Page 41 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)

Forty

A loud, relentless rapping shakes the air, the sound of bone striking the wood in quick, jarring succession. My mind is sluggish, thick with sleep, and I blink several times, trying to make sense of the noise, rubbing my eyes as if to clear away the fog that clings to me.

What is happening?

The question lingers, unanswered, as a shiver of unease creeps down my spine.

My body, still heavy with slumber and overcome by the betrayal of my dream last night, moves sluggishly, my feet tangled in the sheets.

I finally yank them free, stumbling clumsily out of bed, my legs unsteady, and catch myself against the cool doorknob.

The noise outside continues, almost rhythmic now, an insistent tapping that gnaws at my nerves, urging me to act.

It’s Mrs. Wong.

“Good morning, Miss Amara,” she says in her usual flat tone, her words devoid of warmth.

Her Chinese accent seems a bit more obvious this morning, and I suddenly get the unsettling feeling in my gut that I'm in trouble.

“Please come with me.” Without waiting for any acknowledgment or suggesting I get dressed, she turns on her heels, her movements swift and purposeful, and starts toward the stairs.

The air feels suddenly colder, the silence hanging heavily in her wake.

I never go upstairs. At least, not anymore .

The nagging feeling in my chest grows stronger, a mix of unease and reluctant curiosity. I want to follow, my feet itching to move, but an invisible force holds me back. I shouldn’t. I can’t. I’m not supposed to, not on that side of the manor.

While I manage to make my way out of my bedroom and through the foyer, the staircase seems to stretch upwards like a dark, silent invitation, its shadows deep and all-consuming.

A thousand warnings flicker through my mind as my hand reaches for the railing.

I can’t help but wonder where she’s leading me and why. Why now?

A shiver runs down my spine as I stand rooted at the foot of the stairs, watching her disappear up and around the left corner. For a moment, the silence presses in, as though the manor itself is holding its breath, waiting for me to make a choice I can never take back.

I finally begin the ascent, and it feels like every creak of the wood beneath my weight is warning me to turn around and retreat to my bedroom.

Mrs. Wong leads me down the hallway to a room tucked into the far corner on the left.

The air grows colder the closer we get, a chill prickling the back of my neck as I meet Mortimer’s gaze, standing near the door.

His figure is almost swallowed by the shadows, his body an unsettling blur in the half-light, as though the darkness refuses to let go of him.

Despite the daylight streaming through the distant windows, the shadows cling to him like a second skin.

The room is all too familiar—it's the same one with the portrait of Tristan Black hanging above the mantle. I haven’t set foot on the second floor since that night, since I read the inscription.

Since something in the darkness blew out the light.

My heart picks up pace as a new fear rises in me.

Am I in trouble? Do they know I’ve been here before?

The door opens on a groan, the hinges protesting as if they, too, are reluctant to allow me entry.

Inside, the room is bathed in soft, golden light from the windows, the heavy drapes tied back with vintage ropes, revealing a flood of daylight.

The contrast between the brightness and the oppressive weight of the shadows outside feels wrong, unnatural.

I turn my attention to the portrait, expecting to see Tristan’s face looming large above the mantle, but those stern, dark eyes piercing through the frame as if they could reach into me are…

not his. The slight curve of his mouth, seductive and dangerous, darkened by his scruffy jaw.

There’s something more primal about this version, something untamed that pulls at something deep inside me.

But as I study the painting more closely, my stomach sinks.

This isn’t Tristan.

It’s Dr. Shadow .

My eyes narrow, my brows furrowing in confusion as I take a step closer, scrutinizing the painting before me. I drag my finger gently across the bottom of the frame. The inscription is the same.

“ May this serve as a reminder for the beast you truly are within. ”

It feels like a cruel joke as my face grows hot.

I look up at the portrait, painted in the same style as Tristan’s, paint chipping, cracked lines, and faded strokes. It looks ancient, far older than Tristan or Dr. Shadow. With a sharp inhale, I turn around. The two of them stand like silent sentinels at the door.

My tongue feels dry in my mouth, and I force a swallow.

“I don’t understand,” I say finally. My voice is small. It sounds weak, but the chill on the back of my neck is biting, creeping further across my skin, sending a deep shiver down my spine.

“I don’t expect you to,” Mrs. Wong says, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “In fact, I’d be very surprised if you did understand.”

“Did you take something from the library, Miss Amara?” Mortimer asks, and I shift my gaze, frowning at his words.

Did I take something from the library? I wonder.

The letter.

My eyes widen as it dawns on me, and my blood runs cold. I haven’t thought about the letter since I found it. Is it still under my laptop?

That has to be what he means, and yet I can’t force myself to say it out loud. I can’t force myself to admit it in case it could be something else. My tongue is dry, feeling heavy and thick in my mouth. I clench my jaw, swallowing a gulp.

“I mean, I take books from there all the time, but Tristan?—”

“Mr. Black?—”

I inhale sharply at Mortimer’s correction, sucking air in through my teeth. “ Mr. Black said I could. It is a library —where things are meant to be?—”

“Borrowed,” Mrs. Wong says.

“Things are borrowed with the intent of return,” Mortimer adds.

“What exactly is it we’re talking about?” I ask.

“There’s a letter in your possession, isn’t there?” he says. “Please return it to where you found it.”

Mrs. Wong steps out of the room first, her movements sharp and calculated, eager to escape whatever terror exists in this room. Mortimer follows, standing straight beside the door frame.

“But what about the portrait?” I ask, my gaze drawn back to the face staring down at me from the wall. Dr. Shadow’s portrait is a study in dark allure, his eyes burning with an intensity that feels like it’s meant for me .

“What about it?” Mortimer’s voice is soft, almost dismissive, but there’s a subtle tilt of his head that makes it feel more like a challenge.

The question is a trap, I realize—his way of testing whether I’ll admit to having been here before.

Though I want to lie, to deny everything, I can’t shake the feeling that they both already know the truth.

Before I can respond, a piercing scream rips through the silence, so loud and sudden, it rattles the walls. Gisella . Her scream echoes through the manor, splintering the stillness and sending a ripple of dread through me.