Page 27 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)

Twenty-Six

I wake long before the sun, ensnared in the tender embrace of my bed, cocooned by the darkness of the room.

My eyes flutter open, wide and unblinking, as though I have forgotten the simple art of sleep.

I lie there, caught between wakefulness and the ghostly remnants of dreams, staring into the abyss of the night—seeing nothing, yet feeling everything.

The shadows on the walls seem to move of their own volition, stretching and shrinking like dark tendrils of some ancient specter, and a strange ache tugs at the very core of my heart.

It is not fear that stirs me now.

No, the tremor that once gripped me with icy fingers has faded, replaced by something far darker, far more suffocating. Guilt .

Dr. Shadow’s touch lingers upon my skin, an unsettling imprint, as though he had carved his presence into me with a touch both tender and brutal.

His voice echoes in the stillness of my mind, low and melodic, now devoid of the dark promises it once carried.

His words haunt me like the wailing of spirits trapped between worlds—unforgiving, unrelenting.

They whisper not of lust and desire, but of the terrible weight of what I have done.

The darkness thins around me as morning light seeps into my bedroom. I know no matter how deep I sink into the bed, I cannot escape it. Not now. Not ever.

I will have to face Tristan sooner or later. I will have to face what I did.

Shifting beneath the soft, warm sheets, I stir with a languid grace, feeling luxuriously sated physically, all while my mind spirals with guilt.

When I move my legs, I can still feel a sore, satisfied memory where Dr. Shadow pleasured me only a few hours before.

None of my exes ever displayed even a quarter of such skill between my legs, and I have to shove the memory aside.

I lazily scan my room, my gaze drifting to the dreary rose on my desk, bathed in the haunting orange glow spilling slowly through the heavy drapes.

A strange unease stirs within me as I furrow my brows, my eyes narrowing at the sight.

The petals seem to pulse with newfound life, unfurling with an eerie vibrancy that defies the natural order.

Only hours ago, had it not been wilting?

Fragile and on the brink of death, its once crimson hue faded and limp?

I sit up sharply, the motion abrupt and jerky, disbelief twisting in my chest. The rose’s unexpected vitality grips my attention, and my pulse quickens with the feeling that something—something unnatural—has stirred in the silence of my room.

Was someone in here while I was asleep?

The house seems to sigh in relief as I climb out of bed, and the cold floor bites at my bare feet.

In a daze, I move through the motions, my hands trembling ever so slightly as they pull clothes from the drawers.

I open the door with a quiet, deliberate creak, and the shadows—those cold, whispering sentinels—beckon me forward, guiding me through the darkened hallway with a silent, inevitable pull.

My mind is a void, consumed by nothing but the need to feel the hot water scorch my skin, to cleanse myself in its burning embrace.

I long for the steam to rise, thick and suffocating, until it erases everything.

The guilt, that gnawing weight lodged deep within me, swells with every step, every heartbeat, and I ache for it to be washed away—swept down the drain in a flood.

The thought consumes me, the only thing that remains in the hollow quiet of my mind.

I refuse to let myself think of anything else.

If I do, I will never be free from the ironclad grip of my guilt.

The bathroom is lit from the morning light fighting its way through the grime clinging to the window. I put my clothes on the counter and nudge the door shut with my heel.

I peel the garments from my body, discarding them on the floor, and I’m quick to be engulfed by the steam once I turn on the shower. The familiar scent of florals and crisp woods are quick to soothe and disarm me as I let the hot water wash away my worries.

But the ease is only temporary. Soon, the steam mimics his hot breath on my neck.

I can feel the ghost of his lustful, needy touch lingering against my skin, slipping between my thighs.

I cannot escape the way his dark eyes pierced into mine out of my mind, haunting me like a specter.

Dr. Shadow was every bit as dark and alluring as his name would suggest. His memory clings to me like a shadow in itself.

My attempts at washing his touch away seem futile as the cloth leaves behind reddened skin, raw and steaming.

I shut off the water and wring out my hair, a tangled, matted drape of brown rope that I push over my shoulder as I step out onto the rug.

I wrap the fluffy towel around my body and shut my eyes, desperately trying to forget his touch as my fingers attempt to ground me with the material, clinging to it like a lifeline.

Should I let go, I will surely drown in my desires.

With a deep breath, my lashes flutter as I make out my reflection in the mist-covered mirror and start to dry myself off. As much as I want to remain hidden away in the bathroom, in this sanctuary, I know I can’t. I have to get dressed and face my reality.

It’s as if the house knows of the brewing conflict within me, because a knock sounds at the door almost immediately, reverberating against the tiled walls and bouncing back, followed by Gisella’s cheery voice.

“Amara?” she calls from the hallway, her tone even and light as I pull my shirt over my head. “Mrs. Wong’s going down to Pearlridge mall. Did you want to come?” she asks.

I can almost feel the weight of relief lift from my shoulders.

Yes. Absolutely yes .