Page 57 of Wicked Beasts
“I feel like you’re trying to change the subject.”
“I’m trying to learn something about your world,” he says. “Teach me something.”
“Teachyou?” I laugh. Just the notion of it is ridiculous. “You with your biochemistry and sciences. What could I possibly teachyou?”
“There’s more to life than that,” he says. “I fear it’s made me rigid. But you? So full of your compassion and care. I believe there’s a lot you could teach me.” He studies my expression. “Iknow you care for me, but I don’t know why. I don’t think I’ve given you much of a reason, and yet…”
“I don’t need areasonto care about a person. I just do.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
He smiles, and this one doesn’t feel so heavy.
“You say you don’t understand why I care, and yet you won’t tell me what’s wrong. Are you just private and don’t want to share, or are you trying to protect me? Because the latter would suggest you care forme.”
He stares at me for a moment, and I think maybe I’ve crossed a line, stepped over a boundary. But it’s too late for me to retract it. Instead, he twists his wrist from my grasp, I hadn’t realized I’d been hanging onto him this whole time, and to my surprise, he takes my hand in his.
“Both,” he says finally, his thumb caressing the back of my hand. “It’s both. But maybe it’s time I stop pushing people away.” He inhales sharply again as he glances toward the east wing of the manor. “Come with me. There’s something I want to show you.”
My stomach twists into a knot.
Fifty
My heart skips a beat as his free hand moves toward the handle. The east wing has always been off-limits, and a shiver brushes up the back of my neck. My gaze flickers to the stairway beside me, thoughts of the portrait room creeping in—of the strange painting of Dr. Shadow that replaced Tristan’s haunts my memory. I snap my attention back to Tristan, my breath catching in my throat as he slowly opens the door.
The private study we enter is thick with the scents of age and neglect. A mixture of old paper, dust, and something sharper—an unmistakable tang of iron—lingers. It reminds me of blood. The walls are lined with towering shelves, but the clutter is not of books; instead, medical instruments—worn scalpels, rusted syringes, glass beakers filled with faint traces of forgotten liquids—are haphazardly arranged, as if abandoned mid-use. Some of the tools gleam dully in the dim sunlight that filters in through heavy curtains, their edges sharp and cold, while others are coated in a fine layer of dust, forgotten by time and care.
On one table, a microscope sits beside a half-open leather-bound notebook, its pages yellowed and curled at the edges, filled with illegible scrawls in ink that has long-since begun tofade. The air is thick with the oppressive stillness of a place that hasn’t been touched in years, save for the occasional shuffle of feet or the faint scrape of metal against wood. The metallic scent—I am now certain it’s blood—lingers in the corners, enveloping the room in an unsettling embrace.
A lone chair sits in front of a desk cluttered with diagrams of the human body, their paper edges curling and fragile. The walls are covered in faint stains, as if the room has witnessed things best left unspoken. The dust clings to everything, settling over the equipment like a heavy shroud, but the iron smell remains, gnawing at the back of the throat, a reminder that this place has seen far too much.
“Do you remember my email?” he asks, letting go of my hand with a deliberate, almost hesitant motion.
I shrug and cross my arms over my chest, feeling suddenly small and overwhelmed. “I haven’t touched your email since?—”
“The one you texted me about,” he interrupts, his voice soft but firm. He lingers near the desk, his eyes scanning the scattered diagrams, his fingers brushing over the papers without much thought. “The PET scan.”
I nod, my throat tight with unease. I don’t speak—not because I’m not curious, but because I’m afraid my words will drive him further away, make him retreat behind that wall he’s been building since before we met.
“It’s an imaging test of the brain,” he explains, his voice flat, like he’s telling me something he’s said a thousand times. “It shows how the tissues are working and uses a tracer—a radioactive substance—to look for disease and injury.”
“What about it?” I ask, already dreading the answer.
“Something’s wrong with me,” he mutters, rifling through the papers with a restless energy. “I’ve been trying to figure outwhatit is. If I can fix it…if I can reverse it…”
“Reverse it?”
“Dr. Whitfield—my professor who just left—has been coming by to help me, but…” Tristan lets the papers fall back onto the desk in frustration. He turns to face me, leaning against the desk, as if the weight of his thoughts is too much for him. His hands grip the edge, knuckles white, as he looks at me with a look bordering on defeat. “It’s hopeless.”
My brows furrow as I think about the email and the books…all those biochemistry books. What did he say?
I feel a dull ache in my chest as I try to piece things together—the email, the books, the scattered notes. Then it clicks, and I murmur to myself, “Hormonal influence on behavior…”
“Hm?” He looks up at me, eyebrows drawn, as if surprised I caught on.
“There’s no project, is there?”
