Page 32 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)

Thirty-One

T hough I wander around the house during the next few nights, Dr. Shadow refuses to meet me, and I go to bed frustrated. The mystery is infuriatingly opaque, and the monotony of my daily routine does nothing to settle my anxiety for answers.

Tristan's hazel eyes gleam in the candlelight, alive with an array of colors always more beautiful than the last time. They shimmer, shifting like the hues of a twilight forest, each flicker of light drawing out deeper, wilder shades—golden browns, rich greens, and amber flecks. When he looks at me, it’s as if the room’s soft glow bleeds into his gaze, folding the entire forest within them.

It feels like the world stops spinning every time he looks at me.

At least, every time I catch him. Sometimes, when his conversations with Mortimer drift into the background, I swear, I feel the weight of his quiet glances, those fleeting flickers of his lashes hidden behind the dark frame of his glasses.

I’m too attuned to his movements, too in tune with his presence.

Tonight, the dinner feels lighter, like the air has been cleared, though his words still linger in the back of my mind, haunting the edges of my thoughts.

I get lost in the moment, in the warmth of his gaze, but Dr. Shadow lingers in my mind like an ominous presence I cannot shake.

I never had a chance to ask Tristan to elaborate, not with the arrival of his mysterious guest, who I’ve only seen glimpses of since.

Mortimer always answers the door, ushering him into the east wing with a quiet ceremony, where he remains until after the sun sinks low. And then, just as silently, he departs.

I want to ask about him, but I know it’s not my place.

It’s none of my business. With a quiet sigh, I push my mashed potatoes around on my plate, the soft mound of food slowly losing shape under my fork.

I let Mortimer’s voice fade into the background, droning on about something behind the house.

Manu grunts his disinterest, and Tristan’s attention shifts toward him, giving me the perfect opening.

“I wanted to thank you again for the book,” I say, my voice steady, though my mind races. “I’ve never read Treasure Island , and I love getting to read all your thoughts along with it.”

His smile warms me as he tilts his head gently. “You’re welcome. I think you’ll find a lot of answers in that book.”

My brows furrow slightly. Answers ? I wet my lips gently, watching as he returns his attention to his food. For a moment, I chew on my bottom lip.

Speaking of answers …

“How is your project going?” I ask, feeling my heartbeat beginning to quicken.

Tristan raises an eyebrow, his gaze narrowing, as if searching for the meaning behind my question. “My project?” His voice holds a note of intrigue, but it’s the subtle flex of muscle in his forearm as he tightens his grip around his fork that catches my attention.

My frown deepens a little as I readjust myself in my seat and straighten my posture. He was working on a project for school, wasn’t he? I’m positive I didn’t make that up.

“ Um —” I’m not sure what to say. What if I’m wrong? Am I misremembering? “I-I think you said you were studying how different hormone levels affect something—mood? Right?” I chuckle awkwardly and begin fidgeting with a lock of my hair, twisting it tightly around my index finger.

“Ah,” he says, his smile broadening as the intensity flickers in his eyes with the candlelight.

Everyone else quickly fades into the background while we become the only two in the dining room.

“Yes, I was studying how stress hormones influence decision-making. It’s going well.

” He leans back slightly in his seat, a hint of surprise in his voice. “I can’t believe you remembered.”

“Of course, I remembered,” I say before I can stop myself, pleased with my own recall, though I do my best to keep the pride from creeping into my voice.

Why wouldn’t I remember? It’s you. I want to say those words, but they seem too forward.

Tristan is like a scared wild animal I have to approach with caution.

Every word needs to be intentional. Everything I say needs to be said with patience.

The book was a nice gesture, but I don’t want him to pull away.

“It’s something you care about. And, well, you’re my boss?—”

That last part might have been unnecessary, but I don’t want him to feel like I’m prying.

His smile turns soft, almost shy, as his gaze drops to his plate for a moment, his jaw tensing with restraint.

The subtle shift is enough to stir something strange in me.

“I’m not your boss ,” he says gently, almost playfully, his voice smooth.

“Technically, Mortimer hired you.” His kind gaze lifts, locking with mine for the briefest moment before turning back to Mortimer.

I glance across the table at Mortimer, whose silhouette blends into the shadowed corners of the room.

His posture is unnaturally rigid, as though carved from a gravemarker, his face ghost-pale and gaunt, as if emotions never reach him.

His eyes stay fixed on his plate, distant and detached, offering no response to Tristan’s words, as if they’ve already been forgotten.

His every movement is deliberate, slow—as if he exists outside the flow of time itself.

“This is true,” I say, backing up Tristan’s claim. In truth, I do prefer to think of Mortimer as my boss than Tristan, which—I try to pretend—has nothing to do with my budding feelings. “You did my interview as well,” I add, addressing Mortimer directly.

“Mrs. Wong runs the household,” Mortimer says, his voice deliberate, each word drawn out like the stroke of a slow, ominous melody.

He dabs the corner of his mouth with a cloth napkin, his movements precise, almost ritualistic.

There’s something unnerving about the way he performs the smallest gestures, as though every action carries a weight beyond its meaning.

“Oh, Mortimer…” Tristan chuckles lightly, a sound that carries more warmth than it should.

He lifts a hand, heavy and confident, and pats Mortimer affectionately on the shoulder.

I flinch, startled by the softness of Tristan’s touch—by the stark contrast of his affection against the dark, brooding butler.

What surprises me most is that Mortimer doesn’t flinch, doesn’t recoil or shudder at the pressure of Tristan’s hand.

I imagine that Tristan’s strength would splinter Mortimer’s shoulder like dry wood, and yet the older man remains as still and unyielding as ever.

There’s no shock, no visible reaction as one might expect from someone who isn’t accustomed to such familiarity.

In fact, Mortimer’s posture remains unchanged—implacable, like stone.

I think back to the moment when he effortlessly lifted my suitcase upon my arrival, his gaunt frame showing none of the strength I now realize he possesses.

Stronger than I gave him credit for. Stronger than his appearance lets on.

He carries his power like a secret, one carefully hidden beneath his quiet, spectral demeanor, often concealed in the dark.

“Amara, do you want to go on Saturday?” Gisella asks, her palm propping up her jaw as her dark eyes sparkle in the light of the flame.

I shift my gaze over to her, noticing her words have captured Tristan’s attention as well.

“You know, the guy from Pearlridge,” she adds, as if there was anyone else.

“I want to know if he’s as good as he looks. ”

I’m grateful for the dim lighting, and the scarlet color of my blouse, or it might have been more obvious that my face was flushed, heat growing in my cheeks.

“I haven’t really thought about it,” I say, suddenly finding myself unable to make eye contact with anyone.

“What’s Saturday?” Tristan asks. I don’t want to look at him. Does his tone indicate jealousy? A smile desperately wants to surface on my face, but I refuse to allow it. I doubt it’s jealousy. Why would it be?

Gisella picks up a roasted green bean with her chopsticks.“Oh, this cute Hawaiian boy was flirting with Amara at the mall today.”

“He wasn’t flirting ,” I interrupt.

“Yes, he was!” Gisella shoots back with a giggle.

I desperately want to crawl under the floorboards so my heartbeat can eventually drive her into madness. What is she thinking?

“Well, Miss Amara is very beautiful,” Tristan says, drawing my attention to him. “I don’t doubt she captivated the attention of many.”

“No, I didn’t. I didn’t do anything.” I don’t want him to think I am out flirting with every man I see. I thought I was finally making progress—he even annotated a collection for me. Why am I feeling so defensive?

“I didn’t say you did.” He smiles innocently, but there’s something beneath his words. I just know it. In the glint of his eyes... I just can’t put my finger on it, but it feels like an accusation.

There’s no way he could know what happened between me and his brother.

Now, this man from the mall.

And yet, I know I can’t be mistaken in hearing a slight emphasis over the words ‘captivated the attention of many.’

Why would he say many if he didn’t know? Surely, he’s trying to hint he thinks I’m a slut who was seduced by his brother.

“Well, it’s nothing,” I say, feeling overwhelmed. I put my fork down as I push away from the table.

I feel myself spiraling. I know my thoughts aren’t logical, but my anxiety has been pricked into overdrive.

“Are you upset?” Tristan asks as he sets down his own fork. He stands as I do, but I don’t look at him, instead excusing myself from the table.

I need air.