Page 5 of Wicked Beasts
And my employer, at that.
What I thought was only going to be a small infatuation might be turning into something a bit more, if I’m being completely honest with myself.
I hum with intense curiosity now swelling within me, questioning my ability to stomp out my intrigue. Working here will surely challenge me in ways I hadn’t prepared for.
Four
Gisella leads me through the mansion for what feels like an eternity, an hour slipping away like dry sand through my fingers. Her animated energy clashes with the somber atmosphere, keeping me anchored to her. However, despite her ability to hold my attention, the east wing lurks in the back of my mind, remaining a tantalizing mystery. Gisella obeys Mortimer’s rules, though, and its secrets remain untouched, regardless of how much I long to fling open the doors and divulge them.
By the time I finally retreat to my bedroom, unfamiliar weariness drags me down, as if the very walls have absorbed my energy. Perhaps the house is draining the vitality from its inhabitants, leaving them worn and elusive. The thought is silly but curious. The idea of a young, enigmatic, unsuspecting man like Tristan Black potentially feasting on the vigor of his employees through the walls of his vampiric house is an idea that tickles my imagination.
I should write that down as a thought to explore later, perhaps in a short story.
I gather my things and haul my tired body down the corridor toward the bathroom, the way illuminated only by the feebleglow of my phone's flashlight throwing eerie shadows against the peeling wallpaper. I like the lack of light fixtures in the old house; it adds to the creepy atmosphere, which only makes it feel all the more haunted.
I would certainly have preferred a bathroom connected to my bedroom, but it’s likely manors like these weren’t necessarily built with the expectation that multiple rooms might need to function as individual units.
I shut the door behind me and lock myself in. It’s a dismal sanctuary, colored in deep hues of midnight blue and rich mahogany. A freestanding clawfoot tub sits beneath a gently cracked window, the glass obscured by a thick veil of grime.
Placing my pajamas on the counter, I approach the mirror that takes up half the wall behind the vanity as I flick on the light switch. The soft illumination dances over the glass as the bulbs crackle to life, revealing my facial features with an ethereal glow. Still, it casts a disconcerting shadow as it looms over me. My brown hair tumbles like a waterfall around my pale shoulders, framing my face. As I lean closer to wipe the makeup from my skin, a chill in the air prickles my flesh, and for a fleeting moment, I feel the breath of someone lingering behind me.
I draw in a sharp gasp as footsteps linger just beyond the door, a shadow inching across the tiles from the narrow crack beneath.
The doorknob rattles suddenly.
“Someone’s in here,” I call hoarsely, but the presence on the other side of the door doesn’t answer, and my heart pounds.
After a few more excruciating moments, the foreboding presence eventually retreats.
I’ve never been a particularly spiritual person, but there was something distinctly unnatural about whatever was on the other side of the door. Ifeltthem.
“Pull yourself together,” I whisper to myself, and the sound of my own voice feels normal, mundanely opposed to the terror I’d just experienced.
Summoning every shred of courage coursing through my veins, I seize the knob and fling the door open, my heart thumping wildly, a hummingbird trapped in a bone cage.
Yet, only emptiness greets me from the hallway. My jagged breaths echo in the silence like a mockery of my fear.
Did I imagine it?
I take a moment to compose myself as I close the door again, attempting to silence the rising dread.It’s simply a house, I tell myself. But the unfamiliarity suffocates me, conjuring nightmares from the depths of my imagination as I revisit the idea of a blood-thirsty manor. A small smirk lifts at the corner of my mouth. It’s just my imagination. My mind wrestles with the conjured terror as I strip away my clothes and climb into the waiting warmth of the tub.
As the hot water splashes against my body, thoughts of the elusive Tristan Black invade my mind. I can’t shake the idea of his fingers trailing over my bare skin, a ghostly caress that sends a thrill rippling through me, summoning heat between my thighs. The kind but intense gaze behind those glasses. The possible strength of his thick, muscular arms. As I drag my soapy washcloth down over my curves, my mind wanders to the strained buttons of his shirt. A thin barrier, barely protecting him from me. I draw in a quick, startled breath as the fantasy consumes me.
The scent of florals and something particularly sweet hangs in the air with the steam from my shower as I shut off the water. I towel dry both my tangling brown hair and my body before I slip on my pajamas and quickly make my way back to my bedroom, leaving nothing but the ghost of my wet footsteps in the hall.
Tristan remains at the forefront of my thoughts as I hang my towel on the hook behind my door, but Mortimer’s warning creeps in—not of getting too close, but of beingfired. I place my phone down on the night table as I twist my long, damp hair tightly and tie it up into a loose bun. For a brief moment, I consider writing, but my body is far too exhausted, forcing me to surrender to the alluring siren call of my bed instead.
Pulling the sheet and duvet back, I climb into its silky caress.
My dreams do not relent, developing as an unchecked extension of my shower fantasies. Tristan climbs over me, his chest bare, the muscles in his arms flexing as his mouth crashes against my neck, teasing me with his lips and warm breath. My body trembles as he shifts his weight so one hand glides down the curve of my waist. His fingers gently caress my bare thigh and tug needily at my pajama shorts. Agonizingly slowly, his hand slips between my legs. His strong fingers press against my panties, and I gasp.
I wake with a jolt. The fading sensuality of the dream leaves a lingering ache in my chest as I pant through the ebbing waves of desire.
The silence in the room is heavy, and for a moment, I feel trapped between the allure of sleep and the truths of the waking world. The thrill still courses through my veins, but the cold, harsh reality seeks to banish the warmth of the night’s embrace. I tug on the silk sheets, begging them for comfort, to return me to my enticing slumber.
But I lie in bed, still awake, even with my eyes shut, even with fatigue continuing to plague me. The dream slips further and further away from my grasp as night becomes morning.
I pull the pillow over my head to shield myself from the morning light, not ready to face the day. Discomfort builds in the pit of my stomach as I wonder how I’m supposed to face Tristan now. My cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. Will I bewrapped up in my dream? Wondering what his lips really feel like against my skin? Wondering if his touch is as gentle and sweet as I imagine it to be? How do I look him in the eyes after thinking such things? Dreaming such things?
