Page 88 of Wicked Beasts
What was real? Was Cordelia even real?
The ghost of my dancing body soon fades away as my gaze locks onto the dark pool of blood, tracing the trail of Tristan's footsteps that lead up the stone stairs. Slowly, my focus shifts to the orange glow of the dying flames beneath the mantle, their once-fierce light now flickering weakly.
I narrow my eyes, brow furrowing slightly, as confusion settles in. I can't quite trust what I'm seeing. I hesitate, finding something partially hidden in the ashes. Among the remnants, I notice a broken shape—something that could have once been human, now reduced to fragile fragments. The charred remains seem twisted, distorted by fire, with scorched patches that hint at what was once there. I can't look away, the weight of the scene pulling at me, the air thick with the acrid scent of burnt wood, hair, and something far darker—human flesh.
I stumble backward as ash falls through the eye socket of the hollowed skull surrounded by singed strands of once-golden hair. My breathing becomes jagged and rough as I quickly take another step back, shaking my head frantically, trying to rid myself of the haunting image now carved into my memory.
My chest tightens as I drop back to my knees, feeling as though something is trying to claw its way out of my chest. I clench my jaw as sharp pain tears through my veins with a violence I have never felt.
Everything goes dark.
Everything goes silent.
At least for just a fleeting moment. In the distance, somewhere far away, I can hear that same haunting melody being sung by the trees, a love song between nature and the wind, carried back as though it had always been meant to find me.
Then, I hear nothing at all.
Not even the sound of my own beating heart.
Seventy-Eight
My eyelids feel heavy.
My breath is light and slow while my heart thumps a gentle rhythm in my chest. I can feel him next to me, the warmth radiating from his body, the subtle woodsy smell of his scent. I begin to stir as I turn my head and nestle against the pillow.
Fingers rake through my hair, brushing it gently away from my temple as I feel lips against my cheek. A small smile peeks at the corner of my mouth as I finally summon the strength to open my eyes.
I see him now, he bathes in a golden glow from the sun seeping in through my window. His beautiful and kind hazel eyes watching me from behind those black-rimmed glasses as he sits in my bed beside me. His hair is perfect, not a strand out of place, but there’s a very defined scar diagonally across the center of his face from one side of his forehead, across his nose, through his cheek and down his jaw.
My breath hitches as my fingers struggle to reach for him.
“What happened?” I ask, worry strikes my heart as I fear he’s hurt in some way.
He leans forward a little as he takes off his glasses, allowing my fingers to gently trace the red scar that appears to be holding his face together.
“Cordelia,” he says gently.
My fingers retract as I immediately graze them against my collarbone.“The necklace…”
He nods. “And the mirror,” he adds, his massive shoulders lifting as he inhales deeply. “I thought if we were to finally be rid of her, it’d break this curse she placed upon me, but—” His hand briefly acknowledges the unmistakable scar across his face. “It gave me this instead. Now, I wear my faults for everyone to see.”
“You’re still perfect to me,” I whisper as I mull over his words, a frown beginning to crease between my eyebrows. “Tristan…” My voice comes out weak as I search his face for answers. Did this mean Dr. Shadow was gone? Did this scar mean they had somehow merged back together as one man? He said the curse wasn’t broken, didn’t he? My mind swirls with a storm of questions, too many for my mouth. “Is he…”
He glances away, breaking our eye contact. At first, he pauses, my heart thumping wildly in my chest as I await an answer. Then, slowly, he shakes his head, and sudden relief washes over me, though his words don’t follow with the answer I am looking for.
“How can you care for him?” He says it like a question but delivers it like an accusation. His hazel eyes brim with concern as his gaze briefly meets mine. His fingers gently brush against the edge of my jaw before his eyes wander down toward my throat as if to remember what he had done. He shut his eyes and shook his head, like he was trying to stuff something down.
“Because he isyou,” I say softly. I am no longer ensnared between two wicked beasts, instead enraptured by the complexity of his duality. My hand covers his, drawing it gently to my lips. I press a soft kiss to the back of his fingers, my voicebarely a breath. “I will always love the parts of you that you don’t know how to love.”
He tenses at my words, the muscle in his jaw ticking, but slowly, his eyes open again. They are a little redder now, a little glossy. I tilt my head slightly, still waiting for my answer.
“He’s still here?” I ask, though part of me fears what he might say. It sounds like he is, but I want him to say it. I want him to tell me openly and honestly.
Tristan inhales sharply. “Not as often,” he says finally. “But yes, he resurfaces when he wants. He’s good friends with Dr. Wollstonecraft. Strange man,” Tristan adds as he glances toward the blooming rose on my writing desk, “the doctor.”
My brows furrow slightly. Dr. Shadow had only ever come out during the night, save for the time he tried to get rid of Tristan. My heart begins to race once more as I try to sit up in bed, but the plush of the mattress seems to keep hold of me, draining me of my strength.
“How many nights has it been since the cellar?” I ask. “How long have I been out?”
