Page 90 of Wicked Beasts
I watched Tristan kill himself.
That was very real.
But what about the rest? Part of me wonders if it was all some sick twisted game Cordelia conjured, using my fantasies against me as she blurred them with reality.
My only relief is that she didn’t win.
If there is anyone who understands what Dr. Shadow saw, it’s me.
That look on his face continues to haunt me, one of both surprise and defeat that seems so foreign to his typical confidence and charisma. I replay my last image of him: his silent resignation, the way his eyes only reluctantly met mine before he disappeared, the tension in his jaw when he finally acknowledged me.
Tristan encourages me to stretch, pushes me to walk in the gardens around the perimeter of the house to build up my endurance.
I don’t like exercise.
I don’t like tosweat.
The sun beats down relentlessly, and he always looks effortlessly attractive in its glow. His tan, a perfect bronze, highlights his muscular, chiseled frame, and even the sweat glistening on his skin stirs something carnal within me. He’s different now too, more open, more inviting. He no longer tries to slip through the house like a specter.
It almost makes exercise worth it.
Almost.
The sun feels like it's burning my cheeks, the beginnings of a blister blooming across my freckled face. My sweat sticks to me, making me feel like a soaked rat dipped in putrid pond water. My hair is a mess, thrown up loosely and lazily into a ponytail, stray strands framing my face. I look up at him and crinkle my nose, silently pleading for him to let me back inside so I can shower and have Mrs. Wong make me some soup.
Dr. Shadow lingers in the back of my mind, a persistent, gnawing presence that refuses to be ignored. I want to ask Tristan if he’s avoiding me, but I’m not sure he would even know if he was.
Do they communicate now that they’re apparently cooperating with one another? If so, how? I wonder if it’s like an internal dialogue.
Or perhaps more similar to intrusive thoughts.
Tristan tells me Dr. Shadow comes when he wants to. Maybe I just have to be patient. Sooner or later, he’s bound to show his face. I refuse to believe he would fight so hard to survive, only to spend his existence hiding away.
Hiding from me.
As if on cue, Tristan senses my drifting thoughts. He grabs me by the crook of my elbow and pulls me into him. His lips brush my temple before he parts them, dragging his tongue slowly across my salty skin.
“Ew!” A playful squeal escapes my lips as I try to wiggle out of his grasp, though I can feel a sudden heat warming between my thighs, the action igniting a certain desire I teeter on the edge of. “I’m all sweaty!” I say in protest. “Don’t do that.”
“I want to do more than that,” he says, his gaze darkening as his eyes drink me in.
“No!” I say firmly, though my smile betrays me. “Not untilafterI shower! I’m all gross.”
“You could never be gross to me, Miss Amara.”
There’s still a flutter in my chest when he calls meMiss Amara. It just sounds different coming from his mouth, said inhisvoice. My cheeks grow hot as I slip away from him. My hands run down his muscular arm before grabbing hold of his hand, and a mischievous smirk spreads across my face.
“Shower with me,” I say, tugging on his fingers. “I want to feel these inside me.”
He gives me a wicked grin and grabs me by my waist, scooping me up with ease and carrying me into the house and down the hall.
We barely make it into the bathroom before he starts tearing the clothes from my body and his.
His mouth is heaven against my skin, leaving a trail of kisses in his wake. He nips at my racing pulse before soothing the sting with his tongue. He slowly makes his way down my body toward the swell of my breasts as my back hits the cool tile. Tendrils of steam from the hot water swirl around us as he guides a nipple into his mouth, gently biting me while kneading the other. He peers eyes look up at me, watching as the pleasure surfaces on my face, my back arching. My lips part, and a soft moan escapes me, my hands clawing at his shoulders, strong and steady.
Tristan’s hand roams further down my body until it finds my hip and squeezes possessively before letting it drift to nudge my thighs open. His fingers barely graze me, teasing the growingwetness between them, causing me to buck my hips against him, eager for the pleasure I know he will provide.
“Please…” I whisper.
