Page 48 of Wicked Beasts
A chill runs down my spine, and my heart lurches, but I don’t ask who—I already know the answer.
She’s told me before, about her boyfriend, about the tragic way he died. The memory of it stabs at me, and my stomach churns with an unsettling mix of sorrow and fear. My arms instinctively tighten around her, pulling her closer as I whisper, my voice soft, almost broken: “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you had to see that.”
I was sorry. Iamsorry.
But who murdered him? Whose hands are stained red?
Forty-Two
Istay with Gisella for hours, the weight of her grief pressing on both of us. I can’t imagine how she feels, to wake up and see that just outside her window.
Shadows flicker across the walls, dark figures moving just beyond the glass, but I don’t look outside. Not because I don’t want to, but because she won’t let me. Their bodies are obscured by the heavy drapes, and I only notice the movements when they interrupt the sunlight trying to peek into the room. Gisella clings to me, her need for comfort far outweighing my curiosity. I want to look, I want to see what they’re doing. I want to see who it is. Someone was murdered on the property as we slept. The growing mystery of this place gnaws at my core.
I can hear voices, but none are distinguishable enough for me to understand what they’re saying. It only sounds like mumbling, obscured by the stone and glass keeping us safe in this house. I want to know, I want to hear, but each time I try to pull away to catch a glance, to hear something over the sounds of her quiet sobs, her grip tightens, her silent plea more than enough to keep me by her side.
“Please don't leave me,” she whispers, her voice fragile, a tremor in every word as I shift on the bed. She grabs my arm asthough she expects me to vanish, her hands digging harshly into my skin. She’s surprisingly strong for being so small.
“I'm not going anywhere,” I say softly, my fingers brushing through her bleach blonde hair, the motion slow and steady as I try to soothe her. My curiosity tugs at me, but I stay rooted to the spot. Gisella is nestled against me, her warmth anchoring as her fingers nervously twist the charm of her necklace. One hand grips my arm, never loosening, while the other fumbles with the delicate piece, her anxiety evident in the quiet of the room.
I settle into the softness of Gisella’s bed, my fingers still threading through her hair as I try to untangle my jumble of thoughts as we lay there for a moment longer. The events of the day swirl around me: the arousing dream that clings to my skin like a fog, the abrupt interruption by Mrs. Wong, and that unsettling portrait of Dr. Shadow where Tristan’s once hung. My brow furrows slightly. Why change the portrait? Where was the original? Did it have something to do with Tristan’s condition? The idea sits heavy in my chest—is he truly as sick as they make it seem? Could his illness be more than just physical? He seems such an incredible picture of health, though I suppose not all illnesses can be seen.
The questions swirl in my mind, all unanswered.
Worse one of it all: how is it Dr. Shadow’s fault? That one, I’m not sure I want to know the answer to.
“Amara?” Gisella’s voice is soft yet sudden, drawing me from my spiraling thoughts. I didn’t even know she was still awake, her sobs had gotten so quiet. She lifts her head slightly to meet my gaze, her watery red eyes filled with concern. “Are you alright?”
I blink, pushing the knot of worry from my mind and offering her a quick, forced smile as my fingers fall from her tangled locks. “Yeah, why?” I ask, hoping my voice doesn’t betray the confusion swirling in my head.
“Your heart started beating really fast,” she says, her voice still quiet, a note of concern weaving through her words.
So it’s not my voice that gives me away, but my heart.
“It’s just been a long morning,” I say, trying to steady myself as I shift to sit beside her. It’s not a complete lie, but it's not the whole truth either. This has been more than just a long morning—it's been a series of moments that have dragged us both into a darker place. I glance at her, trying to steer the conversation away from my own worries. “How are you feeling?” I brush a few damp strands of hair from her face, the sticky remnants of tears still clinging to her skin. Her cheeks are pink and blotchy, but the raw edge of her distress seems to have settled just slightly.
Her eyes flicker away as she sits up straighter. “I don’t know if I can stay here,” she admits in a barely audible voice, like a secret she shouldn’t be saying out loud. “I figured I could eventually get used to the house, butthis?” She gestures toward the window without looking, avoiding what she had seen beyond the glass. “I left home because I was constantly reminded of… I needed this job because… I just don’t think I can do it anymore.” Her words tumble out in halting fragments, her uncertainty raw and unfiltered. “That’s the only thing I know. I can’t work here for much longer.”
I want to tell her it will be alright, that she’ll get used to this and it will all blow over, but I can’t. I can’t pretend a violent death—a life snuffed out so suddenly—doesn’t carry weight. I can’t tell her everything will be fine when it’s clear the world around us is anything but. I can’t minimize her pain, the deep, unsettled feeling she’s trying to make sense of.
I place a hand on her shoulder, offering what little comfort I can. “I understand,” I say quietly, my voice softer than I intended. “You don’t have to stay if it’s too much, but I admit I don’t want you to leave me.”
She grips my hands suddenly, her fingers ice to the touch.
“You shouldn’t stay either, Amara. It’s not safe. It’s not safe.”
It’s not safe.
Forty-Three
Gisella’s words linger in my chest, reverberating with a heaviness I can’t shake long after I leave her room. I wait until I’m sure she’s fallen asleep, her breathing steady and slow, before I gently slip off the bed, careful not to disturb her. I make my way back to my own room, the silence of the manor almost suffocating, broken only by the soft, constant hum of the central air vent. The stillness presses in around me, but it’s a welcome escape from the weight of the emotions in the air.
I shut my door and press my back against it, releasing the breath I held as I tiptoed from her bedroom to mine.
It’s not safe.
I know I haven’t felt safe in a while. Not really, at least.
My mind replays this morning's events on a loop, every fragment sharp and insistent as I peel myself away from the door and move toward my writing desk. The silence in the room is almost suffocating as I reach for my laptop. Beneath it, half-hidden, lies the letter I took from the library weeks ago, the forgotten relic of the house now somehow feeling far less forgotten than I had hoped.
