Page 43 of Wicked Beasts
Ugh, Tucker.
“Don’t remind me,” I mutter, scrunching my nose in distaste.
“Kehau! Come here!” a woman’s voice calls from a distance, and Kehau wrinkles her nose in exaggerated resignation.
“Well, Mother calls.” She shoots a teasing glance at Gisella before stepping forward to wrap her in a hug. “I’m Kehau, and it was nice to meet you,” she says warmly.
“Gisella!” Gisella squeals in response, arms wrapping tightly around Kehau in a brief, delighted embrace.
Kehau turns to me, pulling me into a quick hug as well, her loose, golden-brown hair brushing my cheek. We exchange our goodbyes, and she slips away, her laughter fading as she melts back into the crowd.
Gisella gives me a wide grin as she clasps her hands together. “Now, let’s grab some drinks and find that man before the live music starts." Her voice is light, but there’s a glint of excitement in her eyes—one I can’t help but share, despite myself.
The music drifting from the radio fills the space around me, its rhythm stirring something deep inside, as if the notes are pulling at a part of me that’s been lying dormant. But it’s when my eyes finally settle on him—that handsome stranger standing across the way—that the sensation sharpens. A flutter in my chest, like the first breath of air after being submerged too long. Something shifts, unsettling yet captivating, as if the night itself has just tilted, and I’m falling into it.
Thirty-Seven
Gisella and I navigate through the beer garden, drinks in hand, when he strides toward us, his presence confident and assured. His greeting is warm, his voice cutting through the chatter of the crowd with ease. Without hesitation, he pulls us both into a hug, planting a soft kiss on each of our cheeks. It’s a customary gesture here among locals, one I was raised with, even if I’ve never quite warmed to being touched by others. Still, I can’t help but feel the weight of his touch linger on my cheek. My fingers press against my skin, brushing against the ghost of his lips as I slowly sip my drink.
He introduces himself then, his voice deep and smooth, carrying the weight of experience in every word. "Ikaika Kahale," he says with a charming smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes yet still holds a warmth that invites curiosity and temptation. His name is as strong as his voice and presence. “Singer, songwriter,surfer.”
The last part doesn’t surprise me. So many men and women are surfers in Hawai’i. So many of them love the beach. The ocean is their kingdom, and they’re royalty of the waves. But something about the way he says it—the casualness, the confidence—suggests he’s more than just another one of them.It’s something in the way he carries himself, like the ocean’s mysteries have shaped him, perhaps even consumed him.
There goes my imagination. Where was that when I was trying to write?
“South shore waves or north?” I ask, arching an eyebrow, a playful challenge in my tone.
His smile broadens into a grin, pulling into his cheeks as it nearly reaches his eyes.
“North, of course,” he replies, his voice certain, as though the question itself is almost beneath him. There’s a flicker of amusement in his green eyes, the kind that makes me wonder if he’s a little offended I even had to ask, as if the answer should have been obvious from the start. “I’m really glad you could make it. I was looking forward to seeing you again.”
His words hang in the air between us, sweet and genuine, as Gisella giggles beside me. I quickly raise my cup to my lips, hoping the movement hides the flush creeping up my neck and the smirk trying to surface on my face. My heart flutters for a moment, caught between the warmth of his smile and the sudden, uncomfortable heat spreading through me. I try to mask the embarrassment, but it lingers, the scarlet color staining my cheeks.
Before I can allow myself to settle into the moment, before I can let myself savor the attention he seems so eager to offer, other women converge around us. They latch on to his every word, their laughter high-pitched and eager, their eyes filled with flirtation as they bask in the light of his presence. I glance at Gisella, who’s watching with a knowing smirk, then roll my eyes in silent resignation. With a small sigh, I step back from the growing crowd, slipping away from the women who’ve quickly taken my place. I’m not phased, though, or surprised.
“Well, he is the singer,” Gisella says, voicing the thought that’s already running through my head, her gaze lingering onthe cluster of women hanging on to every word he says as she casually swirls her beer. “And cute.”
“Not that cute,” I reply, wiping the lingering trace of his kiss from my cheek with the back of my hand. “People always pretend to be different on the surface, don’t they?”
“Honestly, I have zero interest in getting back out there,” Gisella says, her fingers absently tracing the charm on her necklace. Then, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, she jabs her elbow into my side.
I flinch and rub the ache growing beneath my rib cage. “Hey?—”
She clears her throat dramatically, her gaze flicking toward Ikaika as he approaches, a subtle cue for me to shift my attention.
“Sorry about that,” he says, running a hand through his fluffy brown hair, an embarrassed laugh escaping his lips, as though the attention still catches him off guard. “They always do that.”
“Your little fan club?” I ask, my tone teasing.
His grin shifts, turning darker, more playful. “You’re not jealous, are you?”
“Hardly,” I reply, forcing a casualness I don't quite feel. My gaze shifts back toward the crowd of women, now scattered like leaves in the wind. But then, from the corner of my eye, something halts me—a figure standing at the edge of the crowd, barely noticeable at first. I narrow my eyes, blinking once, twice, wondering if my mind is simply playing tricks on me.
Is that...?
A pulse of recognition hits me, but it’s not the sort of recognition I can easily place. His presence pulls at me, an invisible force drawing my attention. His eyes, dark and intense, lock onto mine with a primal desire I can feel deep in my core from across the lot. They’re sharp, like shards of obsidian, gleaming with a mixture of something sensual and haunting.
Dr. Shadow?The name comes unbidden, a whisper in my mind, but it feels both impossible and inevitable at once.
