Page 37 of Wicked Beasts
I’ve noticed its bloom and wilt, the back and forth like the pull of the tide.
It just isn’t possible, is it?
I shake my head, willing the thought away, but it lingers at the edge of my thoughts, uninvited and persistent. I can’t shake the feeling that something about this place—about Tristan—about everything—ischanging. For the better? I glance down at the book as I sit up in my bed.
I hope so.
My eyes land on the shut laptop abandoned on my writing desk as the shadows feel like they have darkened my room into an ink spot of the mansion, almost like a reaction to my sudden turmoil. Of course, it’s probably my imagination as a result of my inner guilt. I haven’t written a word since I started working for Tristan Black. My creativity is probably in overdrive, manifesting in other ways, as it is not currently being used for anything else—it is using itself to scare me.
I look back at the book resting beside me as a sudden pain tugs at my heart, as though his kind gesture now instills an unnecessary fear as I continue to worry and obsess over his health. I sit with a blank stare as I try to shift through my thoughts, thinking of the random visitor Tristan had on Saturday. During the entire time I’ve been at the Black estate, he never once had a visitor. At least, not one I’d been made aware of.
As his personal assistant, isn’t that something I ought to be told? I look down at the book again, suddenly wondering if he’s trying to distract me. I quickly shake the thought. To dwell on what might be is to suffer through it twice—once in your mind, once in reality.
While I know this to be true, I somehow still won’t let my mind quiet. How can I? How can I unburden myself? How can I go back to that same naive woman I was when I first entered this home? Just a personal assistant, seemingly enchanted by the dark shadows of this house?
Now, I just feel unsettling fear. Not fear of the unknown. Not fear of whatmightbe.
No, fear of something that lurks. Something thatwaits.
Something Iknowis there, lingering in the shadows, in the darkness. Something that only makes itself known at night.
A chill prickles at the base of my neck, and my shoulders tense uneasily.
I twist my long, brown hair into a rope, and I tie it into a knot that sits loosely on my head. I brush a few loose strands behind my ear as I get up from my bed and place the collection of short stories beside the rose. I can’t just sit here and worry, day after day. Sitting here won’t give me the answers I want.
I have to find Dr. Shadow again.
I have to confront him.
I just don’t know how to get him toconfessto me.
Thirty-One
Though I wander around the house during the next few nights, Dr. Shadow refuses to meet me, and I go to bed frustrated. The mystery is infuriatingly opaque, and the monotony of my daily routine does nothing to settle my anxiety for answers.
Tristan's hazel eyes gleam in the candlelight, alive with an array of colors always more beautiful than the last time. They shimmer, shifting like the hues of a twilight forest, each flicker of light drawing out deeper, wilder shades—golden browns, rich greens, and amber flecks. When he looks at me, it’s as if the room’s soft glow bleeds into his gaze, folding the entire forest within them.
It feels like the world stops spinning every time he looks at me. At least, every time I catch him. Sometimes, when his conversations with Mortimer drift into the background, I swear, I feel the weight of his quiet glances, those fleeting flickers of his lashes hidden behind the dark frame of his glasses. I’m too attuned to his movements, too in tune with his presence.
Tonight, the dinner feels lighter, like the air has been cleared, though his words still linger in the back of my mind, haunting the edges of my thoughts. I get lost in the moment, in thewarmth of his gaze, but Dr. Shadow lingers in my mind like an ominous presence I cannot shake. I never had a chance to ask Tristan to elaborate, not with the arrival of his mysterious guest, who I’ve only seen glimpses of since. Mortimer always answers the door, ushering him into the east wing with a quiet ceremony, where he remains until after the sun sinks low. And then, just as silently, he departs.
I want to ask about him, but I know it’s not my place. It’s none of my business. With a quiet sigh, I push my mashed potatoes around on my plate, the soft mound of food slowly losing shape under my fork. I let Mortimer’s voice fade into the background, droning on about something behind the house. Manu grunts his disinterest, and Tristan’s attention shifts toward him, giving me the perfect opening.
“I wanted to thank you again for the book,” I say, my voice steady, though my mind races. “I’ve never readTreasure Island, and I love getting to read all your thoughts along with it.”
His smile warms me as he tilts his head gently. “You’re welcome. I think you’ll find a lot of answers in that book.”
My brows furrow slightly.Answers? I wet my lips gently, watching as he returns his attention to his food. For a moment, I chew on my bottom lip.
Speaking of answers…
“How is your project going?” I ask, feeling my heartbeat beginning to quicken.
Tristan raises an eyebrow, his gaze narrowing, as if searching for the meaning behind my question. “My project?” His voice holds a note of intrigue, but it’s the subtle flex of muscle in his forearm as he tightens his grip around his fork that catches my attention.
My frown deepens a little as I readjust myself in my seat and straighten my posture. Hewasworking on a project for school, wasn’t he? I’m positive I didn’t make that up.
“Um—” I’m not sure what to say. What if I’m wrong? Am I misremembering? “I-I think you said you were studying how different hormone levels affect something—mood? Right?” I chuckle awkwardly and begin fidgeting with a lock of my hair, twisting it tightly around my index finger.
