Page 40 of Wicked Beasts
The days blur together, like a watercolor painting, edges obscured and bleeding into each other. I move through them in a haze, drifting through the motions, waiting for something to wake me from this quiet, self-imposed exile. Why did I react so strongly when he took an interest? Was he truly innocent? Whydid I get defensive? He didn’t even do anything wrong. Neither did I. And yet...here I am, drowning in the weight of my own emotions and making myself look guilty over nothing.
Even now, in the middle of reshelving these books Tristan and that man had taken from the shelves, the dwelling seems dramatic. Is that my fault? Or am I just trying to figure out the distance? Am I just trying to fill in the blanks regarding where we stand? Is that the cause of my reaction? Uncertainty?
In truth, I don’t understand our relationship, if there’s one at all. It’s certainly not professional, but it’s not quite platonic either. At least, not to me. I don’t know what to make of it. Does he? Does he even think of me? Or am I no more than a passing thought—something he only deals with when I’m right in front of him?
God, he’s so frustrating.
It is in these moments of frustration Dr. Shadow creeps back into my thoughts, as if I find myself wanting to get lost in him, to crawl back to him, to let him hold me in his strong embrace. I ache to let him touch me with those hands, to feel his lips on my neck as my fingers grasp at his massive biceps.
I collapse backward on the bookcase, feeling the ghost of his touch against my skin. A tremble rips through my body, my heart fluttering like a wild bird.
It feels wrong, deep in my soul, to have such primal desires for him. It feels like a betrayal, especially after Tristan admitted what’s wrong with him is Dr. Shadow’sfault. And then again, after his thoughtful gesture. I’m entangled between these two men, caught in a web I’m not sure I want to escape from.
Licking my lips, I part them gently as I take in a deep breath, a meek attempt at regaining my composure. I feel heat emitting from between my thighs, the memory of him far too fresh in my mind, but I can’t have such thoughts right now. As much as I want to succumb to the dark depths of my own desires…
I can’t.
“Miss Amara?—”
“Yes, Mortimer?” I answer way too quickly as I pick myself off the bookcase and nearly drop the tome in my arms. Mortimer’s chilling voice always has a way of grounding me to a moment, rooting me there, any wanton desire quickly vanishing like a ghost in the sunlight.
“Are you daydreaming?” he asks. I can tell by his tone that wasn’t what he was originally going to say. His deep set eyes are fixated on me, his cheeks hollow, as he stares at me with a dead expression, laced with mere curiosity.
“Of course not,” I lie. I’m sure he can tell. I’ve never been a very good liar. I shift the book into one arm and wave my hand at the thought. “Me? Daydreaming? Never. No, I leave that for when I’m writing.” I turn toward the bookshelf. “Anything I can do to avoid writing…” I mutter under my breath as I stare at the worn, illegible spines. I glance back at Mortimer, who seems to draw all the darkness toward him, the light seeping from the window unable to reach him. “Did you need me to do something?”
“No, you can leave once you’re finished here,” he says. “Maybe try some writing?” he suggests. I furrow my brows. He heard that? But he doesn’t say anything else. He turns away and leaves the library, his movements calm and steady, his footsteps leaving no sound.
That’s the funny thing about writing, though.Thisjob as a personal assistant, to astudent, of all people, is so easy, it has left me with so much time and mental space to sit down at my laptop andwrite. I have so much energy to dive into what I believe could be the next greatest novel, and yet, how many words have I actually typed?
None.
Instead, I sit at my writing desk, the cursor on the blank word document practically laughing at me in blatant mockery, fully knowing I will not be adding anything to it worth reading.
Why is it that writers often do everything they can tonotwrite? Instead, I expend my energy daydreaming about Dr. Shadow and trying to dissect everything Tristan does.
A waste? Yes.
Will I stop? Unlikely.
I suppose I never really considered myself much of a writer, though. The word always felt like a lie on my tongue. I once thought it was imposter syndrome, but perhaps I’m just not a writer.
I’m a storyteller. I love stories. I love coming up with them. The art of writing them out, though? Not so much. Maybe it’s okay if the only person I tell stories to—isme.
Thirty-Four
Ionce heard that every rough draft is perfect because all it needs to do isexist. Unlike blank pages, words can be edited, sentences be rewritten, descriptions can be expanded or condensed. But the idea must first be presented. It has to be written out, lain in its rawest form like the bones of a skeleton waiting assembly. The itch is there, waiting to be scratched as my fingers hover over the keys, ready to spin a tale of wonder, but I have nothing to write.
Presently, I can’t even seem to tellmyselfa story.
Maybe I am a fraud.
Instead of focusing, instead of trying to figure out how I’d like to write this scene, my mind drifts back to Tristan and Dante as I glance at the collection of short stories, two very different men who overwhelm my senses as my thoughts swirl in my mind.
Tonight is the night of the Village Market event Gisella and I were invited to. I get up from my seat to find the flyer, looking over the blue ombre paper with lights strung across the top as I sit back down. As I read over the food and entertainment, my focus halts. A beer garden. I’m not positive I even know what that is. Naturally, I do what anyone does nowadays and type it into the search engine to find my answer.
An open-air establishment where beer is served.
That is not very much to go off of, and I feel a tug in my gut by the letdown. A beer garden. I shift my weight as I sit back in my seat, daydreaming of an open area with elongated tables full of overgrown potted plants whose vines and leaves cover the surface and curl around an assortment of beer in small glasses. I can see barrels of beer stacked off to the side, the strong smells of brews, florals, and spices overwhelming my nose. Patrons are seated on aged but sturdy wooden benches while servers carry meals crafted from the garden itself. As day turns into night, strings of lights overhead would illuminate to create a lively yet welcoming garden with live music tempting you to dance and drink, play and sing.
