Page 65 of Wicked Beasts
The room dissolves in a swirling cloud of smoke, vanishing in an instant.
Fifty-Six
When I wake, everything is hazy. My head is pounding, my eyes hurt.
Did I sleepwalk? Had I dreamed all of that? Had I crawled back into bed in my dreams and woken up in reality? My hands fumble with the comforter, focusing on the material between my fingers as I try to ground myself here, in this bed, in the waking world.
What was real? How much was a dream?
My head throbs, a relentless, pulsing ache that echoes from within the very walls of my skull. The faint crackle of electricity hums through my room, buzzing incessantly in my ears. I drag the heavy comforter off me, its weight suffocating, and push myself from the bed—a feeble escape from the prison of its false, deceptive warmth. My fingers tremble as they press against my temples, buried beneath the unruly tangle of dark hair. I swing my legs over the edge, my feet meeting the cold floor with a sharp, biting chill that prickles into my skin.
Then, a crash—violent and sudden—rips through the silence. It reverberates in my bones, like thunder in a storm. I risequickly, my body stiff and unsteady, and scramble toward the door. My hands grasp the cold metal knob, its chill seeping into my palm as I tug it open. Just beyond the threshold, there he stands.
Mortimer.
“Good morning, Miss Amara,” he says, his voice smooth, drawn out. “I do hope you slept well.”
“What was that noise?” I ask, tilting my head slightly, my gaze flickering around him, as if I might find answers hidden in the dark behind his imposing figure.
“What noise?” he asks, his tone unfazed.
I force my dancing eyes to focus on him, narrowing them with growing suspicion.
Another crash shakes the house, sharp and jarring, sending a rush of panic through me. My heart pounds as my eyes flicker toward the foyer. It’s unmistakably coming from the east wing.
“Is Tristan?—”
“Mr. Blackis having a rough morning,” Mortimer interrupts, his voice cool as ever. He steps back, lifting a large, pale box with effortless grace. His strength for such a frail-looking man never ceases to surprise me. “You will be joining him for dinner this evening, yes?”
I nod, my gaze fixed on the box in his hands. He tilts his head slightly, a silent command for me to move aside. I press my back against the door as he steps into my room, the shadows clinging to him.
“What is this?” I ask, my voice quiet as he places the box on the bed.
“A gift for you to wear this evening.”
“Tr—Mr. Black—bought me a gift?”
As he turns back to face me, his gaze falls to the rose charm resting against the base of my throat. For a fleeting moment, I catch what could be a glimmer of worry in those holloweyes, though I wonder if I’m only imagining it. I can’t picture Mortimer, or Mrs. Wong, for that matter, being concerned with my well-being.
“Be wary of the shadows, Miss Amara,” he says, his voice low and steady, and I scratch uncomfortably at my collarbone. Slowly, he lifts his gaze to meet mine. “The abyss is not easily escaped.”
Without another word, Mortimer leaves. I glance at the box on my bed for a brief moment before following him. He crosses the foyer and knocks on the door to the east wing. Tristan answers. He looks tired, eyes filled with exhaustion as he pinches the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. Frustration darkens his face, his brows furrowing. He looks like he wants to protest, but eventually, he steps aside, allowing Mortimer to enter. I bite my bottom lip, watching as the door immediately shuts behind them.
I have to trust that, whatever is happening with him, Mortimer will handle it.
Inhaling deeply, I turn and walk back to my room, eager to see what awaits me inside the box. It’s an elegant shade of pearl that almost glows under the dim light of the morning sun, tied with a silk golden ribbon that feels too soft to be real. The corners are reinforced with delicate gold furnishings, and as I lift the lid, the faint scent of roses and old parchment greets me.
Peeling back the delicate layers of tissue paper, my fingers tremble with anticipation. A wash of pale, creamy yellow greets my eyes, its satin sheen catching the light and shimmering softly. I freeze, my breath hitching in my throat.
It’s beautiful.
The fabric spills out, smooth and weightless, and I can already imagine how it would feel against my skin, cool and silken. The off-the-shoulder design, with its gathered sleeves, gives it a charm that’s both playful and elegant. I can’t help butbrush my fingers over the hem, tracing the gentle edges. The color feels like the warm rays of sunshine woven into fabric, golden and alive.
I pull the dress from the box, and my eyes catch the delicate bow tied at the back—sweet, simple, and perfect. For a brief moment, I picture myself in it, pressing the soft fabric against my chest—bare shoulders kissed by an autumn breeze, the pale yellow swaying gently against my thighs with each step. I close my eyes and spin, twirling softly, and then I nearly collide with Mrs. Wong.
She stands in my doorway in silent, stony judgment. Her gaze flickers toward the base of my neck and, just like Mortimer, there seems to be a flicker of concern, but it vanishes just as quickly as her eyes meet mine. She crosses her arms slowly, deliberately, as if sealing herself off.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” I ask, lifting the dress slightly, trying to shake off the fleeting worry that crosses her face. I look down at the fabric, pressing it softly against my body. “I can’t wait to wear it. I think it’ll look amazing paired with some fishnets?—”
