Page 8 of Wicked Beasts
Is this how he intends to interact with me? My heart sinks as I force myself up from my seat and readjust the strap of my bag over my shoulder, slipping my phone back into my pocket. I wonder if I made him uncomfortable when I first arrived.
Did I say something wrong?
Did I offend him in some way?
My mind reels with the possibilities as I trudge to the library alone. Our exchange had been so brief, I struggle to come up with an explanation as I push open the heavy library door. I am instantly met with the familiar scents of old parchment andpolished wood. They ease my nerves regarding Tristan, if ever so slightly.
As I consider, I wonder if perhaps his studies and research keep him so busy, he simply cannot meet with me. Although disappointed at the lack of personal interaction, I can perhaps appreciate a desire to save time.
I fish my phone back out of my pocket to open his text message thread.
Biochemistry.
I put my bag on the chaise lounge and start scanning the shelves. I run my fingers along the spines of countless volumes, each one a silent keeper of knowledge I’ll never learn. Many titles are faded, their words barely legible, while others snag my attention with their dark bindings, gleaming with a strange allure. I’ve always loved books. There’s something extraordinary about the way lines, squiggles, symbols on a page translate to worlds of meaning when we read, its own brand of magic. I trace the elaborate details adorning the shelves as I wander between the bookcases, wondering about the artist and the stories they wanted to tell.
Everything shelved in the library, I assume, was passed down through generations, and the obvious age of the books has me wondering how long the manor has been in his family. My gaze lingers on a particularly imposing tome, its cover cracked and embossed with symbols that seem to shimmer with an otherworldly charm.
I drift through the narrow aisles, my fingertips continuing to graze the cool, rough bookshelves. The sunlight slipping between the cracks in the drapes has my shadow dancing around me. A soft creak echoes in the silence, and I glance around, half-expecting to find a veiled presence lurking somewhere behind me, but there’s never anything there.
Hours slip away as I gather what I need to complete Tristan’s request. I pull them from their dust-laden shelves, sifting through the yellowed pages, feeling the weight of scientific knowledge pressing against my fingertips as I search for the particular word.
Biochemistry.
I’ve never been very good with science. I had to look up the meaning on my phone just to knowwhatexactly I was looking for, but I’ll never admit that to him.
I glance at the impressive fortress of books I’ve assembled, a mixture of excitement and uncertainty fluttering in my chest. I hope he’ll be pleased with me. It’s a childish thought, I know, but I can’t quite shake it. Biting my bottom lip, I ponder how I plan to transport them all. I could make the trip to his study with one or two volumes at a time, but that would stretch the seemingly small task into an eternity.
Stepping out of the library, I survey the empty hallway. The silence feels heavy, pressing in on me as I glance toward the east wing, subconsciously led by my intrigue. After another quick look around for the certainty I am alone, I skip across the vast foyer and approach the imposing door. With a tentative hand, I jiggle the handle, hoping for a way in.
“What are you doing?” Mrs. Wong's voice slices through the air, sharp and accusatory, startling me as I instinctively retract my hand from the cold, locked doorknob.
“Oh, I’m looking for a cart or something,” I stammer, my gaze darting toward the library. “Tristan?—”
“Mr. Black,” she interjects immediately.
“Right.Mr. Blackwanted me to get him books on biochemistry from the library. I was looking for something I could use to transport them to his study.”
“This is part of the east wing, Miss Amara,” Mrs. Wong says as she grabs the crook of my elbow and yanks me from thelocked door. “You need to keep your distance from this side of the estate.”
“I didn’t mean any harm,” I start to say in my defense.
“No one ever does, do they?” she replies, her voice low and laden with a troubling weight, as if she knows far more than she lets on. I furrow my brows, curious what she means.
No one ever does?
Mrs. Wong leaves me momentarily before reemerging from the shadows of a nearby closet, pushing a creaking cart. “Stay out of the east wing,” she scolds in warning, her tone sharp and unyielding. The reprimand is quick to strike me, and I can’t help but feel as if I’m being chastised excessively.Why does everyone act like I’m a child here?I take a breath as I grab the cart and peer back over my shoulder at the locked door.
While the warnings and rules are undoubtedly supposed to deter my interest in the east wing, they’ve only stoked my curiosity, and my interest now blazes with fury.
I dump all of the heavy books—it must be nearly seventy in all—onto the cart and roll it carefully towards Tristan’s study. As I get closer, I feel my heart beat faster, and I know it’s in anticipation of seeing him again, which is wholly stupid.
What if I didn’t find all the books he was looking for? What if I brought too many?
“Calm down,” I chide myself. “Be professional.”
I take a deep breath and straighten my blouse before knocking gently on the study door. When no one answers, I carefully unlatch the door and lean my head in.
“Mr. Black,” I call. While the study is large, there aren’t any particularly obvious hiding spots, and I realize the room is empty. I try to ignore the disappointment in my stomach as I begin stacking and organizing the books on one of the tables.
