Page 30 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)

Twenty-Nine

A few hours later, we’re back at the mansion, and the stranger is nothing but a forgotten memory tucked away in the dark crevices of my mind.

Gisella and I are in the library as she asks me about my favorite authors. I’m engrossed in the books I’ve pulled from the shelves, and due to her own boredom, she notices Tristan’s entrance long before I do.

“I don’t know why you asked if you don’t actually care,” I say, looking up at her, but her eyes are focused on something else.

I shift my gaze to follow hers. Stiffening my posture, I return my attention to the anthology I have cradled in my arms.

He lingers toward the back of the library, strolling between the imposing bookcases that tower like walls, his eyes fixated on the shelves overhead, shelves I’d need the ladder to reach.

I can see his shadow dancing on the floor before he rounds the corner, slowly making his way toward us.

He crosses his arms defensively, his eyes watching me from behind his glasses.

“Miss Amara, may I speak with you?” he asks finally, his gaze shifting to Gisella for a moment. “ Privately ?”

“Of course, Mr. Black,” Gisella says as she swiftly turns away and his eyes fixate on me again. Her hand gently squeezes my elbow as she steps toward the door. “I’ll see you later.”

My breath hitches as I watch her blonde hair disappear, the door shutting behind her. Slowly and deliberately, I return my attention to Tristan, who hasn’t taken his eyes off me.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Black?” I ask as I close the book, though I’m not sure what to expect.

We haven’t spoken much, and he’s avoided me as best he could since I asked about Dr. Shadow.

My heart begins to quicken as his brother floods my thoughts.

I can feel the heat between my legs as the ghost of his touch kisses my skin. I can’t think about this right now.

I hug the anthology tightly against my chest, like I’m trying to create a barrier between us, something to protect me from his coldness.

“I wanted to apologize,” he says, his voice low, almost reverent.

My heart skips, caught off guard by the unexpected tenderness in his tone.

His hazel eyes, luminous and molten beneath the gleam of his glasses, hold me captive.

“As it turns out, my… brother has been a little more social recently.” He says the word like it’s foreign in his mouth, like it doesn’t belong there, like he shouldn’t be saying it out loud, like he’d do anything to not say it again.

His voice hardens, a flicker of resolve taking root.

“I shouldn’t have been so dismissive of you. I won’t do it again.”

Tristan turns away from me, breaking the intense eye contact between us. We haven’t held eye contact like that—ever—and I definitely would have remembered.

A strange unease tightens in my chest as he speaks again, his voice measured but with an undercurrent of something darker buried just beneath the surface.

“I fear my attempts at maintaining professional distance may have caused you to feel…unwelcome. Or perhaps apprehensive or unsettled?” His words seem carefully chosen, each one deliberate, as if weighing whether to reveal something more than he intends.

“You deserve to feel at home here. I apologize if he—or I—made you uncomfortable in any way.”

“You’re my boss, not my friend,” I reply, the words almost sounding like a challenge, though I’m unsure what exactly I’m challenging.

He doesn’t flinch. Instead, a faint flicker of something—perhaps amusement or regret—passes over his face, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I wouldn’t really consider myself your boss ,” he murmurs, his voice softening, as though to make the line drawn between us even more blurred, even more fragile.

The corner of his mouth twitches like he wants to smile, but he doesn’t.

Before I can reply, before I can even gather my thoughts, he shifts the conversation with unnerving abruptness.

"Have you seen him recently?" His voice has darkened again, like a shadow slipping between us. The shadow of his brother.

I shake my head.

“Did he ask about me?” he asks.

I can feel my stomach coiling in guilt.

Yes . My head is screaming at me to say it. Yes. Yes. Yes. I told him. I told him about your email. I told him what I knew of your research and your school projects .

Yes.

He’s your brother. He’s worried about you .

“No.” The lie comes out strong and sharp.

His brows furrow slightly as he tries to figure me out.

He always looks at me like he’s expecting me to lie, and that’s exactly what I did.

I lied. Why was I lying? I chew on the inside of my cheek.

“I mean, well, yes. He asked about you, but we didn’t talk about you. Much. I didn’t say anything.”

Oh God—just shut up, Amara.

Tristan tilts his head, the shadows sharpening his features, giving him a charm that feels almost predatory.

It reminds me of Dr. Shadow, but not his eyes.

His eyes betray him. While dark and steady, they hold mine with a kind of unnerving calm and patience.

“What did he say?” His voice is smooth, polite—too polite. It makes me feel small.

I swallow, trying to steady myself. “Well, he wanted to know how you’re doing. That you’re…sick. He’s worried.” I speak the words like a defense, as if they’ll explain everything, as if they’ll make him understand why I said what I did.

Tristan’s smile is fleeting, but it’s not warm. It’s laced with skepticism, disbelief.

I frown. “You don’t believe he’s worried?” The question feels absurd, even to my own ears, but I need to hear his answer, need to understand why his reactions seem so...calculated, so distant.

He chuckles—a low, quiet sound that skitters down my spine, prickling my neck with its unsettling intimacy. It’s not a laugh, not really.

“No,” he says, the word flat and dismissive, coated in a coldness that sends a shiver rippling through me. He shakes his head slowly, the movement deliberate. “I don’t.”

His words and demeanor change stir a horror in me, but I swallow it.

He and his brother seem to have that in common.

I can definitely see the overlap between the two of them.

Despite their striking differences, their reactions seem more or less the same.

They pull back and withdraw. Dr. Shadow is just a bit more forward and aggressive with what he wants.

His anger is his weakness. Tristan seems intentional about not appearing vulnerable.

I wonder if he’s scared to let people in.

“Why not?” I ask, though there’s this feeling in the pit of my stomach that he’s going to shut me out. He lifts his gaze to meet mine, and it feels like my heart is going to burst.

“Because it’s his fault.”

My breath catches in my throat. My lungs tighten.

What did that mean?

“Mr. Black, your guest is here.”

I jump at the sound of Mortimer’s cold interruption before I have a moment to register what exactly it is he said. Tristan has a guest?

“Excuse me, Miss Amara.”

He gently touches my shoulder, and my heart skips a beat.

My breath catches in my throat as he leaves.

I shut my eyes. He still has the same effect on me, the same effect that makes my knees weak.