Page 23 of Wicked Beasts
“Oh, please.” She dismisses my words with a fluid wave of her hand. “I’ve seen the way you look at Mr. Black. You’d probably tear offhisclothes if he’d let you.”
I laugh, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “I would not!”
“The thing is, his brother might actuallyletyou tear off his clothes. I swear, he just…drips with this…lust. But I’d stay away from him if I were you. Both of them, really.”
My brows furrow slightly. Now sheisstarting to sound like Mortimer and Mrs. Wong.
“Why?” I ask, my curious nature getting the best of me.
“There’s just…something odd about their family. I really wouldn’t get wrapped up in it. It feels out of place for me to say, but something’s just not right.”
I feel a pang of jealousy emerging in the pit of my stomach. She has only been employed two weeks longer than I have, and it feels like she knows so much more about them than I do. “Doyou…like one of them?” I ask, trying to subtly probe for information.
Gisella frowns almost immediately, almost as if disgust washes over her face. “Oh, gosh. No. I…No,” she says firmly, hergrip tightening around the neck of her spoon. “I’m still not over my ex-boyfriend, if we’re being completely honest.” Her free hand moves to fumble with her necklace. It looks like a delicate glass slipper on a silver chain.
“That’s a beautiful charm—did he give that to you?”
“Yeah…” A small smile peeks from the corner of her mouth. “I broke the heel of my sandal on our first date. He gave it to me when he asked me to be his girlfriend.” Her smile soon disappears as I see the warm memory fading in her eyes as they start to water. “He died,” she admits softly and quickly catches her tears with her fingers before they fall from her lashes.
My heart leaps into my throat.
“I’m so sorry. I can’t even begin to imagine. How are you doing?”
“I’m okay,” she says, hope in her tone. “Every day gets easier, but sometimes, I have these moments when I just let my grief take over. I think that’s healthier than pretending to always be okay. Just dealing with it, I mean. Crying when I need to. I’ve just lost so many people.”
I wonder if she had been the painful sobbing I had heard the other night. Perhaps Tristan’s home really isn’t as scary as my mind makes it out to be.
Gisella went on to explain that she had lost her mother when she was very young and her father not soon after that, only for her stepmother to marry her deceased boyfriend’s father. “It’s why I took this job. I needed to get away.” Her words to me when we first met made sense now, and I realize I had originally misjudged her optimism for naivety.
The way everyone in the house reminded her of death, it was because she had been surrounded by it. I had lost my mother, but I was so young when it happened, just a baby really, that I have no memories of her, no recollection but the photos my father keeps.
“You amaze me,” I tell her, a half smile tugging into my cheek.
“What?” She seems caught off guard by my words.
I gently shrug my shoulder. “I couldn’t go through all of that and still maintain this cheery and optimistic personality you have. I admire your strength.”
She smiles weakly as she looks down at her soup, but her eyes shine.
Even if Tristan doesn’t particularly want to be my friend, I am relieved to know I at least have one in this house. Still, I am determined to get Manu to like me too, even if he continues to ignore me each morning in the kitchen and during the Wednesday dinners.
Having dinner with Gisella is nice, and for a moment, I forget about the two enigmatic brothers and the creepiness of the old, creaking house.
Nineteen
Ihate this feeling.
I am torn between my intrigue, my empathy, and my overwhelming frustrations.
Though while I suppose it’s been easier to focus on work when I am not conjuring up fantasies about him, whenever I have free time and I sit in front of my computer, trying to figure out something to write, my mind drifts—and it drifts to theworstpossible scenarios my brain can torment me with. My mind crosses to him, and I sit in a downward spiral of unanswered questions and unavoidable sadness settling in my heart. He thinks I am annoying, or ugly, or a bother, and wants as little to do with me as possible. I worry that, in two months, I’ll be out of a job all over again and back at my father’s house.
But I’m sure my father would be happy about that. Not that I got let go, but that I was home again, somewhere he knew I was safe. He wasn’t too happy about me taking a job for which I had to live on someone else’s property to begin with, particularly someone I never met.
Even now, someone I barely know.
I glance at the rose, surprised yet delighted it hasn’t lost any of its petals. Though it wilts, I still find beauty in its decay. Partof me is surprised it has lasted this long. I wonder if it’s the house, the way it zaps the life from its inhabitants. Perhaps it slows it for the flora and fauna in the manor and on the grounds. Impossible, but a curious and imaginative thought nonetheless, especially with the way the walls seem to pulse with life. I glance up at the wallpaper and stare at the design as the candlelight flickers and casts, dancing shadows like a show in front of me.
A door slams, and I sit up quickly, my heart pounding rapidly in my chest. I push away from the writing desk and sprint to my windowsill. Pushing the heavy drapes aside, I look out and see Tristan stalking down the pathway toward the dark woods. My breath quickens as I head for my door.
