Page 20 of Wicked Beasts
No one is perfect.
Sixteen
“What’s on your mind?” he asks, his words coaxing me from my thoughts.
I want to ask him what his faults are, if he’s actually alright. I want to ask him whatbeastlurks beneath that pristine exterior. But asking someone that question is rude, isn’t it? I consider the painting I saw, but I don’t think I can bring it up without admitting I was snooping, wandering around places I ought not to be.
Places I was specifically told to stay out of.
The last thing I want to do is make him upset with me.
I chew on my bottom lip as I look up at the rolling clouds.
“Whether or not it’s going to rain,” I say, letting my gaze settle on him. “I love that smell, you know? That earthy smell after rain.”
Tristan nods as his eyes lift toward the sky. “Petrichor. Me too.”
My gaze drifts, almost involuntarily, to the graceful curve of his exposed throat. I notice the soft shadows that play across his skin, highlighting the subtle contours and the line of his jaw.There’s something mesmerizing about the way his throat moves as he speaks. The pulse beneath his skin keeps my attention, a steady rhythm that echoes the beat of my heart. I find myself captivated, tracing the line from his collarbone to the elegant slope of his neck with my eyes. He tilts his head slightly, and the movement reveals more of that inviting expanse. I can almost imagine the sensation of my fingers brushing against it.
For a moment, the world fades away; it’s just the two of us in the garden. I swallow hard, torn between the desire to admire him and the urge to look away, aware of how vulnerable my fascination might seem. Still, I can’t help but linger in that moment, lost in the enchantment of his presence.
Distracted, I trip over a root, as though the trees seek to humiliate me.
Tristan catches me just as I stumble, his grip firm and reassuring. His strong hands wrap around my elbows, steadying me as my fingers instinctively clutch at his biceps. “Are you alright?” he asks, concern etched into his face.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.I’m usually not so clumsy, I want to tell him. I’m usually not distracted by exposed necks and collarbones, but the way his captivating eyes stare into mine makes me forget my entire vocabulary. I feel strangely vulnerable and weak. My heartbeat is unsteady beneath the touch of his strong hands, and I can feel the solid swell of his muscles through the fabric of his fitted long-sleeve. I clench my jaw as my face flushes with embarrassment.
“I’m fine,” I finally manage, forcing my gaze back to the root that tripped me, pretending to scowl at it. I know that if not for that pesky root, he would never have caught me. A part of me wrestles with the desire to steady myself and regain my composure, while another desires him to hold me just a moment longer. “My ankle hurts a little, though.”
“Can you make it back inside? Would you like me to carry you?”
The breath leaves my lungs in a rush. There’s something irresistibly attractive about his concern. My heart flutters wildly as every part of me screamsyes.
Of course, I want you to carry me inside. Carry me and seduce me.
Have your way with me.
I bite my bottom lip, glancing at my boot before rolling my ankle, testing the waters. I waver between giving in and accepting his offer, or backing away from the boldness of the request.
Without a word, Tristan steps closer, his gaze steady as he tilts his head and assesses my ankle. “Let me help,” he says. Before I can fully process his words, he sweeps me off my feet in a swift, practiced motion. I find myself nestled against his chest, my heart racing at the unexpected intimacy. The sudden shift catches me off guard, and I instinctively wrap my arms around his neck, feeling the solid warmth of his body. “Just relax,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear as a reassuring smile crosses his lips. I can feel the strength in his arms, and a rush of butterflies flutters in my stomach as he secures me in place, his strong hands supporting me gently yet firmly. I can hardly focus on my ankle as I relax against him.
“Are you sure this is alright?” I manage to ask half-heartedly, knowing deep down I’d rather be here than anywhere else. The way he looks down at me, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, tells me he’s not about to let me walk on that ankle a moment longer.
“Absolutely,” he replies with finality in his tone, leaving no room for me to protest—not that I intend to. With each step he takes, I cling to him, the world around us blurs, and all Ican think about is how effortlessly he carries me. I revel in the exhilaration of being so close to him.
He brings me to my bedroom and gently sets me down on the plush bed. Kneeling before me, Tristan carefully removes my boots, his touch gentle and deliberate. As he cradles my ankle, he begins to massage it softly.
“How does this feel? Is this alright?” he asks, looking up at me, his eyes studying my expression for any indication of pain. My heart skips a beat.
Am I dreaming?
I can’t seem to form any words, so I only nod.
“I’m sorry,” I manage finally.
“For?” he asks, his focus remaining on my ankle.
“I’m sure this isn’t how you wanted to spend your afternoon.”
