Page 11 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)

Ten

H e is not well.

He is not well.

He is not well.

For days, the words ring in my ears, again and again, and I cannot shake it. I have been sitting at my writing desk for over three hours now, and I can’t bring myself to do anything but stare at the blank page and the blinking cursor that mocks me. I can focus on nothing else: he is not well .

My gaze turns to the rose sitting proudly in the sleek, elongated vase. The petals bloom beautifully in the dark.

I decide to text Kehau and pick up my phone.

Hey are you up?

Yeah why? What’s up?

I think something’s wrong with my employer.

Oh God

Is he a weirdo?

I knew there was no way he wasn’t a weirdo

What 28 year old needs a live-in personal assistant

Did he do something to you?

Do I need to come get you?

I will.

No, I mean, I think he’s…sick. I think that’s why I was hired.

Aw…

I’m sorry to hear that

Is it serious?

I don’t know. They leave me in the dark.

Well that’s not fair

Is there any way for you to get some kind of answers?

I wrestle with my concern for the first few weeks of work. I rarely see Tristan, and the whispers of his ill health worry me even further. If he really is sick, why is everyone letting him work himself into the ground like this?

I consider the mysterious east wing I’m supposed to stay out of.

I don’t know if I can keep my curiosity at bay any longer.

I’ve tried, but there’s a lingering dark force that continues to stroke at my intrigue.

I stick my phone into the back pocket of my pajama shorts and get up, the chair creaking slightly as I lift my weight.

As quietly as I can manage, I open my bedroom door and peer outside.

No one has rattled my door since that first night, and Mortimer’s warnings about curfew feel like a ploy to keep me in the dark.

The hallway is shadowy and foreboding, but empty as far as I can tell.

A grim chill beckons me forward, and while I know I shouldn’t follow it, I need to find out something .

Anything. I need to know if Tristan’s okay, at the very least. I need to know what everyone is so intent on keeping from me.

I slip out of my room and gently shut my door behind me.

Every footstep I take feels so much louder than normal, as though it's echoing particularly tonight, alerting the rest of the household that I am out of bed past curfew. My heart quickens with every footstep as I cross through the foyer to the east wing, toward the heavy wooden doors that separate it from the rest of the house. The doors I’ve often seen Tristan disappear behind.

With a delicate touch, I attempt to open them, but they’re locked.

I huff silently to myself as I turn around and look up the winding staircase.

A faint smile crosses my face as I remember him standing up on the second floor, looking down at me from the gallery the very first time we met nearly a week ago.

The memory calls me up the stairs, my body trembling as the wood softly groans with each step I take, my hand smoothly gliding up the cool rail.

I have only been upstairs once, when Gisella gave me a tour the first evening.

I look over the gallery at the foyer below before I pivot on my feet, observing the space.

Everything seems much more intimidating when I’m alone in the darkness, and I feel the prickle of hidden eyes watching my every move.

I rub at my neck, trying to soothe myself, and my gaze catches a door she didn’t show me.

As I approach the menacing door at the end of the hall, I hesitate, the brass handle cool beneath my fingers.

I gasp as it gives way. It’s unlocked . A soft creak breaks the silence as I push the door open.

The room is dim, illuminated only by a single, flickering lamp perched suspiciously on a nearby table.

My breath hitches as I look around, wondering if someone else is awake and wandering about.

There are no obvious movements but my own and the same dancing shadows that draw my eyes to the walls.

They’re lined with portraits gazing down at me, their eyes gleaming with life from the lamp. But one painting stands out, dominating the far wall above the mantle—a large portrait of a man whose features radiate an energy like the sun.

A large painting of Tristan Black.

He’s a little younger, and there’s a kindness in his expression that feels almost alive, a stark contrast to the distant and reserved demeanor I’ve encountered.

The colors of the painting, once vibrant, now bear the weight of decay, with cracks spidering through the canvas, threatening to shatter.

But it can’t be that old— Tristan isn’t even that old.

A shiver runs down my spine as I step closer, the atmosphere thickening around me, heavy with an unshakeable fear.

I can’t shake the feeling that something lingers near the portrait, a presence that sends a chill rippling through me.

It’s unsettling, yet I’m drawn in, mesmerized by how different he looks in this captured moment.

His hazel eyes, bright and inviting in the painting, pull me closer, tempting me to explore the layers of his past. I lean in, my heart racing as questions swirl in my mind. Who was he before the shadows crept in? What stories lay buried beneath the surface of that warm smile and bright eyes?

My fingers gently trace along the bottom of the frame, gliding along the layer of dust that has settled upon it. As my gaze drops to watch my finger dance against the grime, I notice a hidden inscription. A frown creases between my brows as I wipe it.

“May this always serve as a reminder of the beast you truly are within.”

Beast?

Just then, a draft sweeps through the room, sending a shudder down to my bones, and the lamp dies out.

I step back, my breath quickening as I glance over my shoulder, suddenly acutely aware of how alone I am in this forgotten space.

The portrait feels alive, and I can’t help but wonder if I’ve crossed some irrevocable threshold.

Like gears suddenly locking into place, my mental map of the house tells me exactly where I am.

This is the east wing.

I’m not supposed to be here.

I quickly retreat and run down the stairs as fast as I am able while still slipping silently through the house until I am safely back in my bedroom.

I shut the door with a gentle click and lean my back pressed against it.

My heart thumps wildly in my chest, like a bird in a cage, as I try to steady my breathing while trying to make sense of what I had just seen.

Beast? Who is a beast ?