Page 18 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)

Seventeen

I n the days that follow, I feel as though I’m suspended in a dream, still wrapped in the intoxicating euphoria of the unexpectedly intimate moment between me and Tristan.

It haunts me like a looming specter, echoing in the darkest crevices of my mind—intimate for me, at least; a delicate thread connecting us to one another like a red string of fate.

Yet, his texts for my duties each morning remain distant and formal, showing no emotional attachment, as though nothing has changed between us.

But everything has changed for me.

Perhaps this is what he was trying to avoid with his professional distance .

I’d finally confirmed his studies were directed in a distinctly medical direction.

Therefore, for Tristan, my ankle was likely just another injury to assess—a mere practice experience for him.

I can’t shake the doubt that plagues me; his eyes, though filled with concern, are guarded, mirroring little of the stirring emotions swirling like a storm within me.

I understand that, in his future, there is professionalism required between doctors and patients, but I hate the idea of being seen as just another case to him.

I want to be more than that—a woman he desires, perhaps, not merely a condition to be treated.

But by the middle of the week, I still haven’t seen as much of a glimpse of him, not even in passing, and my heart seems to grow a cold layer of ice to shield it from further pain.

It’s obvious he’s overworking himself, but I’m beginning to think that’s just who he is—a man absorbed in his passion.

Wednesday has been at the forefront of my mind now, knowing we would finally be in close proximity once again at dinner… but will he enjoy it?

Will I?

The distance between us feels like an inexplicable gaping hole, a crack I cannot leap across that stops me in my tracks with nothing but a dangerous bridge of frayed rope and missing wooden planks beckoning me forward, tempting me to take a risk and fall to my most painful end.

Dramatic? Maybe .

But my heart sinks deep into my gut, wilting like the rose on my writing desk, I swear, it was standing proudly and blooming with life only just yesterday.

When he cradled my ankle with such careful hands. When his hazel eyes fixated on my deep brown ones as he looked up at me.

It’s difficult not to take his absence personally.

I am his personal assistant, and that alone should include some level of personal interaction, shouldn’t it?

It feels distinctly unnatural to only communicate with my employer over brief, impersonal texts, and I can’t help but wonder if I’ve done something to make him desire my absence.

I attempt to swallow my frustrations and get ready early, before leading myself to the library in a sad attempt at distraction so I don’t bring my cynical attitude to dinner.

The last thing I want to do is sabotage it by leaning too deeply into my own feelings.

But how hard is it to focus on the reality when he remains so distant?

How hard is it to focus on the truth in his actions when he leaves so much for me to fill in myself?

So much of this could be solved with communication, and yet he hides himself from me.

Do I think I am owed explanations? Of course not.

Do I think I am owed insight to the depths of his inner turmoil? Never.

I know, logically, it isn’t all about me. That would be preposterous and unfair. I know his world does not revolve around me, but that doesn’t make the shut out hurt any less. Neither does knowing these things. Logic never did do much for my emotions, regardless of how much I knew better.

I am also his employee, I remind myself for the millionth time. Perhaps I just need to learn my place.

Yet I can’t help but feel lingering concern for him. Every glimpse I catch of his tired, stressed face sends renewed shockwaves of worry through me. Does he rest? Does he have any friends he can confide in when his research hits a dead end or he receives disappointing results?

The tension between professional distance and genuine concern blur in my heart.

At least the scents of the dusty old books and drying ink circling my nose seems to disarm me almost immediately as I sink into its comforting familiarity in the library.

Even the shadows thrown across the walls and lurking in the darkest corners no longer seem so sinister and foreboding, but instead, almost warm, like forgotten friends anxiously waiting to be rediscovered.

I linger near the desk. While I have never seen anyone actually use it, the items upon it seem to shift from day to day. Even the frozen tears cascading the candles have slid further down. My brows crunch as I notice wisps of smoke steeping from the blackened wicks.

A chilling air nips at the back of my neck as I quickly turn around, expecting to see someone else in the library with me, my hand accidentally knocking into one of the journals on the desk.

My breath hitches in my throat as the book collides with the floor, the impact echoing as it cuts through the silence.

My eyes search the library for another presence, but one never shows itself. My gaze finds the candle again, tendrils of smoke already forgotten in the musty air. I lean over to pick up the journal as I tighten my jaw.

Something falls out of it. A piece of parchment, a letter of sorts.

My teeth bite deep into my lower lip as I unfold the letter.

The handwriting is beautiful, every word formed like art as it paints a picture across the parchment.

A sense of nagging tugs me, knowing it’s not my business, knowing it’s not for my eyes.

I shouldn’t be reading it, but at the same time, it provides exactly what I have been searching for.

Distraction .

Distraction from the weight of my thoughts spiraling down and spinning out of control.

At least…until I read the first three words.

My dearest Tristan …

The sudden chill that creeps across my neck has returned, goosebumps pimpling across my body.

“Miss Amara? Dinner is ready!”

Mrs. Wong’s voice startles me, and I nearly leap out of my skin. I quickly fold the letter and tuck it into my bra strap before trying to angle the journal perfectly at the corner of the desk.

I drift through the hallway, my thoughts a swirling mess of words from the letter, uncertainty pressing down on my chest, overly aware of the letter nestled against my breast. I step in through the threshold and into the dining room, only for the wind to get knocked out of my lungs. The head of the table is empty.

Tristan Black is not there. He’s not sitting there, transfixed in conversation. His voice and comfortingly warm tone is not being carried throughout the room.

Everyone else is conversing like nothing’s wrong, like the host’s absence isn’t unusual at all. Even Manu seems engaged in conversation with Mortimer.

I chew anxiously on my bottom lip as I approach the table, my gaze fixated on his empty chair.

He’s supposed to be here.

How can it not be me ? How can it not be my fault?

The dining room suddenly feels much colder in spite of the warmth present at the table.