Page 39 of Wicked Beasts
The door opens behind me, and to my surprise, it isn’t Gisella or Tristan who steps into the night to join me.
It’s Manu.
He steps onto the landing and shuts the door behind me, the knob dwarfed by his hand. He doesn’t look at me once. Instead, his gaze is locked on the trees, unblinking, as if something beyond them demands his full attention. His shoulders are tense, and he doesn’t spare me even a glance.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” he says with a grunt, his voice low and rough, like gravel scraping against stone. I’m still not used to his voice. It’s much worse in the still of the night.
“I’m only stepping out for a minute,” I reply. I turn away from him and face the trees too, even though looking at themmakes me uneasy. Sometimes, it replays in my mind, watching Tristan wander into them. I fumble with the sleeves of my blouse before tightly crossing my arms over my chest. I can’t help but shiver, though I’m unsure whether it’s from the wind, the sight of the trees, or something else—something that seems to crawl beneath my skin.
“You should go.” His voice is low and steady, like the distant rumble of thunder.
I turn to face him, my body pivoting slowly, my feet shifting on the cold stone beneath me. My brows knit together in a frown, a flicker of confusion pulling at the corners of my lips as I tilt my head. “Go where?”
“With Gisella this weekend.” He still doesn’t look at me, his dark eyes remaining locked on the dark outline of the trees. It’s the same way I’ve seen him before, like those mornings in the kitchen when he buried himself in his crinkled newspaper, barely acknowledging my presence unless I spoke a word he didn’t like. Even then, it was only the briefest flicker of his gaze—a passing glance.
“Why?” The word slips from my lips before I can stop it, the question heavy with sudden annoyance. “To prove I don’t ‘fancy’ Tristan?”
A strange, almost imperceptible shift passes over him, and I catch the glimmer of a smirk pulling at the edges of his lips, hidden beneath the tangled mess of his wiry beard. It’s fleeting, but it’s there, curling like a tendril of smoke in the air. He scoffs, the sound dark and humorless, before his eyes finally flicker toward me. His gaze, cold and unreadable, lingers on mine for a beat too long.
For some reason, it’s not the same feeling I get in the mornings. In the sharp light of the kitchen, his presence unsettles me—too imposing, too close. But out here, standing with him in the shadow of the night, I should feel small,vulnerable. Shouldn’t I? The darkness should make him feel like a creature of the night who thrives in the absence of light. Yet, it doesn’t. I don’t feel afraid. Instead, there’s a strange sense of calm settling in my core.
Maybe it's the outdoors that changes everything. Maybe it’s because out here, among the greenery and the forest of trees, he seems more...relaxed. More in his element. Or maybe it’s something else.
He feels almost…fatherly.
The thought lingers for only a moment before he speaks, the words cutting through the cool night like a jagged shard of glass. “Do you always lie to yourself, girl?”
And just like that, the feeling vanishes. The moment crumbles to dust beneath the weight of his words.
Girl.
The word hits me like a slap, and for a split second, I feel the sting. My chest tightens, my breath catching in the sudden rush of irritation threatening to scorch my calm exterior. But I swallow it down, forcing myself not to react. By now, I’m certain he does it on purpose—he wants to bait me, to pull a reaction out of me. And yet, I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
I turn away quickly, my fingers brushing my hair as I tuck it behind my ear, trying to shake off the rising heat in my cheeks. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the salty tang of the ocean air drifting in from the distant shore. It teases my senses, soft and sweet, a reminder of the world beyond the estate, of something lighter. But the breeze isn’t enough to cool the sharp edge of his words.
If I let it, I could almost convince myself he's not being condescending, that his tone is just his way, not meant to provoke. I part my lips as I attempt to string together a sentence of words for my defense, but before I can manage, the door creaks open.
Manu doesn’t say anything, and I don’t turn around. The shifts of his shadow tells me he goes back inside when the door shuts. Then, I feel the soft pressure of hands against my arms, followed by the warmth of a small body pressing up behind me. It’s Gisella, and I can feel her cheek resting gently against my back, her small form curling around mine in an embrace.
“I’m so sorry if I upset you,” she murmurs, her voice soft with concern, her grip tightening around me, as if trying to hold me together. “I was just being stupid. I won’t make you go.”
As she loosens her grip, I take her small hand in mine as I turn around to face her. Her large eyes—so innocent, so trusting—stare up at me, brimming with her silent apology.
“You don’t have to apologize,” I say, my voice soft but steady. I know it’s not her fault. I can’t blame her for the way I feel. And yet, there’s a tightness in my chest. “I want to go.”
Her brows furrow slightly, and she looks at me, searching my face for the truth in my words. “Are you sure? I would never make you.”
The sincerity in her voice tugs at something deep inside me, and I can’t help but feel both touched and broken by it all. My overreaction was a result of my own frustrations and fears. It has nothing to do with Gisella, and it saddens me that she feels hurt. My resolve holds steady.
I am sure.
Thirty-Three
Ican't shake the lingering feeling of self-pity after that dinner on Wednesday. My reactions, so raw and uncontrolled, replay in my mind, each moment more dramatic and foolish than the last. It haunts me. Tristan, once again, retreats from me, and Mortimer takes over, texting me my duties each morning, as if to take over his role as my official ‘boss.’
I can't say I blame Tristan for the resurfacing of his distance, but at least I have the collection he gave me. A symbol, now, of his fleeting openness.
But embarrassment creeps over me like a cold fog, suffocating every thought and making my skin prickle with discomfort. In a strange way, I almost feel relieved by his withdrawal—grateful, even. It’s as if the space between us allows me to breathe again, to collect the fragments of myself I seemed to have spilled like a bag of marbles. What could I even say to him now?
