Page 27 of Wicked Beasts
“Tell me, Miss Amara.” His voice is a low, sultry murmur, thick with lust, and when his lips brush up against my ear, my knees weaken beneath the weight of his desire. His fingers glide along the waistband of my panties while his mouth finds its way to my neck.
I can’t.
I don’t want to.
“I’m going to break you, darling.” His voice is a husky whisper of a promise, sending shivers through me as his teeth graze my skin. He pulls back, my breath shaky gasps as he drags his thumb against my bottom lip. His intense gaze lingers on my mouth, a smoldering fire in his eyes before they finally meet mine. He chuckles darkly, his smile turning predatory.
As he steps away with his glass of whiskey, I am left trembling in the gloom of the kitchen, my mind a whirlwind of confusion, desperately trying to piece together the haunting moment that just transpired. My brows furrow as I try to make sense of it, slowly comprehending his words.
Break me?
“Hey, wait a minute!” I finally uproot my feet and chase after him, but I’m greeted by nothing but an empty, dark hall. No distant footsteps lingering in the air, no signs of life, nothing but the shadows dancing on the walls and the creaking hinges of the kitchen door left swinging behind me.
I stand frozen in the dark hallway, the shadows stretching around me. My mind churns with the memory of my encounter with Dr. Shadow, his words swirling like an eerie incantation. “I’m going to break you,” he whispered, his breath warm and intoxicating against my skin. The memory sends a chill spiraling down my spine, a disconcerting blend of fear and desire.
Shaking my head, I try to clear the fog clouding my thoughts.
What just happened?
Was it a dream woven from my darkest fantasies?
Am I even awake?
It felt so real, every sensation etched deeply within me—the weight of his gaze, the intensity of his presence, the promise of something dark and enticing.
With a shuddering breath, I force myself to move, retreating toward my room, desiring to be anywhere but in the dark, ominous hallway where I feel vulnerable and alone.
I slip beneath the silk sheets, and my gaze drifts to the rose standing defiantly in the vase, its vibrant hue a stark contrast against the dim light. I reach out, brushing my fingers over a petal, feeling the subtle softness and the faint signs of wilting.
Twenty-Two
The encounter with Dr. Shadow lingers in my mind, leaving me shaken and uncertain. I question whether it truly happened, or if it was merely a trick of my imagination, a fleeting dream woven from fear of the shadows. The manor’s oppressive darkness seems to magnify in my fears, amplifying the sensation that I am being watched. Perhaps he is the embodiment of his name, lurking in the shadows that seep into every corner and overtake every room.
Waiting.
Watching me.
The hours slip away like smoke as I remain distracted by the occurrence. I avoid the kitchen, not wanting to see whether the glasses we used were still there on the counter—and to avoid the rushing memory of the intimate moment. I did not want to have intimate moments with Dr. Shadow. I did not want to react to him. Gisella was right about him; there was some kind of danger that lingered in the air when he came near me.
So why am I struggling to convince myself he is no good? Perhaps it’s his relation to Tristan that confounds me. How can someone so shrouded in darkness be related to someone as pure as Tristan? Their energy seems to oppose one another in everyway I can imagine. Unless, of course, Tristan is not as virtuous as he appears to be, hiding dark secrets of his own beneath that seemingly bright façade.
I halt in my tracks, catching sight of Tristan in his study, as though he had manifested there purely from my thoughts. He sits at his desk, glasses resting elegantly on his perfect nose, meticulously sorting through a stack of papers. I chew on my bottom lip, glancing around the sunlit room, wary of Mortimer or Mrs. Wong’s presence, before I make my way to the door. I knock softly, and he looks up, his expression shifting as our eyes meet.
“Tristan, may I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” he says. His smile warms me; my knees want to give out, but I try to maintain a professional demeanor. “What’s on your mind?”
Gazing into his hazel eyes, I struggle to speak. My breath catches in my throat as I avert my eyes for a few seconds, trying to gather my thoughts that have seemed to slip away from me.
“It’s about your brother,” I say finally, taking a hesitant step toward him. “Dr. Shadow.”
He draws in a breath, and suddenly, the air feels tense between us.
“What about him?” he says, now avoiding my gaze as his attention quickly returns to the papers.
“I…um…” As I start, I wonder if I should be saying anything at all. The way Mortimer and Mrs. Wong spoke of him makes me feel like Ishould, but it’s my fault I was out of my room in the first place last night. Had I listened, I never would have crossed him. “I met him last night. In the kitchen.”
Tristan begins rearranging things on his desk, piling books, and sorting through papers as he continues to avoid letting his eyes fall on me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss Amara. He’s not here.”
