Page 25 of Wicked Beasts
We haven’t talked since he told me he wasn’t ready to commit to me. But isn’t that what they always say whenyouaren’t the one they want? When they want to keep their options open? I finally click on the notification, and the text thread opens up. It shows he’s typing again, so I wait.
I miss you
The lower lid of my right eye twitches. I knew it. I shift in my chair, slouching slightly—the old wood groaning beneath my weight—feeling both uncomfortable and annoyed. I tug my cardigan closer to my body as I close the message and open Kehau’s thread.
I can’t
But guess who just texted me?
Tucker
Oh God
I know!
Funny how he texts you now after a month of silence
They always do this
I chew on my bottom lip and lock my phone before putting it down beside my laptop. My gaze drifts toward the wilting rose while the wallpaper dances before me from the shadows cast by the flickering candle flame. Even in the silence, I don’t feel so alone with the shadows pulsing over the wallpaper. They keep me company, as odd as that might seem to an outsider.
With a deep inhale, I push away from the writing desk and get up, stretching as I try to roll my ankle to escape the numbness creeping up toward my calf. The floorboards groan beneath me with each step as I head toward the door. The knob is ice, biting at my fingertips. I twist it and pull it open, the hinges squeaking loudly.
My eyes glance toward the light illuminating from Tristan’s study. I’d never seen him working this late. In truth, I never saw him anywhere in the house this late.
I quickly tiptoe down the hall, the floor cool against my socks as I work up the courage to knock on his doorframe. “Hey, is everything okay?” I ask just as he looks up from where he’s sitting at his desk, tilting his head to look at me through his glasses. His body is tense; I can see his muscles beneath hisshirt. His hair is a bit ruffled, his shirt slightly disheveled. He looks at me with tired eyes, like he hasn’t slept in weeks. “I feel like you’ve been avoiding me.”
His jaw tightens, but for no longer than a second, like a reflex he has to stop himself from doing. He puts down his pen.
“Avoiding you? Me?” He sits back in his seat as he takes his glasses off. He hesitates for a moment before putting his glasses down on the paper he was working on. “No, of course not. Everything’s fine,” he insists, but once his glasses are off, he never looks in my direction again.
“It doesn’t feel like it,” I say, refusing to back down. “Are you okay?” I want to voice my concern for him, to ask about Manu, to ask where he was going.
But he shuts me down. “I’m fine.”
He speaks firmly, but his words feel like a lie. The air in the room is incredibly thick.
I can’t breathe.
“Is that all?” he asks, his fingers grazing the edges of his glasses.
My stomach tenses and twists. I don’t want it to be all. I don’t want to accept that this is our working relationship now.
“You should leave,” he says, avoiding the uncomfortable silence. “Go back to your room.”
I can’t bring myself to speak.
I don’t even bother to nod as I slowly pivot on my feet, returning to my room, unable to remember why I even left in the first place. The shadows are no longer comforting, instead frightening as I walk back toward my room while they try to beckon me toward the foyer instead. It feels like a dream—no, a nightmare.
The door slams shut behind me, and my heart nearly leaps out of my chest.
None of this makes any sense. I can’t keep thinking about this.
I can’t keep tormenting myself with this.
Twenty-One
Istumble into the dimly lit kitchen, half-asleep and disoriented, yearning for a glass of water to quench the dryness tightening my throat. I feel as if I’m navigating a dreamscape, the faint glow of the moon illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. Frustrated with the last two weeks, frustrated with last night, I realize vaguely that I hadn’t paused to check the clock. I was so desperate for water. Am I breaking the rules again? All I can think of is getting a glass of water.
