Page 66 of Wicked Beasts
“I need your help with some things,” she cuts in, her tone sharp. “Mortimer has a long day ahead of him, and I’ll have to take over his duties temporarily.”
I blink, the moment slipping from me like smoke through my fingers. Her words scatter my thoughts of the evening. My gaze drifts past her, a silent pull toward the foyer, where the crashing noises and Tristan’s frustration still linger from the east wing.
“Right, of course,” I murmur, gently laying the dress back in its box. “I’ll just get changed.” I glance at her, watching as she turns to leave. “Is everything alright?”
She stops in her tracks, but she doesn’t turn around.
“No.”
My heart drops at the exhale of her breath.
Fifty-Seven
The day stretches on, heavy and relentless on my heart. Mrs. Wong piles a few quick errands on top of my usual duties, but nothing significantly out of the ordinary. Since Gisella left, I’ve grown used to the difference in work. Lately, my primary work has been less ‘personal assistant’ and more ‘maid’, and I find the repetitive rhythm of cleaning soothing. These tasks are simple, mindless, which is a relief. I wouldn’t be able to focus on anything academic anyway. My mind is a tangled mess—thoughts and emotions swirling in a constant, unyielding haze, never seeming to drift very far from Tristan. My eyes keep flickering toward the east wing, drawn to it like a magnet, my mind replaying the events of the morning again and again.
I have to force myself to turn away every time I walk through the foyer. Worry weighs heavily on my shoulders and settles deep in my heart, where it grows like an invasive vine over my organs. I don’t know if he’s okay, if hewill beokay. But standing here, staring helplessly at the door, does nothing.
I grab the keys to the manor’s car, and again, I force my feet to move.
It is late in the afternoon by the time I return from my errands, an eerie silence washing over me from the moment I step foot in the front door. It’s unusual to walk through the entrance and not have Mortimer greet me. Instinctively, my eyes turn to the east wing, my unspoken thoughts a mangled web as I wonder if they’re both still in there.
A sudden crash makes me jump and nearly drop the bag in my arms. The sharp sound of something heavy slamming into wood reverberates throughout the mansion, followed by a muffled thud, as if something or someone has fallen hard. I freeze, my heart hammering in my chest, my breath jagged. My instincts scream at me to move, but my feet are rooted in place in the foyer, standing, staring, my arms barely holding the bag pressed hard against me. The silence following the crash is thick, almost suffocating, and I wonder if I’ve imagined it. But then, the faintest echo of a struggle drifts through the air. A gasp. The shuffle of shoes. The faint scrape of something dragging across the floor.
Another crash, closer this time, followed by the sound of something—or someone—crashing into the wall. The creak of the old manor groans under the weight of whatever is happening beyond my sight. My hand tightens around the strap of the bag, knuckles turning white, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the double doors.
The struggle intensifies, the sound of a scuffle, like shoes slipping across polished floors. Something crashes again, followed by a harsh, guttural growl. The sounds are messy—desperate. I can’t make out the words or what’s happening, but it sounds terrible.
I should help. But what can I do?
I can’t move.
The next crash snaps me out of my petrification. Forcing my legs to act, I move, almost stumbling toward the east wing. Thenoise becomes a blur of sounds—clattering, grunting, slamming. A door opens and shuts. I hear Mortimer, but his voice is strangled, low, his words indistinguishable.
“Stop this madness,” Mortimer says, his voice loud and stern through the heavy door. It’s the first thing I can hear clearly through the wood as I stand just on the other side, my hand hovering above the latch. “Mr. Black!”
“Stay out of this!” The words come out a disorienting blend, the sound of them stretching unnaturally between two different tones. One voice is softer, almost pleading, but the other is low, feral, and twisted with fury. They speak together, yet they are not the same, one sinking beneath the other like a whisper smothered by a shout.
The shift between the voices is a twisting storm. One moment, the words are civil, gentle, and the next, they’re dark, brutal, like starved beasts caged too long and ready to feed.
I press my ear closer to the door, but I can't tell if I’m listening to one man or two, the voices overlapping until they become indistinguishable. A sharp crack, followed by a low growl, makes the air tense. The softer voice murmurs something under its breath, the words faltering, like a man losing a battle. “You can’t do this, Tristan. I won’t let you.Please.”
Is that Dr. Shadow? It can’t be.
Then, the growl again, louder, stronger. “I will not let you ruin my life.”
The words are distinct, and with the slam of certainty, I know Triastn’s voice without any doubt. How could I have had difficulty distinguishing his words before? In the moment of ominous, uneasy silence, my brain supplies the answer: I have never heard Tristan’s voice so full of anger and resentment. I’ve also never heard Dr. Shadow beg.
And then, I hear it: a breath, a shudder. A tremor in a last gasp.
“I won’tletyou,” Dr. Shadow says it again, finality giving edge to the pitiful imploring in his voice.
I take a hesitant step back from the heavy double doors, the cold of the polished wood pressing against my fingertips as my breath catches in my throat. He won’tlethim? The words churn in my mind, unsettled, as I lift my hand toward the door to knock. But before my knuckles can meet the wood, an instinct pulls me in a different direction. My fingers brush against the tarnished brass knob, ready to turn it with a quiet twist.
“Miss Amara,” a voice cuts through the stillness behind me, sharp and unexpected. I freeze, my heart skipping a beat as Mrs. Wong’s figure appears in the dim light. Her expression displays evident stress and concern, her head tilted slightly, her gaze darting between me and the doors as she raises her brows. “What are you doing?”
“I-I heard fighting,” I begin, the words faltering on my tongue. Before I can finish, the door opens slowly.
I stagger back instinctively just as Mortimer steps into view, the door closing silently behind him. The shadows reluctantly spit him out of their dark embrace, the creeping tendrils stretching willowy fingertips across the floor, clinging to his dark pant legs and polished shoes.
