Page 72 of Wicked Beasts
“What’s wrong?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper as my gaze falls to the flows of dark brown hair spilling over my shoulders. The soft fabric of my dress gathers at my waist, and I tug it up slowly, almost instinctively, to shield my breasts. A sudden wave of self-consciousness washes over me, making my movements feel clumsy and exposed, as if every part of me is suddenly too visible to his scrutinizing gaze.
He hesitates, his brows knitting in a tight frown, his gaze fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. For a moment, it’s as if he’s looking through me, searching for something that isn’t there, his mind racing at a speed I can almost feel. The air freezes between us, heavy with unspoken thoughts, and I can almost see the invisible gears turning in his head, struggling to place me.
As if he doesn’t know who I am.
“What?” I ask again, my voice barely more than a whisper this time, the uncertainty threading through my words like a faint tremor. I sit up slowly, my hands instinctively smoothing the fabric of my yellow dress as I try to regain some sense of composure, glancing up to find him pulling up his pants. “Dante—” I say, reaching toward him, but he flinches, pulling back with a sudden, almost violent motion.
“Don’t,” he says sharply, his voice firm and final, leaving no room for my protest. His rejection feels like a slap to my cheek.
“What about dinner?” I ask, the words feeling foolish as soon as they leave my lips. The table is a mess, the food forgotten, and neither of us are dressed for the occasion, yet I can’t shake the desperate desire for him to stay. I watch, almost helplessly, as he struggles to button his shirt, his fingers fumbling with the torn fabric. Several buttons are missing, ripped away, and he letsout a frustrated growl under his breath. My heart lurches with pity, but I’m momentarily held in place by shock. His eyes flicker toward me, meeting mine with a warning glare that makes my stomach tighten and my pulse quicken. In that moment, I feel impossibly small, as though any attempt to hold on to him and keep him here would be futile.
I slide off the table, my shoes meeting the floor with a soft thud, but the sound seems far away. Dr. Shadow doesn’t even glance back as he walks out, his silence more cutting than any words could have been. I smooth the hem of my dress absentmindedly, the fabric slipping through my fingers, a pointless attempt to regain some semblance of control. The room feels overwhelmingly empty now, the walls closing in, amplified by his absence. I sink into the chair, my body heavy, my posture collapsing, as though the air itself has defeated me.
My fingers instinctively move to straighten the dishes and utensils scattered across the table during our encounter. Each shift feels like a feeble attempt to restore some order, but I can’t shake the sense of foolishness for staying in the dining room. Running to my bedroom would feel too hasty, too dramatic after he’s already stormed out. I cross my legs, discomfort settling in as the dampness between my torn leggings seeps over my thighs, a harsh reminder of his sudden change in disposition. My body aches for him still, dissatisfied from his sudden withdrawal.
Mrs. Wong comes in, wheeling a cart laden with covered silver trays. The rich, savory scent of food wafts toward me, teasing my withdrawn senses as it circles my nose, stirring an unexpected hunger deep in my stomach, the ache growing sharper in my core.
“Are you still hungry?” she asks me curtly, but her eyes never meet mine as she fidgets with the trays on the cart. I feel like I’ve disappointed her, and a tinge of scarlet brightens my cheeks as heat creeps up the back of my neck in embarrassment. I wonderif she saw our encounter. I don’t think I would have noticed anyone accidentally walking in on us.
I hope she didn’t.
“Starving,” I say softly, my fingers reaching for the golden rose charm laying against my clavicle.
I watch as Mrs. Wong moves with practiced grace, lifting the lids from the silver trays and unveiling a lavish spread before me, the rich aromas making my stomach rumble with anticipation. I can feel myself growing hungrier, my mouth salivating at the sight.
“Would you like to join me?” I ask after hesitating for a moment. “I would hate for all of this food to go to waste.” Part of me is embarrassed by the lack of Dr. Shadow’s presence, and it would be nice to not eat alone.
Mrs. Wong pauses for a moment before she sighs—almost as if in defeat.
“I don’t have an appetite,” she says, her gaze lingering on the charm between my fingers. “But I can keep you company if you’d like.”
I nod, feeling a faint comfort in the small gesture as she slides into the chair beside me, her presence offering a quiet, unexpected warmth.
This night didn’t go at all as I had hoped. I don’t want to be alone.
Sixty-Four
As the days slip by, Tristan fades further into the distance, his presence growing smaller and more distant in my mind, like a whisper carried away by the wind. I haven't seen Dr. Shadow in days—not since that dreadful dinner, not since his cold dismissal of me, the way he looked at me with pure disgust in his eyes. Mortimer, however, seems to be the only person Dr. Shadow will meet with, though he remains tight-lipped whenever I ask about it.
Mortimer looks worse with each passing day, though I never imagined he could look worse than he already did. His appearance has become even more ghostly, if that’s even possible. His eyes are larger than I remember, but not in a way that brings any life to him—instead, they seem hollow, almost vacant. His skin, once the color of damp ash, now seems drained of even that, a sickly, deathly gray clinging to him like a shroud. I haven’t seen him eat, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s the weight of whatever’s unfolding with Dr. Shadow slowly eroding him.
I’ve avoided the library, avoided my laptop, avoided anything that might offer an escape, even reading and writing—those things that once brought me comfort. I even hid the anthologyTristan gave me because I didn’t want to think of him. I didn’t want to be reminded. While it might be nice to lose myself in a story, to drift away into a world where things make sense, it feels pointless now. No matter how deep I go into those pages to escape the nightmare I’ve fallen into, I’ll always wake up, and my reality will remain unchanged.
There’s a part of me that knows the truth in my avoidance—it holds too many memories, each one tangled with a different emotion. I remember the quiet shuffle of my feet between the bookcases, searching for biochemistry books for Tristan, the hum from my laptop fan during my writing sessions, the soft laughter as I shared gossip with Gisella, the way I felt when Tristan asked about my writing. But most of all, I remember the moment everything turned upside down…the encounter with Dr. Shadow that shattered everything.
A tight knot forms in my stomach, the bitter realization sinking in that my job, getting hired, had all been a lie. I haven’t confronted Mortimer about it—haven’t found a reason to. Perhaps, I just don’t want to hear the truth anymore. It’s too late for answers now.
Tristan’s blood is on my hands too. If I hadn’t been so easily captivated, so easily seduced by Dr. Shadow and everything he represented, maybe he’d still be here.
I never should have come here.
I could leave, I suppose, but what would I tell my father?
I need to see this through, wherever it goes. And so far, no one has mentioned firing me…
Yet.
Sitting in the garden, I absentmindedly trace the golden rose charm back and forth along the chain around my neck, the smooth metal cool against my skin. Manu is nearby, his large hands methodically pulling weeds from the soil, though the work feels secondary to the quiet presence he brings. We don’t speakmuch, but there’s something in the way he moves, the way he lingers, that makes me feel like he’s developed some sort of fondness for me, even if he never shows it and likely would never admit to it.
