Page 61 of Wicked Beasts
I shrug in mock-nonchalance, trying to mask the discomfort twisting in my chest. “It’s not my house.”
“Alright then.” Tristan’s voice is light, almost too casual, as he clasps his strong hands together. “I’ll see you both at dinner.” He turns and ascends the stairs, his hands finding his pockets before I can even think to protest.
My mind is reeling.
I glance toward Mortimer, hoping for some kind of support, but he bows out just as easily, disappearing into the shadows of the house, leaving me standing there with Ikaika.
I stare at him for a moment, unease creeping up my spine like cold fingers. The dread that settles in my stomach is like a heavy weight anchoring me in the foyer.
“So you work—here?” he asks, his gaze drifting to the chandelier overhead. He sounds both amused and intrigued. I’m not sure what to make of it.
Entertaining Ikaika was not part of my plan for the evening, especially not after the kiss I just shared with Tristan in the east wing. A kiss that still had its grip around my neck. A kiss that didn’t last nearly long enough.
Fifty-Three
Today is not Wednesday.
We don’t normally eat together, and I’m not sure what to make of this occurrence. I was giddy and excited fortomorrow’sdinner with Tristan, a promise of something closer, something more intimate with him, but now, I have to get throughthisevening first.
I stand outside with my arms tightly crossed over my chest, the evening chill creeping up my sleeves. I watch Ikaika speak with Manu about the plants in the garden, his voice low and indistinct, blending with the murmurs of the night. The scene feels distant, unreal—like I’m a ghost, observing from the shadows of my own thoughts.
My gaze rises, drawn upward as an unseen force tugs at me. There, in the window,hestands—watching. His gaze, dark and predatory, is fixed on Ikaika, but then it shifts, and I feel the weight of it settle on me, as though he senses my every movement, as though he senses my stare. His eyes lock with mine, cold and knowing, a silent recognition passing between us.
Dr. Shadow tilts his head slightly, the motion deliberate, as if beckoning me to come up. He hasn’t visited my bedroom in days, and after what happened with Tristan, I suppose I’d preferto talk to him before he shows up in my room for another tryst. I glance at Manu, who had also been watching the window. Our eyes meet, and he gives a single, almost imperceptible nod, silently granting me permission to leave before redirecting his attention to Ikaika.
I inhale deeply and oblige. I tug open the door and drift through the manor, my steps soft against the hard floors, even as I glide up the stairs. As I reach the mezzanine, I pause, peering into the foyer below. The chandelier glimmers, its light scattering like shards of glass, reflecting and dancing across the polished floor. My eyes are drawn to the portrait room, and my thoughts shift to the painting of Dr. Shadow hanging over the mantle instead of Tristan. An uncomfortable knot tightens in my stomach.
He meets me at the polished wooden railing, his presence as imposing as ever. I rest my hands against the smooth surface, the coolness of the wood grounding me as he stands beside me, silent.
“Will you be joining us for dinner?” I ask, forcing my voice to stay steady, though the question feels heavier than it should. I try not to think of the nights Dr. Shadow spent in my bed, and I push the guilt back down where it belongs. I like Tristan, nothim.
Tristan cares for me. Dr. Shadow uses me.
I ignore the raw, primal pull I feel toward Dr. Shadow, choosing instead to focus on the shifting lights below, the chandelier's sparkling reflections and the way they glitter and dance like tiny fairies.
“Yes,” he responds coolly, his voice slicing through the quiet that settled between us. His hand moves to the railing beside mine. “Since Tristan won’t be.”
“Why not?” I frown, my gaze snapping toward him. “Where is he? He’s the one who invited him.”
His jaw tightens at the question, a muscle in his cheek flexing beneath the stubble. “He wasn’t feeling well,” he says sharply, the words punctuated with a bite that feels like a reprimand. “He needs his rest.”
“He seemed fine just a few minutes ago?—”
“He’ssick, remember?” His tone cuts through me like a blade, condescending and rude, leaving a sting in its wake. “Sometimes, he becomes…a bit delirious. Others misinterpret that as kind and overly friendly. That is not dearlittleTristan. My brother is dismissive and uninterested in others.” He gestures casually toward the table and chairs beside the window, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Sit.”
“But—”
“I will not tell you again.”
The frustration inside me flares, and before I can stop it, the words spill out. “Are you just preparing for him to die?” I snap. “Changing the portrait in the room and?—”
“You know nothing of which you speak.” His voice is low and final, the words hanging between us like a warning. “Now, what did he tell you?”
I remain standing as I cross my arms over my chest in defiance.“I’m not your little spy, Dr. Shadow.”
A challenging smirk slithers across his face as his eyes darken. “As a matter-of-fact, youare,” he says. “Do you really think Tristan hired you? Was he notsurprisedby your presence when he met you? Was he not confused as to why you were here? Did Mortimer not orchestrate the entire thing? Who do you think posted the job listing? Who do you think works for me? Tristan does notneedyou, Miss Rose. I do.”
His words hit me, and I feel the air leave my lungs. For a moment, I struggle to breathe as my body attempts to process this information. All this time, I thought Mortimer, Mrs. Wong,and Manu were working to protect Tristan, merely putting up with Dante’s existence. Could I have been so wrong?
