Page 89 of Wicked Beasts
“A week,” he says, stroking my hair as he manages to get me to lay back down. “We almost lost you. I’m so sorry you were brought into this, Miss Amara.”
“A week?” I shriek. I try to sit up, but Tristan gently pushes me back down. Panic rises in my chest. “My father… I just left. I need to…” My brain spins with the horror of what I know my dad must be feeling right now.
But Tristan shakes his head. “It’s okay.”
My brain stumbles to process his words as he reaches over and pulls a piece of paper off the nightstand. Unfolding it, he reveals a missing person poster with my face on it. “Mrs. Wong saw this in town a few days after you showed up here and overheard rumors of a woman dancing in the street one night. She contacted your father. He came to visit to make sure youwere alright. He didn’t want to leave, but he really needed to rest.”
My mouth opens and closes as I try to absorb the collision of my two worlds—my father and Tristan in thesameroom?
“He’s a very nice man,” Tristan continues, his posture relaxing as he places the poster on the desk. “And I assured him you would call as soon as you could so he may come see you when you have the strength.” He leans forward, fingers tenderly tracing my jaw. “I promised to protect you. I will never put you in danger again.”
Slowly, I nod and take a deep breath. “I know, but I also want you to knowyouare not a danger to me.”
A small, almost imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he returns his glasses to his face, his cheeks dusted a soft shade of scarlet. He shifts slightly in his chair, nodding as he does, the memory of his suicide attempt playing in both our minds.
“You saved me. How did you know?”
“I dreamed it,” I whisper. “I watched you pace. I watched you?—”
“I didn’t die,” he interrupts gently, his voice lowering to match mine in soft reassurance. He stands and slides onto the bed beside me, his presence all-enveloping as he pulls me closer to him. His scent surrounds me, and for a moment, I feel like I could melt into his embrace. This is where I belong. This is where I’m safe, wrapped in his arms. “Shadow sabotaged even that.” He wets his lips as he hugs me tighter. “I was never one to believe in magic and curses,” Tristan says quietly, resting his jaw against my temple. “I thought I could fix this—figure it out on my own—but magic is science, with an entirely different set of rules I don’t understand.”
“Do you think she’s gone forever?” I mutter, my eyelids growing heavy as sleep starts to take over. In his arms, I feeluntouchable. Nothing can reach me here, not while I’m with him.
“I don’t know,” he whispers, barely loud enough for me to hear. “I wish I did. I’m just glad you’re okay.”
“Me too,” I murmur, my gaze lifting to meet his through half-closed, drowsy eyes. “I wonder who else you might be… Professor Midnight, Master Charcoal…” I tease as my voice fades.
He chuckles, a soft, warm sound, and presses another gentle kiss to my temple.
“Rest,” he says, his tone soothing.
He doesn’t have to tell me twice.
Seventy-Nine
Recovery feels like a journey with no clear end in sight. I wish I could just snap my fingers and make the pain disappear, skip the slow process and heal without effort or discomfort, but it’s not that simple. I have to be patient with myself, take things one step at a time, and be gentle as I rebuild my strength and let my body recover.
As it turns out, getting possessed and stabbed in the neck aren’t the simplest of injuries.
Dr. Shadow hasn’t returned since I woke up. While I appreciate the time spent with Tristan as he helps with my physical therapy, there’s a quiet nagging in the back of my mind, wondering ifheis avoiding me.
I can’t blame him.
That night continues to disrupt my dreams—his grip tightening around my neck, the way he held me beneath the surface, forcing me to inhale mouthfuls of saltwater that seared my throat. Sometimes, I can still feel the raw burn, the sting of it lingering in my lungs in the liminal space between sleep and wakefulness. It’s my own permanent mark, like a brand from the ocean.
I remember his voice, low and desperate, and I remember what I said to him.
“He’s going to kill me,” he said.
“Maybe that’s what you deserve.”
It was wrong, I know, but I had nearly drowned. He held me beneath the surface, but I understand now he didn’t know it was me.
He saw Cordelia.
And I’ve seen her too. It was like she had managed to attach herself to me, but my mind is hazy, fogged, as I try to sort through all my memories, trying to untangle what was real and what wasn’t.
But to some degree, weren’t all my dreams real?
