Page 68 of Wicked Beasts
I had never once seen that side of him. The fear within me is sharp and unsettling, and yet for some reason, my attraction to him remains. I should be scared, terrified, even. A part of me is, but the pull is raw, primal, uninvited. It’s frustrating. Lust and desire twist inside me, unsettling and fierce, even as my fingers lightly trace the bruise beginning to form, its tenderness reminding me of his strength and my weakness.
My eyes wander to the dress box on my bed, and a sudden wave of guilt crashes over me, its weight sinking deep into my chest. I shouldn’t be feeling this way. I shouldn’t be so fixated on Dr. Shadow. Something is wrong—deeply wrong. Something happened. What did he do to Tristan? The audacity, the nerve—how could I possibly have dinner with him after he grabbed me so roughly, after he dismissed me so callously, after whatever it is he’s done to his brother?
I should leave. Gisella warned me. But how can I? How can I leave knowing something happened to Tristan? I can’t leave without knowing. The guilt alone would eat me alive.
I collapse onto the bed beside the box, my body trembling as I fight back tears threatening to spill over. My fingers hover over the edge of the box, tracing its surface without purpose, as if it might somehow provide the answers I need.
I don’t know what to do.
Fifty-Nine
An invisible thread tugs at me, pulling me forward despite every instinct screaming at me to turn back. My body moves on its own, dragging me toward the bathroom, as if I’m going through the motions of some long-forgotten routine embedded into my core that I can’t shake.
The steam from the shower rises around me, thick and heavy, and it feels suffocating, like the very air presses in on my throat and lungs, intensifying the storm brewing inside.
I am at war with myself and my feelings, and I’m not sure I’ll win—as if I know what side I’m even fighting on, or what I’m fighting for. There’s a magnetic pull toward Dr. Shadow, a desire that wraps around me tight like his grip on my wrist, powerful and undeniable. I hate it. The guilt stirring within me is sharp and consuming. I don’t know what happened to Tristan, what Dr. Shadow has done with him, and the weight of that is tight in my chest. I feel like I’ve failed him, like this is my fault. Was their fight because of what I had told Dr. Shadow yesterday? Was this my fault? He told me I was his little spy.
Did that make me his accomplice?
The guilt is suffocating, and I feel it crawling into my throat with the thickening steam of the bathroom.
The motions of getting ready become a struggle, each action feeling heavier than the last as the internal war rages on. I twist my damp hair into a tight coil, wringing out the excess water before wrapping the towel around my body. The bathroom is still congested with steam, the air muggy and overwhelming, and my head feels clouded, as though a fog is seeping in through my wide, blinking eyes, blurring my thoughts as I start to feel faint.
I stumble unsteadily from the shower and make my way toward the window. My fingers fumble with the latch, desperate to open it, to let even a sliver of fresh air in to clear the weight clinging to me and the heat from the bathroom.
The steam is sucked out of the window like a vacuum, leaving the bathroom feeling a little lighter. I inhale sharply, the cool, fresh air filling my lungs, soothing the tightness in my chest. My hand grips the latch of the window frame as I steady myself, my heart pounding in my ears. The frantic thumping reverberates in my head, drowning out everything else. I scan the garden through the window, ensuring no one can see me. A blue butterfly lands briefly on the sill, but thankfully, Manu is nowhere to be seen.
Still holding the towel tightly around my body, I shut the lid of the toilet and collapse onto it, trying to slow the erratic rhythm of my breath and the rapid beating of my heart. Still, dread washes over me, a cold wave that sinks into my bones.
Leaning forward, I rake my fingers through my hair in a half-hearted attempt to untangle the mess, my gaze catching on the purple bruise forming on my wrist. I straighten, my fingers gently brushing the darkening mark. A sudden pressure clamps down on my throat, invisible hands tightening around my neck. A wave of panic rises as I lean back against the porcelain, gasping for air as my hands try to grab at the nothing restricting my airflow.
My consciousness is slipping, wavering in and out as the grip around my throat tightens.
Through the open window, a soft, melodic shushing floats in—gentle, rhythmic, like the soothing lullaby of a mother trying to calm a restless child. The sound is distant, almost ethereal, but there’s an underlying tenderness in it, as though it’s trying to coax me from the edge of panic.
I fight to keep my eyes from closing, my lashes in a flutter, my vision swimming as fingers brush through my hair—delicate and careful, as if sensing the fragility of my current state.
“It’s okay,” the voice murmurs, low and gentle, its tone a soothing balm meant to ease the fear crawling up my spine. The words, though soft, press into my mind with an unsettling calm, but my heart continues to race.
My eyelids flutter as I struggle to stay conscious, but I can’t breathe. That’s when I see her enter the flickering field of my vision—her thin and dull golden hair, her sharp, hauntingly blue eyes.
“Cordelia.” My mouth forms the word, but my constricted throat kills the sound before it reaches my lips.
She senses my struggle to breathe as she continues to thread her fingers through my hair. With her other hand, she glides her fingers softly across my collarbone, her touch light and cold but purposeful as she adjusts the gold chain tightly around my throat, as if trying to relieve it from strangling me.
Tears well in my eyes as I feel my grip on consciousness weakening. For a brief moment, everything is swallowed by darkness. Then, a flicker of light—her figure, just a shadow in my fading vision—appears, only to vanish again as quickly as it came.
“It’s okay,” she says again, her breath like a cold breeze against my ear. “You will be okay, Amara.” Then, her lips press gently to my temple, the touch like ice burning against my skin,sending a shiver through my veins. Yet, I do not feel afraid. I do not sense fear as she comforts me with her cold touch. I do not feel in danger. I feel calm, wrapped in a cool embrace. The world around me blurs, the darkness consuming me entirely.
Everything is quiet. Everything is dark.
There is nothing but the faint sound of my beating heart and the distant struggle of my breath.
Sixty
Iawaken to the sound of bone striking wood, a sharp, jarring knock that cuts through the stillness of the bathroom. The reverberation shudders through me, pulling me from the haze of my unconsciousness. My limbs are heavy, sluggish as I push myself up from the ice cold tiles beneath me. The chill seeps into my bones, a stark contrast to the suffocating heat that still clings to my skin beneath the towel still wrapped around me.
A dull ache pulses at the back of my head, and I lift a trembling hand to my temples, pressing my fingers against the tightness that swells in my skull. The world is blurry, each movement sluggish and clouded. I feel like I’m moving through water. My eyelids, weighed down by exhaustion, flutter open reluctantly. The room around me is dim, fluorescents flickering over the vanity. The air is thick, saturated with the staleness of mildew. The faint scent of dampness lingers, and my eyes glance toward the window.
