Page 77 of Wicked Beasts
“This is a good thing, right?” I whisper, my voice barely audible as she guides me back to my bedroom. She doesn’t answer immediately, simply settling me back into bed with quiet efficiency.
After a long pause, she finally speaks. “I don’t know.” Her voice is soft, uncertain. “Please rest, Miss Amara. It’s been a long night.”
She meets my gaze with weary eyes, her hand giving my leg a soft pat over the comforter she tucked around me. I offer her a quiet nod, the weight of my body pressing in, sinking deeper into the softness of the mattress.
Rest does sound nice.
Sixty-Eight
Ishift in bed, the warmth of the sun's rays creeping through the window, waking me from my sleep. As I move, an ache spreads through my muscles, a painful reminder of everything that happened last night. My heartbeat suddenly picks up, and my throat tightens, an overwhelming sense of panic flooding me. I can't breathe. I begin to thrash, tossing the sheets and blanket off as I desperately try to free myself from the grip of my bed. For a moment, it feels like the ocean is closing in around me, my head underwater as I swallow gulps of the sea.
I slide off the mattress and crash onto the wooden floor, my feet still tangled in the sheets. I gasp. The impact of the fall snaps me out of my nightmare after the terror of drowning flooded back and consumed me. My hand instinctively presses against my throat as I desperately suck in air, as if my windpipe might close again at any moment. I try to calm myself, to steady the beating of my racing heart as I etch my fingers against the floorboards to ground myself in the moment.
“You’re okay,” I croak, trying to reassure myself, but even that feels like a lie. I take a shaky breath and push myself off the floor. My legs tremble beneath me, unsteady, as if I’m taking my first steps all over again. I stagger toward the writing desk, mygaze drawn to the small, ornate mirror on the wall. I need to see for myself, need to check the marks on my neck—I need to prove I’m free of his clawing fingers.
But the reflection staring back at me is not mine.
My heart skips a beat, a cold wave of fear rushing through me as I blink, certain my eyes must be deceiving me. I must still be trying to shake the sleep from my eyes. The reflection is recognizable but not mine—sharp features, hollow, blue eyes that seem to bore into me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. I stagger back, my pulse quickening, and for a moment, I wonder if I’m still dreaming, or if some nightmare has crawled into the waking world. I rake my fingers through the amber blonde hair in my reflection as I look down at what spills over my shoulders. My hair isbrown, dark brown, like coffee or melted chocolate.
Not like unwound spools of golden thread.
I look in the mirror again. The corner of her lips pulls her mouth up into her cheek as it curves into a knowing smirk, taunting me. Then, before I can think, before I can react, her arm shoots out from the mirror. Slender fingers coil around my throat with unnerving speed and precision, as though she had been waiting for this very moment.
A blood-curdling scream rips from my throat as I stagger back, my arms flailing wildly. My hand knocks the mirror clean off the wall, and it crashes to the floor just as I do, scattering jagged shards of fractured glass across the room.
My bedroom door suddenly flies open, the doorknob colliding loudly with the wall.
“Miss Amara, are you alright?”
That voice.
My heart skips a beat as I look up from where I’m sprawled on the ground. There he stands, his perfectly combed hair and dark-rimmed glasses framing his intense gaze. His sharp jawlineis accentuated by his clean-shaven face, and the pale beige sweatshirt he wears clings to his broad, muscular frame in all the right ways. My breath catches in my throat.
Tristan.
I pretend to not notice the cuts and bruises on his face that are surprisingly identical to something I’ve seen before, some hidden by his glasses, and the darkness they cast across his face as he gently lifts me from the floor and guides me back to the bed. His hands are careful, steady, but his voice tightens when he warns me to avoid the broken glass. He calls for Mrs. Wong, but the words slip past me. I can’t focus on anything but him, his presence overwhelming.
“You’re here,” I whisper, barely able to form words. My relief washes over me. I hadn’t realized until this moment just how deeply my worry that Dr. Shadow had killed him clutched my heart. His gentle, calm presence steadies me instantly, and I’m simply grateful. Grateful he’s alive. Grateful he’s here. Grateful his light still glimmers in this dark place. His gaze remains on the floor, lingering on the shards of glass, his own eyes staring back at him from the mirror fragments.
Tristan finally meets my gaze after tearing it away from his reflection, his tired hazel eyes soft but still as captivating as ever, with a depth I can only hope to understand one day. A faint, weary smile tugs at the corner of his lips.
“Thanks to you, I hear.”
It’s nothing, I want to say, but I can’t bring myself to. It wasn’t nothing. My fingers instinctively brush the bruises around my neck, my gaze dropping to the floor.
He catches the shift in my mood, his expression softening as he sits beside me on the bed.
“What happened?” he asks, his voice gentle. “No one told me.”
I hesitate, my fingers grazing the bruises along my collarbone. “He tried to drown me.”
Tristan stands abruptly, but I instinctively reach for his wrist as he starts for the door. He stops when my fingers brush against his skin, and he glances down at my hand gripping him. He pauses for a moment, though he doesn’t meet my eyes, keeping his gaze fixed on my fingers.
“Please stay,” I whisper.
Finally, he looks up at me. His expression is stone and unreadable, though I think there’s a hint of embarrassment splashed across his cheeks, or perhaps shame. I’m not sure why.
“I know you want to kill him,” I say, searching his face for some sort of compassion for Dr. Shadow. I find none—none that surfaces, at least. Not even a hint of it.
