Page 22 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)

Twenty-One

I stumble into the dimly lit kitchen, half-asleep and disoriented, yearning for a glass of water to quench the dryness tightening my throat.

I feel as if I’m navigating a dreamscape, the faint glow of the moon illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.

Frustrated with the last two weeks, frustrated with last night, I realize vaguely that I hadn’t paused to check the clock.

I was so desperate for water. Am I breaking the rules again?

All I can think of is getting a glass of water.

I fetch a glass from the cabinet and pull the refrigerator open.

A knock comes with a low thud, heavy and foreboding, reverberating through the air like a warning bell as it startles me fully awake.

I feel an unsettling awareness of the presence at the doorway behind me.

When I turn around, a figure lingers in the entrance, one who wasn’t there only a few seconds ago.

“Oh! God .” I put my hand over my heart as I breathe a sigh of relief and immediately place the still-empty glass on the counter before I drop it.

“Not quite.” His voice is low and seductive, stretching the words as they leave his lips.

“You scared me,” I admit.

He leans casually against the swinging door, a striking figure, exuding a magnetic charm I find impossible to ignore.

He has dark hair, tousled just enough to look effortless, a strong jawline dusted with a rugged scruff that adds an air of danger to his handsomeness.

He dons a black dress shirt, the top buttons undone to reveal a hint of his sculpted chest while the fabric of his sleeves, rolled up to his elbows, are taut against the muscular swell of his forearms. His piercing eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine, both inviting and intimidating.

As he pushes off the door, a confident, mischievous smile curls at the corners of his mouth. “Hello, Miss Rose,” he says, his voice smooth and low.

I feel like I’m going to melt into a puddle.

The way he pronounced the words lingers long after he speaks, as if he knows the effect he has on me and relishes in it.

He steps into the kitchen, and I feel intoxicated by the scent of sandalwood filling the air.

There’s a subtle danger in his demeanor—something unpredictable yet exhilarating.

It mingles with my sleepiness, and his gaze softens momentarily before sharpening again with a smoldering intensity.

“Mind if I join you?” he asks, his confidence almost arrogant.

It’s both alluring and disarming as he walks past me to the bar to pour himself a drink from a liquor shelf next to me.

It’s the kind of invitation that feels like a dare, enticing me to step into something thrilling without knowing where it leads.

I pivot my feet as I turn, my body facing him always as I tug at the hem of my sleep shirt, realizing I am not wearing shorts.

“I thought I met everyone who lived here?—”

“Dante,” he says simply, stepping closer to me, the space between us shrinking.

His imposing stance towering over me sends a chill coursing through my veins.

“But most call me Dr. Shadow.” He hands me a glass of whiskey, and my fingers brush against his.

The fleeting touch of bare skin sends a dizzying rush throughout my body, like the first breath after nearly drowning.

It’s so deliberate and sensuous, leaving me momentarily breathless.

Dr. Shadow , I consider and tilt my head slightly as I mull over my thoughts. Dr. Shadow . The one Mrs. Wong and Mortimer were worried about. The one standing outside of my bedroom.

The man Gisella mentioned—Tristan’s older brother—and she wasn’t lying.

He looks enough like him, a lot like him, but somehow, also everything he isn’t.

He is confident, ruggedly handsome, and seductive , exuding some kind of carnal energy that draws me in like a moth to a flame.

It honestly doesn’t feel quite natural, but I’ve been on the brink of falling for weeks.

The mingle of exhaustion, frustration, and unstoked desire have apparently primed me for this man.

“Is it because you…only come out at night?” I say awkwardly with a smile, trying to cut through the thick air between us. He smirks with a knowing glint in his eyes, and my heart flutters. I quickly take a swig of the whiskey and shut my eyes as it burns the back of my throat and all the way down.

“Something like that.” His voice, smooth and rich, wraps me in an unfamiliar heat.

As his gaze lowers, it feels as if he’s savoring every detail of my body, his eyes tracing each curve, sparking an excitement deep within me.

“Aren’t you a pretty little thing? Beautiful women shouldn’t be wandering about alone at night.

You don’t know what kind of dangers are lurking in the darkness. ”

My face flushes. I’m currently grateful for that darkness.

“Are you the reason there’s a curfew?” I tease, a playful yet sad attempt at banter as I place the glass beside my water cup.

“ Yes .”

His voice sends a shiver down my spine, a cold whisper that tightens my jaw in discomfort. Yet, beneath that chill lies a bewildering intrigue, pulling me deeper.

Dr. Shadow draws nearer, trapping me between his imposing body and the counter behind me. My breath catches in my throat as he reaches to brush a few strands of hair from my cheek, his coarse fingertips brush against my skin as he caresses my jaw. He coaxes me to look up at him.

“Miss Rose,” he says in a low, husky rumble. He turns his hand and glides the back of his fingers down the front of my neck, lingering near my collarbone, his gaze following. His touch makes me weak. “I’ve heard a lot about you—Tristan’s little assistant.”

“Th—that’s—ri—right,” I stammer as he lifts his intense gaze to meet mine.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” he asks, but by his tone, he already knows the answer. “I’ve been so eager to meet you.”

My breath hitches as his fingers trace the neckline of my thin sleep shirt.

“We—I—um—” I can’t form a proper sentence. I can hardly form a proper thought. My heartbeat quickens as he leans closer. The warm desire inside me mixes with a thin, icy thread of fear, and it thrills me.

“Tell me to stop, and I will,” he whispers, his hot breath on my neck as his strong hands find my hips, caressing just beneath the hem line as he hikes up my shirt.

I can’t .

He squeezes my waist.

“Tell me, Miss Amara.” His voice is a low, sultry murmur, thick with lust, and when his lips brush up against my ear, my knees weaken beneath the weight of his desire. His fingers glide along the waistband of my panties while his mouth finds its way to my neck.

I can’t.

I don’t want to .

“I’m going to break you, darling.” His voice is a husky whisper of a promise, sending shivers through me as his teeth graze my skin.

He pulls back, my breath shaky gasps as he drags his thumb against my bottom lip.

His intense gaze lingers on my mouth, a smoldering fire in his eyes before they finally meet mine.

He chuckles darkly, his smile turning predatory.

As he steps away with his glass of whiskey, I am left trembling in the gloom of the kitchen, my mind a whirlwind of confusion, desperately trying to piece together the haunting moment that just transpired. My brows furrow as I try to make sense of it, slowly comprehending his words.

Break me?

“Hey, wait a minute!” I finally uproot my feet and chase after him, but I’m greeted by nothing but an empty, dark hall. No distant footsteps lingering in the air, no signs of life, nothing but the shadows dancing on the walls and the creaking hinges of the kitchen door left swinging behind me.

I stand frozen in the dark hallway, the shadows stretching around me.

My mind churns with the memory of my encounter with Dr. Shadow, his words swirling like an eerie incantation.

“ I’m going to break you ,” he whispered, his breath warm and intoxicating against my skin.

The memory sends a chill spiraling down my spine, a disconcerting blend of fear and desire.

Shaking my head, I try to clear the fog clouding my thoughts.

What just happened?

Was it a dream woven from my darkest fantasies?

Am I even awake?

It felt so real, every sensation etched deeply within me—the weight of his gaze, the intensity of his presence, the promise of something dark and enticing.

With a shuddering breath, I force myself to move, retreating toward my room, desiring to be anywhere but in the dark, ominous hallway where I feel vulnerable and alone.

I slip beneath the silk sheets, and my gaze drifts to the rose standing defiantly in the vase, its vibrant hue a stark contrast against the dim light. I reach out, brushing my fingers over a petal, feeling the subtle softness and the faint signs of wilting.