Page 71 of Wicked Beasts
Ifreeze, the weight of my words crashing into me like a freight train. My breath hitches, eyes widening in horror as I meet Dr. Shadow’s gaze. His grip on my hair tightens, painfully sharp, pulling me closer to him as the air around us shifts.
“No, I—” I stutter, my voice trembling with mortification and rising panic. “That’s not what I meant.” My words spill out in a frantic rush, but I can barely think, let alone explain. I try to push against his hold, but it’s unyielding. “Please, let me explain…”
But the words catch in my throat as I see the shift in him—the dark, dangerous glint in his eyes and the unsettling stillness that settles over his face. Fear, cold and suffocating, wraps around my heart, squeezing tighter with every passing second. What have I done? The realization crashes through me, and the blood drains from my face. How could I have been so careless? So reckless?
I had been lost in the moment, my mind drifting back to the kiss Tristan and I shared in the east wing—the forbidden, electric kiss that haunts me. But the east wing…the east wing, where Dr. Shadow had…disposed of him.
A wave of panic rises in my chest, and I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the tears that threaten to spill. The fear isn’t just for what I’ve said, but for what I knowhehas done. I’ll never fully understand the twisted history between the two brothers, but at this moment, all I know is, I’ve crossed a line, and I fear I may never be able to come back from it.
“You think of my brother when you’re with me?” His voice is low, laced with venom.
A cold wave of panic surges in my chest as I see the fury hardening in Dr. Shadow’s eyes, his jaw clenched tight, the muscle in his cheek twitching with barely restrained rage. My breath catches in my throat, and I shake my head frantically, as much as I can with his fingers still tangled in my hair, my desperation to make him understand flooding every part of me.
“No! No, it’s…it’s not like that at all,” I stammer, my voice weak and trembling, caught between fear and the desperate need to explain myself.
Instinctively, I place my hands on his chest, feeling the rapid, erratic beat of his heart beneath my palms, a stark contrast to the cold tension in the air. I try to steady myself, but the storm swirling between us only grows, the weight of my words sinking deeper with every beat of his heart beneath my hands.
A strangled gasp escapes my lips as he wrenches my head back, exposing the vulnerable column of my throat.
“Dr. Shadow, wait?—”
But my protests are swallowed by his mouth crashing against mine once more, hungry and relentless. He kisses me like a man possessed, staking his claim. Large hands roam my body greedily, squeezing and kneading, leaving marks in their wake.
I find myself responding despite my fears, my own needs warring with trepidation. As he lifts me onto the table, scattering dishes and utensils haphazardly, I know I should stop. Mortimer or Mrs. Wong could walk in at any moment, but the heatbuilding between my legs, the ache for his touch, keeps me rooted in place and locked in my desires.
“The only name you’ll remember is mine,” he growls against my lips, his hands making quick work of my dress as he slides the hem up my thighs.
Dr. Shadow tears open his own shirt, buttons flying everywhere, revealing the expanse of his chiseled torso. Calloused hands skim over my newly exposed legs, his fingers clawing at the tights that still bar him from my skin, leaving goosebumps across my body. He pulls down the front of my dress and takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking hard enough to border on pain, marking me as his. A broken moan spills from my lips as he lavishes attention on my sensitive breasts, the rough treatment sending jolts of pleasure straight to my core.
My back arches off the table, pressing myself further into his touch.One hand delves between my thighs, finding me soaked and ready, circling my clit through my panties and fishnet leggings with a teasing finger. My hips buck shamelessly against his hand.
“Please,” I whimper, too far gone to care about my dignity anymore. I reach for him, fumbling with his belt and zipper, desperate to free his straining erection.
I gasp as his large hand wraps around my throat, applying just enough pressure to make my pulse jump beneath his grip. My eyes flutter shut, a dizzying mix of fear and arousal coursing through my veins.
“What makes you think you deserve it?” he taunts.
Frustrated whimpers escape from my lips as I stare up at him pleadingly, grinding myself against his relentless fingers continuing their torturous assault between my thighs.
My nails rake down his chest as I beg him for more.
“Ruin me,” I whisper, my voice barely a breath as tears pool in my eyes from the pressure of his hand around my throat.
I want him to. I want him to take me to the edge and make me forget, to drown out everything but the heat between us. Perhaps it’s selfish, this desperate yearning for someone so dangerous and unpredictable. Perhaps I am nothing but a coward, unwilling to face the weight of reality. I have failed Tristan, and in that failure, I am consumed. I want to be consumed, to forget the tangled mystery of this place. I want to forget my failures as a writer. I want to forget Tristan’s goodness and innocence. I wanted to save him—to care for him and help him find the answers he desired. But I failed. The ghost of Tristan lingers in every corner of my mind, his memory clinging to me like a suffocating shadow.
I want to be free of it—free of the guilt that festers beneath my skin, the unrelenting ache of his absence. I want to lose myself in this moment, inhim, to be swallowed whole by the darkness that promises to erase everything else.
I want to forget.
“Make me forget.”
Sixty-Three
Iam consumed by his touch, each caress sending waves of heat coursing through me, like his hands are leaving an imprint on my very soul. His fingers tighten around me with a possessiveness that makes my heart race, his grip unyielding, yet still gentle in its own way, as though some part of him might love me. His lips trail over my skin, each kiss leaving a mark, a bruise that will linger long after he’s gone. The pressure of his mouth is both tender and commanding, like a silent claim that sends a shiver of thrilling and dangerous lust through my veins.
My mouth moves, but the voice that escapes me feels foreign and beyond my control. It’s softer, almost hypnotic, a melodic lilt that seems to reverberate in the air around us. The usual rasp of my voice is gone, replaced by a smoothness both alien and oddly familiar.
Dr. Shadow pauses for a moment, his thrusts slowing as his fingers tangle through the dull, straw-colored strands of my hair. His gaze locks on mine, but then he recoils, as if some unseen specter has drifted between us. A flash of fear and unease darkens his hazel eyes, mingling with a hint of something much worse—revulsion—twisting his features in a way I’ve never seen. His typical aloof confidence and desire momentarily vanish inwhat I can only describe as panic and disgust. It’s jarring, and mydesire instantly is instantly eclipsed by concern and unexpected shame.
