Page 79 of Wicked Beasts
Slowly at first, he withdraws almost fully before plunging back in, burying himself entirely. He sets a steady rhythm, each thrust measured and deliberate, designed to stroke the embers of my desire into a raging inferno. Tristan angles his thrusts, hitting that spot deep within me that makes me see stars. His pace quickens, as if he’s determined to send me over the edge again.
My moans escalate into high pitched cries of pleasure as his expert thrusts awaken a hunger within me. Each stroke of his length sends shockwaves of heated passion coursing through my veins, leaving me breathless and writhing beneath him.
I meet his movements with equal fervor, my hips rising to his downward plunges, creating a sensual symphony of clashing bodies and ragged gasps. My nails dig into his back, scoring his skin as I hold on for dear life, my entire being focusing on the carnal torture of his possession.
“Harder,” I plead, my voice a hoarse whisper. “Please,Mr. Black. Fuck me harder.”
Tristan growls low in his throat, a sound of pure satisfaction, as my plea spurs him on. He grips my hips, his fingers digginginto the softness of my flesh as he increases the force and speed of his thrusts. The bed creaks beneath us, the headboard slamming against the wall with each powerful drive of his hips. His relentless pounding brings me to the brink of madness. My fingers scrabble to grasp the sheets, his arms, my hair, in a desperate attempt to hold on, to anchor myself as sensation grows and overwhelms my senses. The pleasure is almost unbearable, truly a delicious agony that threatens to consume me.
With a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself and I can feel the hot eruption fill me entirely as my own orgasm crashes over me. He collapses on top of me, his weight comforting against my sweat-slicked skin as he nuzzles into the crook of my neck, my body trembling from pleasure.
For a long moment, we simply lay there, basking in the afterglow. Then, with a contented sigh, Tristan rolls to the side, pulling me into his arms. He strokes my hair, his fingers weaving through the damp strands as he gazes into my eyes, his expression soft and adoring.
I nestle into his embrace, my body still humming with the echoes of ecstasy. I feel cherished, protected, and safe in the warmth of his arms. I lift my hand to graze his cheek with the softness of my touch, marveling at the gentleness of his features, the kindness that shows through even in the aftermath of such raw, primal passion.
My eyes drift shut as I surrender to the tranquility, the soothing rhythm of his heartbeat a lullaby against my ear. In this moment, surrounded by the heat of his body and the security of his arms, there is nowhere else I would rather be.
Seventy
Tristan presses a soft kiss to Amara’s forehead before carefully slipping out of bed, leaving her deep in sleep. He moves quietly around the room, pulling his pants up and fastening the zipper before slipping his sweatshirt back on. He pauses, casting one last, lingering glance at Amara, her peaceful form bathed in the soft morning light. For a moment, he listens to the gentle rise and fall of her breath. The sheets are tucked snugly around her, hugging her up to her chin as she sleeps soundly, beautifully, undisturbed.
He slides his glasses back on before quietly slipping out of her bedroom. He moves soundlessly over the hardwood floor as he walks through the foyer. Each step is deliberate and gentle, mindful not to disturb anyone in the house, even though he knows everyone is awake and somewhere nearby. The last thing he needs is to draw their attention.
He needs to be alone.
As he enters the east wing, the chaos Dr. Shadow left behind hits him like a cold breeze. Papers are scattered everywhere, torn to shreds. Months of his meticulous research, now reduced to meaningless scraps. The work he had poured himself into, allin the desperate hope of ending this nightmare, had always felt futile. Still, he’d always told himselfthere must be a way.
For months now, he’d known the truth. It had always been obvious, if he were honest with himself, but he hadn’t wanted to accept it.
There is no answer, no way to survive without his counterpart. For a brief moment, he considers that maybe he could continue their tenuous coexistence—but Dr. Shadow crossed a line when he tried to kill Amara.
It’s time for this to end. He can’t risk Amara’s life out of selfishness.
What was it Amara told him? She admired his selflessness and tenacity?
A painful smile crosses his lips.
Tristan moves quietly through the room, the soft creak of the floorboards the only sound as he steps carefully around the wreckage. He gathers the torn fragments of papers, each one a reminder of the months of work now violently ripped apart, and puts them where they now belong: the trash. With methodical precision, he sets the overturned furniture back into place, the heavy weight of each piece a stark contrast to the lightness of his movements. His hands move steadily, as if restoring order to the room will somehow reestablish a sense of control to the chaos within him.
He walks over to his desk, still a mess of scattered notes and medical textbooks flipped open to neurochemistry pages, and kneels beside it. He feels beneath the lowest drawer on the left for a key. His fingertips brush its cold metal, and he pulls it free. Rising to his feet, he moves toward a nearby cabinet, the wooden door creaking as he opens it. Inside, he finds what he’s looking for: a syringe, sterile and gleaming, and a vial of potassium chloride, its contents sealed tightly, waiting for their grim purpose.
His hands tremble, but only slightly, as he sets up the IV drip. He pulls a bag of chilled saline from a small refrigeration unit and hangs it from a hook, the tubing snaking down, ready to be hooked to a catheter he placed into his own arm. The cold from the saline will spread through him, numbing from the inside out. It’s something he’s paired with a mixture of benzodiazepines, beta-blockers, and dopamine antagonists.
A carefully crafted chemicalprison.
Tristan walks to his bathroom, where he stands at his bathroom sink, staring at the small assortment of pills in his trembling palm. The overhead light flickers, casting sharp, angular shadows across his face, highlighting the exhaustion etched in his features. His reflection stares back at him, but his eyes aren’t quite right. They’re too sharp, too intense, the gleam of Dr. Shadow lurking just behind them. He grips the counter harder, as if he’s trying to hold himself together.
All of this ends now.
He draws a steadying breath, clenches his jaw, and swallows the pills dry, the bitter taste lingering in his throat. The effects are almost immediate as he staggers back to his desk.
Tristan paces as the benzodiazepine spreads like liquid lead in his veins, his limbs growing heavy, his thoughts slowing. The beta-blocker dulls the rapid thud of his pulse, silencing the usual flood of adrenaline Dr. Shadow feeds on.
The room stills around him as he sinks into his desk chair, his body sagging under the weight of the chemicals. He hooks the IV tubing to the catheter in his arm.
For the first time in a long time, he feels…still.
He presses his fingers to his temple, his thoughts growing sluggish. But instead of a rising panic, his heartbeat stays slow, his body calm, unwilling to respond.
