Page 73 of Wicked Beasts
Part of me believes he’s looking out for me in his own way, offering a silent, steady protection. There’s a gruffness to him, a roughness in his movements that gives him the air of someone hardened by life. Yet, beneath it all, there’s something almost fatherly about him, a quiet shield against the world, only protecting those who he feels might deserve it.
Of course, it could all just be my imagination—a wishful thought in a world that feels increasingly unreal. If that’s the case, I’d rather live in my own head, where things make sense to me, however fleetingly.
The brilliant, vibrant wings of a blue butterfly flutter nearby, catching my attention with their delicate, almost ethereal beauty. I watch, mesmerized, as it hovers for a moment before landing softly on the rose bush, its wings trembling slightly in the still air. Each delicate beat of its wings seems deliberate, steady, time itself slowing to appreciate this transient moment. Its thin legs rest gently on a large, blooming rose, its petals a rich, blood red, bright against the green leaves and shadows.
Slowly, the butterfly rises from the rose, its vibrant blue wings rustling in the air as it sways in the breeze, drifting toward me. It moves with a quiet elegance, graceful and fluid, like a fleeting dream, its wings pulsing gently with each beat, as though syncing to the rhythm of my heart.
I extend my hand, careful not to startle it, hoping it will trust me enough to land on my finger. I feel foolish, like a child trying to form a connection with something so delicate and otherworldly. Yet, despite the silliness of the moment, a part of me clings to that sense of wonder, unwilling to let go of themagic it brings. I want it to trust me, to land just for a second, to remind me there’s still something pure and alive in this place.
I hold my breath as it drifts closer, its delicate legs barely brushing my skin. In a heartbeat, it falters, its wings folding as it drops to the ground before me. The vibrant blue fades, the color bleeding into the soil beneath it as shadows stretch across the garden and the sun disappears behind a passing cloud. A cold chill sweeps through me, and I rise quickly, a sense of unease tightening in my chest.
It’s not safe.
Gisella’s warning replays in my head again and again. I can still hear the fear in her voice and see the terror in her large eyes. Her vibrancy seemed to have faded too in her final days before she left, and now, as I look down at the dead butterfly, I wonder if perhaps I, too, have overstayed my welcome here.
I was never needed, not really. Not truly.
For what purpose am I even still here?
Sixty-Five
These days, the manor feels even more sinister. Without Tristan’s gentle presence or Gisella’s innocent laughter, the emboldened darkness presses in from every corner. The shadows in my room seem to stretch, twisting like living brambles, their dark tendrils creeping across the peeling wallpaper as if they’re reaching for something—forsomeone.
My mind drifts back to the cozy beach house I imagined Tristan living in, with its whitewashed walls softened by the wear of salt and sun, the paint peeling as nature begins to reclaim it. The rhythmic crash of waves against the shore would be his constant companion, a soothing backdrop to moments of peace away from books and experiments. The sunlight would spill through wide-open windows, casting a golden warmth across the room and leaving a trail of dancing light on the hardwood floors. The air would be thick with the scent of saltwater and tropical fruits, a far cry from the musty smell of old books and decay. Scattered around the beach house could be traces of the ocean: seashells, bits of driftwood, and the fine sand that always seems to find its way inside. Outside, a hammock would hang lazily between two palm trees, a few surfboardsleaning casually against the walls, waiting for him to seize the next wave.
Instead of the tranquil, sunlit beach house I pictured in my mind, this oppressive manor looms before me, steeped in darkness. It’s guarded by bare, skeletal trees whose twisted branches claw at the sky, the winding road that leads to it stretching endlessly to wrought-iron gates like a forgotten path far removed from civilization.
When I try to think about my life before coming here, it feels gray and distant—as if the person I was before wasn’t trulyme. Even in the fog and gloom of my current life, I feel an undeniable sense of coming into myself that seems at odds with my simultaneous intellectual certainty I don’t belong here.
Or perhaps I do.
I simply cannot decide.
Shifting uneasily on my bed, I turn my gaze toward the rose, now drooping in its slender vase. The once-vibrant petals have curled and blackened at the edges, a grim reminder of its decay, and a few fallen petals lie scattered on the writing desk. I reach out to caress the delicate flower, my fingers hovering for a moment before I pull away, as if I fear touching it will cause it to wither faster.
A deep ache settles in my chest.
I miss home.
I miss my father.
Yet somehow, the vividness of moments here eclipse the details of that life. The crystalline clarity in Tristan’s honest eyes and the orgasmic power of connection with Dr. Shadow—they bind me to this place.
With a soft sigh, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and reach over to slip on the worn leather boots sitting nearby. It’s cold against my bare skin, sending a quick chill through my body. I grab my jacket and shrug it on before quietly slipping outof the manor and into the night. The shadows of the trees stretch long in the moonlight as I make my way toward the dense forest.
My feet hesitate, echoing my heart’s silent attempt to keep me anchored to the house and away from the forest as I slowly trudge toward it. The cool air presses against me as I walk through the garden, the only light coming from the distant moon in a cloudless sky high above.
I scan the scenery as I enter the trees. I still can’t determine if I’ve ever truly walked here before. Was it a dream? A vision? Sometimes, I wonder if I sleepwalked into a fevered nightmare. Even now, there are moments I can’t tell if I’m fully awake or still trapped in some half-formed dream.
The path ahead is foreign, winding through towering trees and thick underbrush that swallow any trace of light. I tug my jacket tighter around my body as the shadows stretch and twist, growing longer with each step I take. The uneven ground beneath me seems like a long-forsaken path, and the occasional snap of a branch or rustle of leaves sends a cold shiver creeping up my spine. The thick silence is broken only by sounds of the forest and my own breath.
Still, I continue, compelled as though the distant call of the ocean is guiding me.
Now that I listen, I’m struck by the absence of animal sounds. Not a single birdsong dares challenge the silence.
Though I live in what many consider paradise, I haven’t visited the beach in years. The sand always feels too harsh against my skin, the waves too wild and unpredictable. Yet tonight, I walk toward it despite the unease that clings to me. I’m not quite sure what I hope to find. I don’t expect answers. Perhaps I seek closeness. Tristan loved the beach.
The overgrown trail clears slightly as the damp earth turns to pale sand. I wonder how often he walked this path. I could see it in his eyes. There was a sparkle in those hazel hues, his skin withthat newly bronzed glow after being kissed by the sun. In a way, he was his own sun, endlessly pursuing a brighter future despite the shadows surrounding him. The manor is so much darker without him.
