Page 3 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)

Two

G oosebumps prickle my skin as I walk up the steps.

Up close, the entryway looks like a portal to another world, as if the walls of the mansion are alive, waiting to share their stories of love and loss from the restless spirits lingering around me.

Darkness pools in the corners, a mysterious abyss that tugs at my nerves.

Flickering lanterns line the stairway, casting eerie shapes across the walls, making me feel like I’m not alone.

Call it my writer’s imagination, but every obscured detail feels aberrant and looming.

Surely, it doesn’t look this terrifying during the day.

The heavy doors creak open before I have a chance to knock, and a figure emerges, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit that seems to absorb the light around him.

He is thin and frail, his face pale and expressionless, save for the eyes that shine with an unsettling intensity.

My stomach twist and tighten at just a glance.

“Welcome, Miss Amara Rose,” he says, his voice smooth yet chilling. The air feels colder in his presence, and the faint scent of aged wood and something floral lingers behind him. It tickles my nose, but I can’t place it. “We’ve been expecting you.”

“You must be Mortimer,” I say. I offer him a warm smile, but he doesn’t return it. I end up wiping mine right off my face instead.

He steps beside me to grab my bag. Part of me is surprised he can lift it at all, but he carries it in with ease, without so much as a wince from its weight.

I step over the threshold, and the echoes of my footsteps fill the vast space, merging with the soft sighs of the house. At first, it feels like it’s welcoming me—but perhaps it’s warning me to turn around.

The foyer opens into a grand hall adorned with heavy drapes swaying gently in a non-existent breeze.

A grand staircase spirals upwards, its banister carved with patterns that twist like smoke up to a gallery.

In that moment, standing at the entrance of the mansion, I feel an undeniable connection to the shadows as they try to beckon me inside, tempting me with their secrets reserved for those brave enough to listen.

Brave enough to approach. Brave enough to wander.

“The east wing is off-limits,” Mortimer says, his chilling voice tearing through my thoughts.

“What’s in the east wing?” I ask. He can’t tell me that and not expect me to ask.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says dismissively, finality in his tone. “It’s off-limits.” He ushers me forward. “Come. I’ll show you to your room. Miss Gisella will give you a tour.”

“When do I get to meet Tristan?” I ask as I begin to follow.

“ Mr. Black ,” he corrects.

My face grows hot. “Right, I’m sorry. Mr. Black .”

“Be cautious, Miss Amara.”

That strikes me as an odd thing to say to someone you barely know about someone I’ve never even met. I try not to let the comment unbalance me.

I clear my throat. “What do you mean?”

He pauses for a moment but doesn’t turn to look at me. “He’s not well.”

“Oh, is he sick? Is it term?—”

“We’re handling it,” he sharply cuts me off. “That’s why you’re here. To help.”

“Right, of course. I’ll do everything I can—” My breath catches in my throat when I see him.

He stands at the top of the stairs, a striking, muscular figure with tousled dark hair, a strong, clean-shaven jaw, and chiseled features.

The glasses perched on his nose frame his deep eyes, which narrow slightly as they land on me.

In a fitted sweatshirt that accentuates his broad shoulders and lean frame, he looks like a character from the pages of a romance novel, effortlessly blending intellect and allure. My heart begins to race.

Suddenly, I feel acutely aware of my disheveled appearance Kehau had pointed out moments ago. I pull at my sweater, trying to readjust it as it slips down and off my shoulder yet again.

As he descends the stairs, his confident demeanor surprisingly falters. He clears his throat, the sound a little too loud in the quiet room. A faint blush creeps up his cheeks, adding a charming contrast to his otherwise-composed appearance.

“Um…hello,” he manages to say, the word tumbling from his lips with an endearing awkwardness that makes my heart skip a beat. His hands fidget in the refuge of his pants pockets. Perhaps he wants to shake my hand, but he decides against it.

“ Ah —Mr. Black,” Mortimer says with a bit more life in his voice than I thought possible. “This is Miss Amara Rose, your new personal assistant.”

Tristan’s gaze darts between me and Mortimer, apparently trying to collect his thoughts.

“My— right —my—hello,” he stammers, a nervous smile breaking through his initial hesitation, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a strong, veiny hand.

The rolled-up sleeve of his shirt clings to his thick, flexed forearm, straining as if it might rip.

There is a unique vulnerability in his posture, a fleeting self-consciousness of some sort that only deepens my instant attraction.

Kehau’s anxiety was definitely unwarranted, and I’m glad there’s no Human Resources Department to witness me completely transfixed. His hazel eyes shine with an enticing light, and the curve of his mouth captivates me…

Oh crap — did he just ask me a question?

I blink. “Huh?”

“Do you need a vase?” he asks again, his voice warm and smooth. He glances down for no longer than a second before his gaze meets mine again. “For your rose?”

“Oh, right . Please.”

“I’ll have Mrs. Wong get one for you.” Tristan smiles at me, a beautiful, perfect smile, and my knees nearly give out.

Maybe I’m too old to feel so swoony, but perhaps this is the universe giving me the green light on my hopes for new adventures.

Besides, I’ve always thought it’s unfair we only ever romanticize young people—the teens and twenty-somethings—falling in love.

Most don’t fall in love so young. We spend our lives as adults who only continue to age, should we be so lucky.

Why can’t I feel the rush of attraction in my thirties?

I try to grab hold of my suitcase to steady myself, accidentally grabbing Mortimer’s hand in the process. I flinch and look down. “ Oh , I’m sorry.” His fingers were so chilling to the touch, I half expected to see ice.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Amara.” Tristan dips his head in a polite but subtle bow as he backs toward the east wing and clasps his hands together. “I look forward to working with you.” I feel a magnetic pull to follow him, but my feet remain rooted where I stand.

Is he even aware of the allure he possesses, with his perfect blend of casual charm and formality?

I blink, entranced, unable to tear my gaze from him, even as he disappears behind the door.

There’s no way he could be so striking, so sublime, without knowing the power it holds over others. Over me .

By the time I look at Mortimer, still locked in my dreamy state, he is already staring at me with a rather judgmental look in those empty, deep-set eyes, and a rush of blood quickly floods my cheeks.

“Working with him won’t be a problem, will it?” His tone hints at condescension.

“Absolutely not,” I assure him quickly, trying to conceal my offense.

I can be professional. I don’t typically get like this over a man, so whether I can focus on my work in his presence is a dilemma for another time. For now, I desperately crave the chill of a cold shower to calm me.

I glance over my shoulder at the east wing before following Mortimer to my room.

“As we discussed on the phone,” he says, stalking like a shadow soundlessly gliding across the floor, “your room, amenities, and internet are all included. You will be paid every other Wednesday. We had many applicants—consider the first three months a probationary period.”

He stops in front of a door and hands me a key.

I find his words a bit disheartening. The idea that I could potentially be let go in three months makes my stomach knot.

I want to tell him a probationary period should have been discussed earlier, but I don’t want to rack up any more strikes.

Mortimer already seems annoyed at my obvious reaction to my employer.

Whatever attraction I feel toward Tristan Black, I am going to have to bury it.

My job depends on it.