Page 10 of Wicked Beasts
For a moment, I don’t know if his text was implying I ought to have opened it or not. I hover the mouse over the email but wait. I gaze at the laptop screen, my breath catching as the emailquickly vanishes. He must be accessing it through his phone. The connection between him and that message pushes a chill down my spine.
Where is he?
My phone dings again, startling me.
Thank you, Miss Amara. You’re done for today. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon. :)
I steal a glance at the time in the upper corner of my phone—it’s barely past noon. I’m not entirely finished organizing his inbox, and I’d like to ask for clarification about whether or not I’m supposed to read his emails in the future. But I’d rather have that conversation in person—otherwise, I’m worried I’ll come across as nosey. In reality, some people just have different expectations for personal assistants, and I’m having a hard time figuring out what Tristan’s are when he won’t even talk to me face-to-face.
I send him a quick ‘thank you’ text for letting me off early and shut his laptop before stuffing my phone back into my pocket. As I rise from the desk chair, I ignore the shadows that seem to deepen in the corners of his study. I grab my leather bag before taking my leave. I feel the weight of the house’s gaze as I tread toward the kitchen, the floorboards creaking underfoot as I am led blindly by the growl in my stomach.
Just as my fingertips hover over the swinging kitchen door, hushed voices drift toward me, weaving an unmistakable web of tension. It’s Mrs. Wong and Mortimer.
“I don’t trust that girl,” Mrs. Wong snaps.
“Regardless, she must be keptsafe,” Mortimer replies, his tone firm.
“Safe,” Mrs. Wong scoffs, her laughter tinged with what sounds like discomfort. “She’s too curious, always pokingaround. What if she encounters Dr. Shadow? We can’t protect her from him, not even Tristan.Especiallynot Tristan.”
“She won’t,” Mortimer states, a surprising vigor echoing in his words of reassurance, resonating with a conviction I’ve never heard from him before.
I step back from the kitchen, heart racing, and make my way swiftly to my bedroom before they catch me eavesdropping. I shut the door with trembling hands, careful not to make a sound as I lean back against the wood and lock the door. My bag slips off my shoulder and hits the floor, the sound drowned out by their whispers replaying in my mind.
Who is Dr. Shadow?
I peel myself off the door and walk to my bed as I dig my phone from my pocket. I type ‘neuroscience PET scan’ in the search bar and climb into the comforting silk sheets.
A brain positron emission tomography (PET) scan is an imaging test of the brain. It uses a radioactive substance called a tracer to look for disease or injury. A PET scan shows how the brain and its tissues are working.
My breath hitches in my throat as I recall Mortimer’s warning from my arrival.
‘Be cautious of getting too close to him, Miss Amara. He’s not well.’
But he appears so vibrant, almost unnaturally healthy. I struggle to suppress the rising tide of dread that threatens to wash over me, a chill settling deep in my bones. Perhaps the PET scan is meant for another; perhaps it’s linked to his academic pursuits. I fight to rein in my intrigue, knowing my imagination will only lead me down a path of unwanted assumptions and suspicions as it attempts to fill in the blanks.
I look at my phone again.
If you're experiencing neurological symptoms, your provider may recommend a PET scan to evaluate possible brain abnormalities, such as tumors, seizures, and other central nervous system conditions.
I immediately shut the browser, the weight of the words suddenly suffocating, but I’m trying my best not to jump to conclusions. I refuse to see him as anything but the striking, albeit awkward, man I met on Friday—the one whose nervous stutter only added to his charm, whose strong arms seemed both protective and inviting. A gentle giant, possibly even a tenderlover. My jaw clenches at the thought; I shouldn’t be indulging in such fantasies.
I shouldn’t be daydreaming in the midst of my anxiety.
Not when he could be sick. Not when he…
Eight
Itry to shake off Tuesday like the sticky remnants of a horrible dream, refusing to let thoughts of the mysterious Dr. Shadow and the PET scan cloud me with unnecessary wonder. I’m used to Tristan texting his instructions now, though I feel a looming void in his absence, wishing I could work alongside him instead. I wonder if he’s somewhere else in this oversized home, or if he’s away at classes each day. Would he entertain the thought of spending time with me, or should I heed Mortimer’s warning to maintain my distance? Tristan seems harmless, yet perhaps the distance is meant to shield me from a deeper heartache. My mind spirals, consumed by my thoughts.
There’s a lot of time to think as I work alone in the study each day—what secrets lie within the east wing? Perhaps it’s filled with medical equipment? Or maybe tonics designed to fortify his strength? Secret experiments?
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
I know nothing but the extent of my imagination.
As I complete the task of reshelving a few dusty physiology textbooks in the library, my gaze drifts to a small collection of literary classics. Edgar Allan Poe, Mary Shelley, and Robert Louis Stevenson call to me like old friends. Nearby, Grimm'sFairy Tales, Aesop's Fables, and Hans Christian Andersen catch my eye, their spines cracked and worn, each page harboring the old magic of legends and lore. I’m soothed by a memory from my childhood of being curled up next to my father as he read me his favorites each night at bedtime.
I carefully extract one of the weathered books from its resting place, feeling its weight as I make my way to my room. But then, a flicker catches my eye; Tristan moves through the foyer, his form silhouetted by the pale fractured light of the chandelier. His shirt clings to him, revealing the taut muscles of his back as he strides toward the east wing, a dark bag slung over his shoulder. Perhaps schooliswhere he slips away to after all.
