Page 64 of Wicked Beasts
A tightness coils in my chest, the air suddenly colder, heavier. My heartbeat quickens in my chest, and I glance toward the door, panic stirring in my veins. Did someone come in while I was in the shower? Had I not noticed, distracted by my pleasure? But how? The thought presses against my ribs in suffocating terror. I step forward slowly, my eyes darting between the box and the locked door, an uneasy tension settling in my stomach. Every part of me feels on edge.
The box is small, exquisitely delicate, and old—its worn surface hints at the passage of time. The rich wood is dark, nearly black, polished to a dull sheen, its corners rounded, as though softened by years of gentle handling. The lid is adorned with a subtle, intricate carving, a design of curling vines and roses.
Inside, resting on a deep purple velvet cushion, is a necklace—its rose-shaped charm catching the dim fluorescents, glimmering ethereally. The metal is aged, gold, and the rose is carefully detailed, each petal etched with delicate precision. The velvet pillow cradles it like a precious relic, the deep hue of the fabric contrasting sharply with the delicate gold of the necklace, creating a haunting sort of elegance.
I can’t help but feel as though it’s not just an object, but a message—a gift.
But from who?
Tristan? Dr. Shadow?
Questions swirl in my mind, each one darker than the last. I quickly pull on my pajamas, my eyes never leaving the small, ornate box and the necklace it cradles. The charm glints in the dim light, taunting me with its new mystery.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I summon the courage to slip the necklace from its velvet cushion. My fingers tremble as I fasten it around my neck, the cool metal resting against my skin.
I glance up at the mirror, the fog beginning to clear, leaving behind a dripping reflection. For a brief, unsettling moment, something shifts—someone else seems to be staring back at me. It’s a stranger’s gaze, dark and familiar, yet not mine.
A chill spasms up my spine, and I stumble backward, my breath catching in my throat. My pulse spikes, blood rushing to my ears as I blink rapidly, trying to will the image away. But when I look again, only my own reflection remains—just me,standing alone in the bathroom, my brown hair dripping over my bare shoulders.
My heart thumps like a drum in my chest.
Fifty-Five
The manor holds many secrets, but none intrigue me more than the locked door at the end of the softly lit hallway. As I approach, the whispers in the walls grow louder, and a chorus groans from the floorboards, urging me to turn back. Yet, the mystery draws me in with a tight grip around my throat. The shadows reach for me, beckoning me into the abyss as they weave and dance. We intertwine, forging an undeniable connection between us I can’t escape.
With trembling hands brushing the knob, I insert the old key I stole from Mrs. Wong, and the door creaks open, greeting me with an eerie stillness. The room is overwhelmingly dark and gloomy, and my heart racing in its cage begs me to retreat.
But I can’t.
I won’t.
Because at the center of it all, a figure awaits me, dripping with desire and promise.
He vanishes into the shadows, swallowed by a thick cloud of smoke that seems to coil around him. I glance up at the portrait hanging above the mantle, and there, staring back at me, is Tristan Black. But as I watch, his face begins to shift, the softness in his features sharpening as the scruff along hisjawline darkens, his eyes losing their warmth and deepening into something colder. His glasses vanish completely. In the space of a heartbeat, he transforms intoDr. Shadow.
I blink, trying to clear the blur from my vision, but the image remains stubbornly fixed, as if mocking me, looking down as he drinks me in and undresses me with his eyes. My mind races to catch up with what I’m seeing, but the harder I stare, the more the lines between Tristan and Dante bleed, tangled in a way I can’t begin to unravel.
The door behind me swings open with a low, groaning creak, the sound slicing through the tension in the room. I turn to face it, and the soft murmur of voices drifts down the hallway, faint whispers that ride the breeze, disturbing the heavy drapes as they flutter ever so slightly. My hand reaches instinctively for the nearest candlestick, fingers brushing against its cold metal surface. A flame ignites on its own, casting a sudden, flickering glow that dances across the room, my shadow stretching on the wall behind me like an ominous beast stalking me as its prey.
I follow the trail of voices, pulled by an invisible thread that guides me toward them. The hallway is flooded with darkness, the indistinct whispers growing louder, seeping from behind a door just ahead. It feels as though they are beckoning me, urging me closer.
I lift my hand, fingers trembling slightly as they hover above the door. I hesitate, the weight of the moment pressing on me. Then, with a soft exhale escaping my lips, I strike the door with my knuckles, the sound of bone against wood sharp and unsettling in the quiet night. The whispers fade abruptly as the door swings open with a sudden force, as if a gust of wind has swept through, uninvited and insistent, breaking entry and letting me in.
The candle trembles in my hand, its flickering flame barely holding back the darkness as I step into the room. A man and awoman sit by a grand fireplace, the warmth of the flames casting eerie shadows on their figures. The man, muscular and broad, holds a beer carelessly, his lips curling into a smirk as he leans back, relaxed and confident. The top few buttons of his shirt are undone, glasses tucked neatly into his breast pocket. The material hugs his body tightly, as if caressing him lovingly. His scruff darkens his face, and I’d recognize the intensity of his eyes anywhere. It’s Dr. Shadow.
I inhale sharply, breath catching in my throat as my gaze shifts to the woman beside him. Her hair, a dim cascade of gold, catches the firelight, and her piercing blue eyes gleam with a cold, calculating intensity. Her heart-shaped face is unnervingly familiar. She brushes a lock of hair behind her ear, her movements slow and deliberate. On the table near the figures sits a tray of small glasses filled with clear liquid, a bowl of limes and salt. Leaning in closer to him, she whispers something in a soft, silken tone, not loud enough for me to hear, and her words end on a breathless giggle.
Cordelia.
I watch them from the doorway, the distant hum of their conversation barely reaching me. The flames dance and crackle in the fireplace, casting an orange glow that flickers like a haunting specter across their faces, painting them in an unsettling light. It feels as though the fire itself is trying to reveal something—something hidden in their exchange.
“You didn’t have to beat him up so badly, you know.” Her fingers crawl up his arm, squeezing his bicep, her touch light and teasing.
His large hand moves to her face, fingers grazing her cheek, and she leans into his palm. “He shouldn’t have touched you.”
With a sharp inhale, suddenly, I am in her place. It’s my cheek he caresses now. His fingers slide across my skin, sending a jolt through me. His eyes—those dark, possessive eyes—lockon to mine, and I feel the weight of his gaze settle over me with a hunger that makes my breath catch. His hand reaches up, his fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer with a sharp tug.
“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice low and dark, wrapped in both command and desire. His lips hover near my exposed neck, his breath warm and inviting. He pours salt on my skin just before he drags his tongue over my throat to my jaw, sending a shiver down my spine. Dr. Shadow turns away for only a moment to take a shot from the table. I seize the lime from the glass and slip it into my mouth, the tangy burst of flavor sharp on my tongue. He grins at me, eyes darkening with a slow intensity, before leaning in to kiss me, his lips colliding with mine to share it.
