Page 17 of Wicked Beasts
“Good,” he replies, effortlessly tugging the refrigerator door open. I make a conscious effort to keep my gaze fixed on hisface. “Do you surf?” he inquires, glancing back at me. Manu’s laughter cuts through the air like a knife. I ignore his blatant mockery.
“Oh, no. I’m…not much of a beach person,” I say, tapping my fingers nervously against the ceramic of my mug.
“Oh?” Tristan raises an eyebrow as he retrieves the water pitcher and his protein powder. His brow furrows slightly, a hint of concern in his expression. “Why not?”
“I-I mean, the ocean is pretty and all, but I don’t like the sand,” I admit. “Or-or the sun.”
“We’ll have to get you a canopy then, and a big blanket. Hm?” he suggests with a playful smile.
My heart skips a beat.
Sometimes, I think I’m crazy, reading too much into everything he says…and then he says stuff likethat, and what am I supposed to think?
Why is he like this? Why amIlike this?
As Tristan converses with Manu about the estate’s grounds and the wild yard, I sink into the embrace of the table, nursing my finger-stirred coffee. My gaze drifts to Tristan, watching him mix his protein drink, his movements fluid and assured. The sunlight streaming from the kitchen window dances around him, contouring his muscular physique perfectly. The words of their discussion float around me—something about a sickly tree lurking behind the house—but the conversation feels as distant and mysterious as the intricacies of his studies.
“Oh, Amara?” The warmth of his voice pulls me from my daydream.
“Yes?”
He’s peering at his phone, a flicker of intent in his hazel eyes. “You wanted to spend some time together—how about tomorrow, late afternoon?” He glances up, and his gaze meets mine. “I know it’s a little short notice…”
“That’s perfect,” I blurt, as if the very moment might vanish if I hesitate, like a shadow slipping away at dawn.
Tristan slips his phone into his pocket, casting a nod in our direction before disappearing through the swinging door, his protein shaker in tow—a ritual of sorts before his workout, I imagine. I exhale slowly, a smile blooming on my lips as my eyes linger on the door, its gentle sway suggesting he has left a trace of himself behind, the kitchen still lingering with the scent of the ocean.
“You don’t fancy him?Right.”
Manu's words cut through my reverie, and I scowl at him, rising from my seat.
“I’m just trying to be a good employee,” I retort, hastily retreating to the safety of my room, eager to escape his scrutiny.
Fourteen
Saturday drifts by in a haze, each tick of the clock heightening my anticipation for tomorrow afternoon with an almost desperate longing. At my writing desk, I lean over my laptop, a bowl of ramen resting in the palm of one hand and chopsticks held in my other. The words refuse to flow, and my blinking cursor continues to mock me. The allure of Tristan and the disturbing atmosphere of his home intertwine, clouding my thoughts. One might imagine inspiration would blossom in such a mysterious place, and while it originally had, my fears have twisted into vivid nightmares, leaving me hesitant to delve into anything remotely otherworldly.
Exercising my imagination is usually my strong suit, yet lately, it feels like a double-edged sword, cutting deep as I wrestle with my thoughts. The shadows—mere figments of my anxiety—stretch and twist, taking on shapes of little horrors that dance just beyond the periphery of my vision.
As the sun sinks beneath the horizon, a haunting glow fills my room, casting long, golden beams that seem to battle the encroaching night. As the shadows stretch, I remind myself they are nothing more than darkness—and yet a part of me tremblesat the thought, sensing the terrifying potential lurking within the blackened corners of my mind.
While logically, I know better, my imagination seems in overdrive to scare me, conjuring a flurry of fears that chill me to the bone.
Tristan is a young, hauntingly attractive man with a passion for science and a deep affinity for the beach. I picture him instead in a cozy beach house, its walls painted a sun-faded white, weathered by salty air and time. The sound of waves crashing gently against the shore would be a constant lullaby, inviting him to escape into nature from his books and science projects. Sunlight would filter through large, open windows, illuminating the rooms with a warm glow and cast playful shadows across the wooden floor. The air is filled with the scent of sea breeze and coconut rather than old parchment and dusty shelves, with shells and sand scattered about, remnants of countless days spent by the shore. A hammock would sway lazily between two palm trees outside, and a collection of surfboards would rest against the side of the house, ready for his next adventure.
This beach oasis seemed far more suited to him.
Instead, he lives here in this creepy old house dulled by age, with weathered wood that creaks underfoot and walls that whisper as you pass. Shadows cling to every corner, dark and unyielding, as if something sinister lurks just beyond the reach of the light. The air is always heavy with a musty scent, mingling with the faint traces of salt from the nearby ocean, a constant reminder of the world outside that feels both tantalizingly close and eerily distant.
Crooked trees loom outside, their twisted branches scratching against the windows like skeletal fingers reaching for something that isn’t there. The atmosphere is thick with an eerie stillness, broken only by the occasional rustle or groan. In thisplace, the call of the ocean is overshadowed by the haunting presence in every shadow, making it hard to escape the feeling you are not alone.
I can easily envision a man like Mortimer living in this foreboding house—a figure who might very well be carved from the shadows themselves, dressed in tailored suits that cling to him like a second skin. I tilt my head, considering Mortimer. I wonder how old he is. No number I try attaching seems to fit. Mortimer, I conclude, isas close as someone can get to being timeless—not because of some lasting trait of goodness, but because of the sense that follows him that the world outside long ago forgot him.
But Tristan is a world apart; he’s not a relic of the past. He’s youthful, sun-kissed, and muscular, bursting with life and energy that feels almost out of place.
Where Mortimer might evoke a sense of dread, Tristan brings life to these decaying walls, a jarring contrast that leaves me wondering how he thrives in a space so deeply disheveled.
Setting my bowl of ramen on the desk beside my laptop, I look toward the portrait sitting over the fireplace across the room. As the last light of day wanes, the woman in the painting appears almost to stir, her gaze unblinkingly fixed on me. I can’t help but think of the painting of Tristan I saw upstairs. I’m still not quite certain if it was real or a figment of my imagination. Compelled by curiosity, I rise and make my way to the canvas, wondering if it too carries a hidden inscription in its gilded frame.
