Page 38 of Wicked Beasts
“Ah,” he says, his smile broadening as the intensity flickers in his eyes with the candlelight. Everyone else quickly fades into the background while we become the only two in the dining room. “Yes, I was studying how stress hormones influence decision-making. It’s going well.” He leans back slightly in his seat, a hint of surprise in his voice. “I can’t believe you remembered.”
“Of course, I remembered,” I say before I can stop myself, pleased with my own recall, though I do my best to keep the pride from creeping into my voice.Why wouldn’t I remember? It’s you.I want to say those words, but they seem too forward. Tristan is like a scared wild animal I have to approach with caution. Every word needs to be intentional. Everything I say needs to be said with patience. The book was a nice gesture, but I don’t want him to pull away. “It’s something you care about. And, well, you’re my boss?—”
That last part might have been unnecessary, but I don’t want him to feel like I’m prying.
His smile turns soft, almost shy, as his gaze drops to his plate for a moment, his jaw tensing with restraint. The subtle shift is enough to stir something strange in me. “I’m not yourboss,” he says gently, almost playfully, his voice smooth. “Technically, Mortimer hired you.” His kind gaze lifts, locking with mine for the briefest moment before turning back to Mortimer.
I glance across the table at Mortimer, whose silhouette blends into the shadowed corners of the room. His posture is unnaturally rigid, as though carved from a gravemarker, his face ghost-pale and gaunt, as if emotions never reach him. Hiseyes stay fixed on his plate, distant and detached, offering no response to Tristan’s words, as if they’ve already been forgotten. His every movement is deliberate, slow—as if he exists outside the flow of time itself.
“This is true,” I say, backing up Tristan’s claim. In truth, I do prefer to think of Mortimer as my boss than Tristan, which—I try to pretend—has nothing to do with my budding feelings. “You did my interview as well,” I add, addressing Mortimer directly.
“Mrs. Wong runs the household,” Mortimer says, his voice deliberate, each word drawn out like the stroke of a slow, ominous melody. He dabs the corner of his mouth with a cloth napkin, his movements precise, almost ritualistic. There’s something unnerving about the way he performs the smallest gestures, as though every action carries a weight beyond its meaning.
“Oh, Mortimer…” Tristan chuckles lightly, a sound that carries more warmth than it should. He lifts a hand, heavy and confident, and pats Mortimer affectionately on the shoulder. I flinch, startled by the softness of Tristan’s touch—by the stark contrast of his affection against the dark, brooding butler. What surprises me most is that Mortimer doesn’t flinch, doesn’t recoil or shudder at the pressure of Tristan’s hand. I imagine that Tristan’s strength would splinter Mortimer’s shoulder like dry wood, and yet the older man remains as still and unyielding as ever. There’s no shock, no visible reaction as one might expect from someone who isn’t accustomed to such familiarity. In fact, Mortimer’s posture remains unchanged—implacable, like stone.
I think back to the moment when he effortlessly lifted my suitcase upon my arrival, his gaunt frame showing none of the strength I now realize he possesses. Stronger than I gave him credit for. Stronger than his appearance lets on. He carries his power like a secret, one carefully hidden beneath his quiet, spectral demeanor, often concealed in the dark.
“Amara, do you want to go on Saturday?” Gisella asks, her palm propping up her jaw as her dark eyes sparkle in the light of the flame. I shift my gaze over to her, noticing her words have captured Tristan’s attention as well. “You know, the guy from Pearlridge,” she adds, as if there was anyone else. “I want to know if he’s as good as he looks.”
I’m grateful for the dim lighting, and the scarlet color of my blouse, or it might have been more obvious that my face was flushed, heat growing in my cheeks.
“I haven’t really thought about it,” I say, suddenly finding myself unable to make eye contact with anyone.
“What’s Saturday?” Tristan asks. I don’t want to look at him. Does his tone indicate jealousy? A smile desperately wants to surface on my face, but I refuse to allow it. I doubt it’s jealousy. Why would it be?
Gisella picks up a roasted green bean with her chopsticks.“Oh, this cute Hawaiian boy was flirting with Amara at the mall today.”
“He wasn’tflirting,” I interrupt.
“Yes, he was!” Gisella shoots back with a giggle.
I desperately want to crawl under the floorboards so my heartbeat can eventually drive her into madness.Whatis she thinking?
“Well, Miss Amara is very beautiful,” Tristan says, drawing my attention to him. “I don’t doubt she captivated the attention of many.”
“No, I didn’t. I didn’t do anything.” I don’t want him to think I am out flirting with every man I see. I thought I was finally making progress—he even annotated a collection for me. Why am I feeling so defensive?
“I didn’t say you did.” He smiles innocently, but there’s something beneath his words. I just know it. In the glint ofhis eyes... I just can’t put my finger on it, but it feels like an accusation.
There’s no way he could know what happened between me and his brother.
Now, this man from the mall.
And yet, I know I can’t be mistaken in hearing a slight emphasis over the words‘captivated the attention of many.’
Why would he saymanyif he didn’t know? Surely, he’s trying to hint he thinks I’m a slut who was seduced by his brother.
“Well, it’s nothing,” I say, feeling overwhelmed. I put my fork down as I push away from the table.
I feel myself spiraling. I know my thoughts aren’t logical, but my anxiety has been pricked into overdrive.
“Are you upset?” Tristan asks as he sets down his own fork. He stands as I do, but I don’t look at him, instead excusing myself from the table.
I need air.
Thirty-Two
Ifind myself standing on the cold stone steps just outside the kitchen door, the chill of the night air biting at my skin. The wind sweeps across me like an invisible hand, tugging at my hair and whipping it into a wild frenzy. The world around me feels oddly still, save for the rustle of leaves high in the towering trees. The moon, pale and distant, casts long, twisted shadows from the skeletal branches, as though the very forest is alive and watching me where I stand.
