Page 13 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)

Twelve

I ’m jolted from a restless slumber, a sharp knock echoing through the bathroom.

Startled, I realize I must have fallen asleep against the door, and my body aches with fatigue as I try to scramble to my feet.

The sudden noise reverberates in my mind, pulling me from a world of darkness into the harsh light of reality.

Is this even reality? Am I awake?

I’m finding it harder to tell.

“Amara? Are you alright?” His voice, smooth and velvety, yanks me from my daze, making my heart skip a beat. “It’s Tristan,” he reassures me from beyond the door, a hint of concern lacing his tone.

A smile plays across my lips, and a familiar warmth spreads through me.

Did he really think I wouldn’t recognize that enchanting tone, the melody that haunts my thoughts?

I am not petrified by his presence, not with the door between us—even with the memory of the nightmare looming over me like a stormcloud.

“I-I— um , I’m fine,” I say quickly as I look at myself in the mirror. I quickly rake my fingers through my brown hair to make myself just a tad presentable, but there’s nothing I can do for the dark circles wrapped around my eyes.

Breathless and flustered, I finally manage to unlock the door, only to find myself staring up at his familiar face, etched with concern.

The sunlight from the bathroom window plays across his features perfectly, highlighting the benevolence of his gaze against the backdrop of dim light in the hallway, his glasses tucked into the collar of his shirt, the slight weight of it pulling it down to expose the edges of his collarbone.

He stands tall, his hands hidden in his pockets, but his eyes search mine with an intensity that sends a welcoming shiver down my spine.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” he asks, his voice dropping to a raspy whisper, as if we shared a secret. “Gisella says you’ve been in here for a while.”

“I…I fell asleep,” I murmur, feeling vulnerable under his gaze.

“In the bathroom?” He pulls his hand from his pocket, his gesture sweeping toward the dim hallway, his body turning effortlessly. “Is your bed not?—”

“No! No, no, it’s great,” I insist, stepping into the hallway beside him, my fingers raking through my disheveled hair in a desperate attempt to regain some semblance of composure.

My pajamas cling awkwardly to my body, and I detest the way I must look to him.

It’s cold in the hallway, and I fight the urge to cross my arms over my chest. “I just had a nightmare. Ye-yeah, that’s all.

I came in here to wash my face and just start the day, but I must have been so tired from my dream that I just… passed out.”

“You’re certain you’re okay?” His voice is a low murmur, his gaze tracing the contours of my face with the same intensity that feels both protective and jarring, as if he’s searching for hidden discontentment within my eyes, trying to find the cause of my distress.

I turn my face away, drawing in a deep, shaky breath.

How can I tell him he is the reason for my sleepless nights?

That his presence lingers in the shadows of my mind, haunting my dreams like a specter I can’t outrun?

He looks at me with such kindness and care, I hold my tongue, not wanting him to bear the burden of my turmoil. “It was only a dream,” I assure with a gentle nod as we reach my door. “I appreciate you checking up on me, though. Thank you. It was very sweet of you.”

“Is there anything I can do to make things more comfortable for you?” he asks as he crosses his arms over his chest. I try not to notice the bulge of his biceps or the protruding veins just beneath his skin.

I struggle against the urge to request he spend more time with me.

I turn to look at my door, my hand gently settling against the knob.

It might help with my nightmares, I consider, to not think he’s so scary.

Is that the root of my fears? The distance between us?

I glance at him, at his arms—at the unintentional, or perhaps intentional, barrier he’s created.

I have to consider he likes the distance.

Maybe he prefers it. He’s here but not. His body language is tense and withdrawn, not welcoming, not open.

I inhale sharply, trying to work up the courage to ask.

“Actually—” I say as I turn back to face him, slowly lifting my gaze to his. “I wouldn’t mind if we could spend some time together. The truth is, I know next to nothing about you, and I think maybe getting to know you a little better might help me feel more comfortable as your assistant.”

It’s not a lie, though part of me feels my ulterior motives. Without actually spending time with him, I know I’m at risk of being ruled by my fantasies—the sensual and the terrible.

I am truly concerned for his well-being at this point.

But I can see his expression changing before I even finish speaking.

He shifts his feet to face the hallway rather than me and sweeps his gaze to pretend to consider the idea.

Any tenderness the sunlight once highlighted vanishes.

He stands now, cold and detached, awkwardly shifting, as though I had just asked him to marry me but he’s too kind to directly say no.

He reaches for his glasses tucked into his shirt and puts them on, as if he feels too exposed in my presence without them.

“I would like to keep professional distance,” he says finally, saying nothing I don’t already expect. “But if it would make you feel more at ease?—”

I am surprised, unable to tear my gaze away from him as I hang on every word he speaks.

“—maybe I can fit something into my schedule.”

“Do you mean that?” My eyes light up, overjoyed by his suggestion.

He nods, finally letting his gaze meet mine again. “I don’t mean to be so unfriendly, Miss A—” He smiles as he catches himself. “ Amara . I just have a lot going on.”

“Oh, no, I wasn’t implying you were unfriendly at all! I completely understand that you’re busy.”

“I’ll let you know when a good time is, then?

” he says as he starts down the hall, pivoting as he turns to face me.

I nod so much, I feel like my head is about to snap from my neck.

“Enjoy your weekend.” A friendly, perfect smile crosses his face as his cheeks warm with color, and he gives me a gentle nod before turning around, his hands returning to his pockets.

My eyes then find Mortimer at the end of the hall, staring at me in the silence. Suddenly, the hallway feels much darker and grim without Tristan brightening it.

I clench my jaw and quickly escape to my bedroom to hide from his judgmental eyes.