Page 23 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)

Twenty-Two

T he encounter with Dr. Shadow lingers in my mind, leaving me shaken and uncertain.

I question whether it truly happened, or if it was merely a trick of my imagination, a fleeting dream woven from fear of the shadows.

The manor’s oppressive darkness seems to magnify in my fears, amplifying the sensation that I am being watched.

Perhaps he is the embodiment of his name, lurking in the shadows that seep into every corner and overtake every room.

Waiting.

Watching me.

The hours slip away like smoke as I remain distracted by the occurrence.

I avoid the kitchen, not wanting to see whether the glasses we used were still there on the counter—and to avoid the rushing memory of the intimate moment.

I did not want to have intimate moments with Dr. Shadow.

I did not want to react to him. Gisella was right about him; there was some kind of danger that lingered in the air when he came near me.

So why am I struggling to convince myself he is no good?

Perhaps it’s his relation to Tristan that confounds me.

How can someone so shrouded in darkness be related to someone as pure as Tristan?

Their energy seems to oppose one another in every way I can imagine.

Unless, of course, Tristan is not as virtuous as he appears to be, hiding dark secrets of his own beneath that seemingly bright facade.

I halt in my tracks, catching sight of Tristan in his study, as though he had manifested there purely from my thoughts.

He sits at his desk, glasses resting elegantly on his perfect nose, meticulously sorting through a stack of papers.

I chew on my bottom lip, glancing around the sunlit room, wary of Mortimer or Mrs. Wong’s presence, before I make my way to the door.

I knock softly, and he looks up, his expression shifting as our eyes meet.

“Tristan, may I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” he says. His smile warms me; my knees want to give out, but I try to maintain a professional demeanor. “What’s on your mind?”

Gazing into his hazel eyes, I struggle to speak. My breath catches in my throat as I avert my eyes for a few seconds, trying to gather my thoughts that have seemed to slip away from me.

“It’s about your brother,” I say finally, taking a hesitant step toward him. “ Dr. Shadow .”

He draws in a breath, and suddenly, the air feels tense between us.

“What about him?” he says, now avoiding my gaze as his attention quickly returns to the papers.

“I…um…” As I start, I wonder if I should be saying anything at all. The way Mortimer and Mrs. Wong spoke of him makes me feel like I should , but it’s my fault I was out of my room in the first place last night. Had I listened, I never would have crossed him. “I met him last night. In the kitchen.”

Tristan begins rearranging things on his desk, piling books, and sorting through papers as he continues to avoid letting his eyes fall on me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss Amara. He’s not here.”

I feel a kick in my chest as our interactions continue formal and detached. I clench my jaw.

“Yes, he is . I know what I saw.” A deep crease of frustration forms between my eyebrows as I frown. “He came to the kitchen, right after midnight. We spoke and…well, he—he?—”

“He what ?” Tristan asks, his gaze finally landing on mine, but his expression is dismissive as he tilts his head, waiting for me to speak.

Threatened me .

I want to say it, but I can’t bring the words out of my mouth.

“He…he made an impression.”

Tristan’s gaze drifts away, his jaw clenching. “Well, I assure you, I have no idea what you’re talking about. My brother is not here. Perhaps it was a dream? You did say you were having nightmares. Now, if you’ll just excuse me…”

“That’s not possible,” I insist, feeling a growing sense of frustration gnawing at my core. “I know what I saw. He looked… He…he looks just like you but older, and…”

“And what?”

Rugged. Seductive. Carnal.

“I don’t know,” I say sheepishly. I hate that he’s being so cold and dismissive. “Different.”

“Again, probably a dream, Miss Amara. The brain is quite fascinating.”

It takes every ounce of strength not to clench my fists and narrow my eyes. Tristan’s dismissal only fuels my determination to get to the bottom of this. I lean forward, my voice firm but controlled.

“It wasn’t a dream, Mr. Black . I know what I saw.”

“Do you?” Tristan’s eyes narrow, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he challenges me.

I am taken aback by his boldness. For a moment, I think he might finally crack, reveal some truth about his enigmatic brother.

But instead, he rises from his desk chair, signaling the end of our conversation.

“I appreciate your diligence, but this is not a topic for further discussion. Please focus on your actual duties and leave my family matters alone.”

With that, he turns his back on me, effectively dismissing me from the room. I bite back a retort, recognizing when my attempts are useless. I no longer feel the same determination, as if he managed to drain me of the fuel and extinguish my fire.

Whatever connection I thought we shared begins to dissolve before my eyes, like mist vanishing in the morning light.

I want to protest in a meek attempt to catch it, to scream that his dismissal stings like a cold wind, that all of this is unfair, but my anger mixes with a deep-seated embarrassment, rendering me speechless.

Is it my place to say those things? Is it my place to pry into his family life?

I am nothing but his personal assistant.

My cheeks flush a bright red, a tempest of emotions swirling within me, yet I can’t summon the courage to voice my frustration, feeling completely silenced in the heavy stillness of the room.

I stare at his back, watching the strong curve of his shoulders as he stands tall and resolute. A sense of defeat washes over me, and I force myself to turn away, leaving the study behind.