Page 80 of Wicked Beasts
But something’s wrong.
The saline should feel icy, spreading cold through his veins, but it doesn’t. The line isn’t dripping fast enough.
Tristan’s brows furrow as he checks the catheter, and his breath catches.
The tubing is cracked.
For a moment, he struggles with trying to adjust the line, but his grip is weaker than normal. The drugs are kicking in fast, slowing his reflexes, making him clumsy.
Dr. Shadow always seemed to be one step ahead of him, but not this time.
Tristan forces himself to his feet as he rips the catheter from his arm, barely registering the pain, and stumbles to the bathroom. His vision blurs, his body already heavy with sedation, but he forces himself forward. A cold plunge tub awaits him, one he often used for muscle recovery and to reduce inflammation. It was a tool he had used long before he ever met Cordelia, a failsafe Dr. Shadow would never suspect.
The IV wouldn’t cool his body temperature, but this will.
He steps in without hesitation, the shock of the cold knocking the air from his lungs as his body instinctively rebels against the sudden temperature drop.
Tristan lowers himself further, the cold water clawing at his skin, biting deep into muscle and bone. His breath escapes in jagged gasps, the drugs and cold working together to drag him down.
But then, his body twitches.
A muscle spasm here, there.
His body jolts. His left arm jerks violently, splashing water over the tub’s edges as Dr. Shadow tries to fight him. Tristan forces himself lower, the water lapping at his chin and numbing his lips. The drugs should be keeping him still, the cold dragging him under.
But his body will not stay still.
Until finally, it does.
Seventy-One
Iwake in a cold sweat, gasping, as if his last breath has stolen mine.
My eyes slowly and sleepily flutter open, a little discombobulated from the strange dream about Tristan. I stretch my arm across the bed, seeking comfort in his warmth after witnessing something so horrible. My hand slides across the cold mattress where he should be, but it’s empty. Panic surges in my chest, mixing the dark dream with his unexpected absence to form sinister conclusions. I quickly sit up, my heart pounding rapidly. I throw the sheets off and stumble out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cold floor. I rush through the foyer, my mind replaying the terrible events from my nightmare as I make my way toward the east wing.
I force myself to push aside the storm of dreadful thoughts swirling in my mind as my steps quicken, my heartbeat racing in my chest. This can’t be happening. Surely, it’s not real. My heart is beating wildly, as though ready to burst within my ribcage. It’s the only thing I can hear pounding in my ears. My hand grazes the cold handle of the east wing door, and I brace myself for the familiar resistance. I expect it to be locked, to keep me out—just like every other time.
But to my surprise, it turns easily in my grasp.
“Tristan?” My voice trembles, soft and uncertain, as I cautiously step into the room. I can't help but recall the chaos from the last time I was here—papers torn to shreds, scattered across the floor, furniture overturned and broken, remnants of the fight he had with Dr. Shadow that led to Tristan’s disappearance. Now, the room is unrecognizable. It's been cleaned, straightened, the disarray replaced by a sense of eerie order. Everything has been carefully restored to its original state. My gaze inevitably lands on the desk, then to the saline bag hanging beside it, its presence sending an unsettling chill through me. Mydream.
But how could it be real?
My heart sinks into my gut.
It wouldn’t be the first time my dreams held some semblance of reality.
I can’t hear anything but the sound of my heartbeat thudding in my ears.
“Mortimer!” I shout toward the door, my voice cracking as I race toward the bathroom. My desperate cries for him tear through my throat, but they stop abruptly when I see him—Tristan’s body, lifeless, sprawled in the cold plunge tub.
“No…” The word barely escapes my lips, a fragile breath of disbelief. Panic claws at me as I rush forward, my hands trembling as I try to pull him out. I hook my arms beneath his, straining with every ounce of strength I have. His limp body is heavy and ice-cold against mine, his weight sending us both crashing to the bathroom floor with a sickening thud.
In a haze of frantic motion, I reach for the towels hanging nearby. I wrap them around him as best I can, pulling him close to me, trying to transfer some warmth to his frozen, unmoving body.
“Please, no…” My voice cracks, breaking into a sob as I clutch him tighter.
The warmth that once radiated from him has vanished. His skin, once sun-kissed and vibrant, now looks ashen, a ghostly pallor taking over, his lips and face tinged a sickly shade of blue. My arms tremble as I hold him, squeezing him against me with frantic desperation. Each breath I take comes out jagged, uneven, like the very air is being ripped from my lungs.
