Page 36 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)

Thirty-Five

F all in Hawai'i is a cruel illusion—a whisper of seasons that will never be realized in this isolating paradise.

There are no crisp winds to stir the world awake, no amber leaves scattered at my feet when I step outside.

Instead, summer holds the land hostage, like a lover who can't bear to let go, draping the island in humidity that clings to the skin, sticky and relentless. It’s the kind of warmth that doesn't let you breathe, that makes my skin slick with a sheen of sweat, as though I'm drowning. For someone like me, whose pale, freckled complexion has always felt out of place, it’s an insult to the senses.

I look more drenched than glowing, my skin a pale canvas of vulnerability.

Down the winding road and through the gates of the Black Manor, the world is different.

The coolness within its stone walls feels like a sanctuary from the stifling world outside, the hum of the central air system a constant, low murmur—like a secret warning—drifting through the rooms. It seeps into my bones, this chill, wrapping me in its embrace as I drift to sleep each night, a cold comfort in a house that feels too watchful, too full of things that whisper just beyond the edges of my consciousness.

I’ve come to crave it, this cold, this eerie hum, as though it might be the only thing keeping the shadows at bay, keeping the shadows from taking me into their dark abyss.

In the dim glow of the bathroom light, I adjust the line of my eyeliner with a delicate, practiced touch, folding the tissue before discarding it.

The mirror reflects my movements with an intimacy I can’t escape, and I step back to scrutinize myself, my reflection seeming to mock me with its quiet stillness.

The deep cerulean headband on my head matches my pleated plaid skirt, a deliberate clash of softness and sharp edges.

My legs are swathed in torn leggings, a purposeful imperfection, and I adjust the cuffs of my oversized black sweatshirt, pulling them just a bit tighter.

I love the weight of these chunky sleeves, the way they swallow my arms, leaving me feeling safe and unseen, the waistband tucked into my skirt.

The open shoulders, held together by delicate laces, feel like a strange rebellion, a way to make something dark and soft at once.

My pale skin is an accusation against the dark clothing I wear, an ethereal contrast that feels more like a beacon at night than a refuge from it.

Sometimes, when I step into the gloomy hallway, I feel like a light in the dark, fragile and luminous but vulnerable to whatever might be lurking in the shadows.

Yet, that darkness calls to me—a whisper I don’t want to ignore, a magnetic pull that tugs at something deep inside.

I wonder, sometimes, if it’s not the shadows that are waiting for me, but something darker still. Something alive.

I unlock the bathroom door and release myself back into the dim hallway.

A faint scratching reverberates from the wall behind me, a dry, unsettling sound that makes my breath falter in my throat.

A cold shiver prickles across my skin, as if something unseen is reaching out, trying to curl its long, boney fingers over the collar of my sweatshirt.

Slowly, I pivot on my heels, each movement deliberate, as if afraid hurrying might trigger whatever waits in the dark.

At the far end of the hallway, an ornate table stands.

Upon it, a vase—large and imposing, almost like a forgotten urn—sits still, untouched.

I’ve never dared get close enough to truly examine it, but tonight, its shape seems to loom larger.

My eyes scan the darkness, seeking some explanation for the sound, but it offers nothing in return—just the cold, suffocating silence.

My gaze drifts down to the air vent, and I wonder if it might have been a rat, some small, insignificant creature scuttling in the walls.

I take strange comfort in the idea that it might just be a mundane explanation.

I didn’t like rats, but it was a lot less terrifying than whatever my imagination could come up with.

I turn back, but my heart nearly stops.

“Oh, Mr. Black...you scared me!” I exhale in a breathless rush, my hand flying to my chest, pressing against the frantic beat of my heart.

It pounds in my ears, wild and erratic, and I try to calm it with the gentle stroke of my fingers, as if my touch could silence the rapid rhythm pulsing beneath my skin.

The air between us feels too thick, too charged, as though it carries a thousand unsaid things.

His glasses rest casually in the collar of his shirt, but it’s his hazel eyes that capture me, that always capture me.

They glint with a quiet fire, even in the oppressive shadows of the hallway.

They take me in, every inch of me, as if committing the sight to memory.

I feel their gaze like a touch, warm and intense.

“You look beautiful this evening, Miss Amara.” His voice is liquid, rich and smooth, like honey melting on my skin.

I could lose myself in it, let it pull me under, a sound so tender, it makes my heart stutter.

Tonight, he doesn’t retreat into his usual shyness, doesn't ask me to call him Tristan as he so often does. I don’t correct him either, because there’s something in the way he says Miss Amara —a softness, an adoration—that makes my name feel like something sacred, something precious.

His hands shift in his pockets, restless, as if they’re aching to reach for me. I can almost see them, feel the desire to take my hand, raise it to his lips, and kiss the back of my fingers with a tenderness that would break me.

It’s always these moments between us that twist my thoughts into knots.

He stands there, warm and open, with a gentleness that feels like a balm.

Yet the instant I dare to close the distance, he retreats, pulling away just enough to leave me hovering in uncertainty.

If I reached for him now, would he step back, just out of reach, as he always does?

Would the space between us widen again, a quiet barrier I can never seem to cross?

The silence and uncertainty choke me like an invisible noose.

“I hope you have a good time tonight,” he says, his voice soft, his head dipping in a gesture of quiet farewell.

But his eyes—they linger, not breaking from mine until the very last moment, until he turns to leave.

My feet are rooted to the spot, unable to chase after him.

My throat constricts, unable to form a single word.

Then, to my surprise, he stops and turns back to me.

“By the way, I’ve been thinking,” he says, his eyes slowly working their way up to meet mine.

“If you’re open to sharing, I’d love to read some of your work. ”

My work ? He wants to read my…

Oh no. I haven’t written anything. I…

My lips part, words wanting to spill from my mouth, but no sound comes out.

“I’ll take that as a yes?”

I can only nod.

“Great—I look forward to it.”

He turns again, and his figure slowly fades into the shadows.

His footsteps linger, echoing in my mind.

And for the first time, beyond a shadow of doubt, I know the attraction between us does not merely exist in my mind.