Page 32 of Wicked Beasts
Iwake long before the sun, ensnared in the tender embrace of my bed, cocooned by the darkness of the room. My eyes flutter open, wide and unblinking, as though I have forgotten the simple art of sleep. I lie there, caught between wakefulness and the ghostly remnants of dreams, staring into the abyss of the night—seeing nothing, yet feeling everything. The shadows on the walls seem to move of their own volition, stretching and shrinking like dark tendrils of some ancient specter, and a strange ache tugs at the very core of my heart.
It is not fear that stirs me now.
No, the tremor that once gripped me with icy fingers has faded, replaced by something far darker, far more suffocating.Guilt.
Dr. Shadow’s touch lingers upon my skin, an unsettling imprint, as though he had carved his presence into me with a touch both tender and brutal. His voice echoes in the stillness of my mind, low and melodic, now devoid of the dark promises it once carried. His words haunt me like the wailing of spirits trapped between worlds—unforgiving, unrelenting. They whisper not of lust and desire, but of the terrible weight of what I have done.
The darkness thins around me as morning light seeps into my bedroom. I know no matter how deep I sink into the bed, I cannot escape it. Not now. Not ever.
I will have to face Tristan sooner or later. I will have to face what I did.
Shifting beneath the soft, warm sheets, I stir with a languid grace, feeling luxuriously sated physically, all while my mind spirals with guilt. When I move my legs, I can still feel a sore, satisfied memory where Dr. Shadow pleasured me only a few hours before. None of my exes ever displayed even a quarter of such skill between my legs, and I have to shove the memory aside.
I lazily scan my room, my gaze drifting to the dreary rose on my desk, bathed in the haunting orange glow spilling slowly through the heavy drapes. A strange unease stirs within me as I furrow my brows, my eyes narrowing at the sight. The petals seem to pulse with newfound life, unfurling with an eerie vibrancy that defies the natural order. Only hours ago, had it not been wilting? Fragile and on the brink of death, its once crimson hue faded and limp?
I sit up sharply, the motion abrupt and jerky, disbelief twisting in my chest. The rose’s unexpected vitality grips my attention, and my pulse quickens with the feeling that something—something unnatural—has stirred in the silence of my room.
Was someone in here while I was asleep?
The house seems to sigh in relief as I climb out of bed, and the cold floor bites at my bare feet.
In a daze, I move through the motions, my hands trembling ever so slightly as they pull clothes from the drawers. I open the door with a quiet, deliberate creak, and the shadows—those cold, whispering sentinels—beckon me forward, guiding me through the darkened hallway with a silent, inevitable pull.
My mind is a void, consumed by nothing but the need to feel the hot water scorch my skin, to cleanse myself in its burning embrace. I long for the steam to rise, thick and suffocating, until it erases everything. The guilt, that gnawing weight lodged deep within me, swells with every step, every heartbeat, and I ache for it to be washed away—swept down the drain in a flood. The thought consumes me, the only thing that remains in the hollow quiet of my mind. I refuse to let myself think of anything else. If I do, I will never be free from the ironclad grip of my guilt.
The bathroom is lit from the morning light fighting its way through the grime clinging to the window. I put my clothes on the counter and nudge the door shut with my heel.
I peel the garments from my body, discarding them on the floor, and I’m quick to be engulfed by the steam once I turn on the shower. The familiar scent of florals and crisp woods are quick to soothe and disarm me as I let the hot water wash away my worries.
But the ease is only temporary. Soon, the steam mimics his hot breath on my neck. I can feel the ghost of his lustful, needy touch lingering against my skin, slipping between my thighs. I cannot escape the way his dark eyes pierced into mine out of my mind, haunting me like a specter. Dr. Shadow was every bit as dark and alluring as his name would suggest. His memory clings to me like a shadow in itself. My attempts at washing his touch away seem futile as the cloth leaves behind reddened skin, raw and steaming.
I shut off the water and wring out my hair, a tangled, matted drape of brown rope that I push over my shoulder as I step out onto the rug. I wrap the fluffy towel around my body and shut my eyes, desperately trying to forget his touch as my fingers attempt to ground me with the material, clinging to it like a lifeline. Should I let go, I will surely drown in my desires.
With a deep breath, my lashes flutter as I make out my reflection in the mist-covered mirror and start to dry myself off. As much as I want to remain hidden away in the bathroom, in this sanctuary, I know I can’t. I have to get dressed and face my reality.
It’s as if the house knows of the brewing conflict within me, because a knock sounds at the door almost immediately, reverberating against the tiled walls and bouncing back, followed by Gisella’s cheery voice.
“Amara?” she calls from the hallway, her tone even and light as I pull my shirt over my head. “Mrs. Wong’s going down to Pearlridge mall. Did you want to come?” she asks.
I can almost feel the weight of relief lift from my shoulders.
Yes. Absolutely yes.
Twenty-Seven
The island of O’ahu seems small when you live in the city.
It’s congested and suffocating to the point where you can look out of your kitchen window and see right into your neighbor’s living room. The houses press against one another, their boundaries lost to the ever-encroaching tangle of concrete and asphalt. Yards, if they even exist, are little more than forgotten pockets of space, neglected and overshadowed, with overgrown weeds creeping between the cracks. The towering highrises of Waikiki loom like silent giants, their oppressive shadows falling over everything, dimming the once-pristine views of the ocean, as though nature itself is being smothered by human ambition.
But then, there is the Black estate, far removed from the clamor and grind of the cities, nestled up north. It feels as though it exists in a different world, tucked away at the end of a winding, narrow path that seems to be a secret unto itself. I’ve lived in Hawai’i my entire life, and even I hadn’t known such places existed—these sprawling, shadowed estates, hidden from the prying eyes of the city dwellers, tourists, and townees. And now that I do, a lingering curiosity gnaws at me, an insatiable desire to uncover what other mysteries lie at the end of theforgotten dirt roads, veiled by the dense canopies of trees and the heavy darkness.
As I sit in the car, my gaze lingers on the thick line of trees, their gnarled branches reaching like skeletal fingers lost in a blanket of greenery, casting an uninviting shadow. I find myself wondering what hides there—what moves beyond the veil of leaves fluttering in the wind. What lingers in the deep shadows after the sun dips below the horizon? Who resides on the other side of the labyrinthine forest? The questions hang in the air, unanswered, as the car’s engine hums softly beneath me, and I feel an unsettling chill crawl up my spine.
When people think of Hawai’i, they think of the crystal clear ocean, the sapphire waters sparkling beneath the bright sun, shining with not one cloud in the sky. They think of the sandy beaches littered with tourists, both pale and burnt. Salty sea breeze, suntan lotion, and coconut scents with hints of something fruity and tropical circle their noses and fill their lungs. Friendly locals with hands curled into a shaka and smiles that take up half their faces open their arms, ready to pull you into a warm embrace, eager to spread the aloha spirit.
It’s a warm thought, inviting. No mysteries, nothing eerie.
No, not in paradise.
