Page 46 of Wicked Beasts
The question lingers, unanswered, as a shiver of unease creeps down my spine. My body, still heavy with slumber and overcome by the betrayal of my dream last night, moves sluggishly, my feet tangled in the sheets. I finally yank them free, stumbling clumsily out of bed, my legs unsteady, and catch myself against the cool doorknob. The noise outside continues, almost rhythmic now, an insistent tapping that gnaws at my nerves, urging me to act.
It’s Mrs. Wong.
“Good morning, Miss Amara,” she says in her usual flat tone, her words devoid of warmth. Her Chinese accent seems a bit more obvious this morning, and I suddenly get the unsettling feeling in my gut that I'm in trouble. “Please come with me.” Without waiting for any acknowledgment or suggesting I get dressed, she turns on her heels, her movements swift andpurposeful, and starts toward the stairs. The air feels suddenly colder, the silence hanging heavily in her wake.
I never go upstairs. At least, notanymore.
The nagging feeling in my chest grows stronger, a mix of unease and reluctant curiosity. I want to follow, my feet itching to move, but an invisible force holds me back. I shouldn’t. I can’t. I’m not supposed to, not on that side of the manor.
While I manage to make my way out of my bedroom and through the foyer, the staircase seems to stretch upwards like a dark, silent invitation, its shadows deep and all-consuming. A thousand warnings flicker through my mind as my hand reaches for the railing. I can’t help but wonder where she’s leading me and why. Why now?
A shiver runs down my spine as I stand rooted at the foot of the stairs, watching her disappear up and around the left corner. For a moment, the silence presses in, as though the manor itself is holding its breath, waiting for me to make a choice I can never take back.
I finally begin the ascent, and it feels like every creak of the wood beneath my weight is warning me to turn around and retreat to my bedroom.
Mrs. Wong leads me down the hallway to a room tucked into the far corner on the left. The air grows colder the closer we get, a chill prickling the back of my neck as I meet Mortimer’s gaze, standing near the door. His figure is almost swallowed by the shadows, his body an unsettling blur in the half-light, as though the darkness refuses to let go of him. Despite the daylight streaming through the distant windows, the shadows cling to him like a second skin.
The room is all too familiar—it's the same one with the portrait of Tristan Black hanging above the mantle. I haven’t set foot on the second floor since that night, since I read the inscription. Since something in the darkness blew out the light.My heart picks up pace as a new fear rises in me. Am I in trouble? Do they know I’ve been here before?
The door opens on a groan, the hinges protesting as if they, too, are reluctant to allow me entry. Inside, the room is bathed in soft, golden light from the windows, the heavy drapes tied back with vintage ropes, revealing a flood of daylight. The contrast between the brightness and the oppressive weight of the shadows outside feels wrong, unnatural.
I turn my attention to the portrait, expecting to see Tristan’s face looming large above the mantle, but those stern, dark eyes piercing through the frame as if they could reach into me are…not his. The slight curve of his mouth, seductive and dangerous, darkened by his scruffy jaw. There’s something more primal about this version, something untamed that pulls at something deep inside me. But as I study the painting more closely, my stomach sinks.
This isn’t Tristan.
It’sDr. Shadow.
My eyes narrow, my brows furrowing in confusion as I take a step closer, scrutinizing the painting before me. I drag my finger gently across the bottom of the frame. The inscription is the same.
“May this serve as a reminder for the beast you truly are within.”
It feels like a cruel joke as my face grows hot.
I look up at the portrait, painted in the same style as Tristan’s, paint chipping, cracked lines, and faded strokes. It looks ancient, far older than Tristan or Dr. Shadow. With a sharp inhale, I turn around. The two of them stand like silent sentinels at the door.
My tongue feels dry in my mouth, and I force a swallow.
“I don’t understand,” I say finally. My voice is small. It sounds weak, but the chill on the back of my neck is biting,creeping further across my skin, sending a deep shiver down my spine.
“I don’t expect you to,” Mrs. Wong says, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “In fact, I’d be very surprised if youdidunderstand.”
“Did you take something from the library, Miss Amara?” Mortimer asks, and I shift my gaze, frowning at his words.
DidI take something from the library? I wonder.
The letter.
My eyes widen as it dawns on me, and my blood runs cold. I haven’t thought about the letter since I found it. Is it still under my laptop?
That has to be what he means, and yet I can’t force myself to say it out loud. I can’t force myself to admit it in case it could be something else. My tongue is dry, feeling heavy and thick in my mouth. I clench my jaw, swallowing a gulp.
“I mean, I takebooksfrom there all the time, but Tristan?—”
“Mr. Black?—”
I inhale sharply at Mortimer’s correction, sucking air in through my teeth. “Mr. Blacksaid I could. It is alibrary—where things are meant to be?—”
“Borrowed,” Mrs. Wong says.
