pulls his hand from his pocket, his gesture sweeping toward the dim hallway, his body turning effortlessly. “Is your bed not?—”
“No! No, no, it’s great,” I insist, stepping into the hallway beside him, my fingers raking through my disheveled hair in a desperate attempt to regain some semblance of composure. My pajamas cling awkwardly to my body, and I detest the way I must look to him. It’s cold in the hallway, and I fight the urge to cross my arms over my chest. “I just had a nightmare. Ye-yeah, that’s all. I came in here to wash my face and just start the day, but I must have been so tired from my dream that I just…passed out.”
“You’re certain you’re okay?” His voice is a low murmur, his gaze tracing the contours of my face with the same intensity that feels both protective and jarring, as if he’s searching for hidden discontentment within my eyes, trying to find the cause of my distress. I turn my face away, drawing in a deep, shaky breath. How can I tell himheis the reason for my sleepless nights? Thathis presence lingers in the shadows of my mind, haunting my dreams like a specter I can’t outrun?
He looks at me with such kindness and care, I hold my tongue, not wanting him to bear the burden of my turmoil. “It was only a dream,” I assure with a gentle nod as we reach my door. “I appreciate you checking up on me, though. Thank you. It was very sweet of you.”
“Is there anything I can do to make things more comfortable for you?” he asks as he crosses his arms over his chest. I try not to notice the bulge of his biceps or the protruding veins just beneath his skin. I struggle against the urge to request he spend more time with me. I turn to look at my door, my hand gently settling against the knob.
It might help with my nightmares, I consider, to not think he’s so scary. Is that the root of my fears? The distance between us? I glance at him, at his arms—at the unintentional, or perhaps intentional, barrier he’s created. I have to consider he likes the distance. Maybe he prefers it. He’s here but not. His body language is tense and withdrawn, not welcoming, not open.
I inhale sharply, trying to work up the courage to ask.
“Actually—” I say as I turn back to face him, slowly lifting my gaze to his. “I wouldn’t mind if we could spend some time together. The truth is, I know next to nothing about you, and I think maybe getting to know you a little better might help me feel more comfortable as your assistant.”
It’s not a lie, though part of me feels my ulterior motives. Without actually spending time with him, I know I’m at risk of being ruled by my fantasies—the sensual and the terrible.
I am truly concerned for his well-being at this point.
But I can see his expression changing before I even finish speaking. He shifts his feet to face the hallway rather than me and sweeps his gaze to pretend to consider the idea. Any tenderness the sunlight once highlighted vanishes. He standsnow, cold and detached, awkwardly shifting, as though I had just asked him to marry me but he’s too kind to directly say no.
He reaches for his glasses tucked into his shirt and puts them on, as if he feels too exposed in my presence without them.
