Page 44 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)

Forty-Three

G isella’s words linger in my chest, reverberating with a heaviness I can’t shake long after I leave her room.

I wait until I’m sure she’s fallen asleep, her breathing steady and slow, before I gently slip off the bed, careful not to disturb her.

I make my way back to my own room, the silence of the manor almost suffocating, broken only by the soft, constant hum of the central air vent.

The stillness presses in around me, but it’s a welcome escape from the weight of the emotions in the air.

I shut my door and press my back against it, releasing the breath I held as I tiptoed from her bedroom to mine.

It’s not safe .

I know I haven’t felt safe in a while. Not really, at least.

My mind replays this morning's events on a loop, every fragment sharp and insistent as I peel myself away from the door and move toward my writing desk.

The silence in the room is almost suffocating as I reach for my laptop.

Beneath it, half-hidden, lies the letter I took from the library weeks ago, the forgotten relic of the house now somehow feeling far less forgotten than I had hoped.

I lift my laptop with one hand, my fingers brushing over the crisp, yellowed edges of the parchment beneath.

It’s still folded, just as I left it, its contents a mystery I’ve been too distracted to explore.

I hadn’t dared to open it back then, and I hadn’t thought about it much since.

But now, it’s at my fingertips again—waiting.

Waiting for me to unravel whatever secret it holds, as if it might offer an explanation for the mounting unease I feel crawling beneath my skin.

Could it reveal what I want to know? Or could it simply be another forgotten letter, a love note buried in time?

My stomach tightens at the thought, a strange coil of anxiety twisting within me. I don’t really want to read about Tristan’s former flames.

Then, a knock at the door breaks my thoughts, soft but sudden. I jump, nearly dropping my laptop in surprise.

“Come in,” I manage to say, my voice tighter than I’d like as I quickly cover the letter with my laptop and turn to face the door just as it creaks open.

Tristan steps in, his hand shifting from one doorknob to the other.

His glasses are perched on his nose, his hair combed back, brushed through in dark, loose waves.

He looks as handsome as ever, his face clean shaven, jaw sharp.

“I heard about what happened this morning. I wanted to see that you were alright,” he says, his voice low and genuine, but I can't bring myself to meet his eyes.

I nod, my gaze darting away from him. I don’t think I can look at him without my dream flooding my mind, without remembering the way he looked up at me with his face trapped between my thighs.

Those beautiful hazel eyes with a lustful desire to please me.

My chest tightens at the thought, at the desperation swelling within me to see that look on his face again.

“I’m fine,” I murmur, the words barely leaving my mouth.

He takes a step closer, and I feel the weight of his presence, his gaze pulling at me, desperate to bridge the gap. “Did I do something to upset you?” His tone is softer now, edged with concern, but I turn further away, instinctively trying to put distance between us. “Miss Amara…”

“Absolutely not,” I say, forcing the words out, though they feel hollow, a little too sharp.

“Then why won’t you look at me?” he asks, the question hanging in the air like a challenge. There’s something in his voice—something insistent, probing—but I can't bring myself to answer.

I feel a flush of shame rise in my chest, heat spreading across my skin.

I am embarrassed, ashamed. If I’m going to fantasize about my employer, it seems like the least I could do would be to keep those feelings in check when he’s actually in the room.

And yet, I still can’t help but wonder if the reality would be as good as it was in my dreams. I silently curse at myself for thinking such carnal things, especially now.

A man was murdered just outside Gisella’s window, and all I can focus on is the thought of Tristan dropping to his knees before me and letting his tongue glide between my?—

“Miss Amara?”

The sound of my name jolts me back to the present.

“Huh?” I blink, disoriented.

“Are you alright?” His voice is soft, palpably gentle with underlying care. I feel the weight of his gaze, and it only makes my shame worse.

I want to curse myself. I want to slam my fists into the nearest wall and scream for being so insensitive, so lost in these thoughts.

I want to slap myself, hard, just to feel something that isn’t this gnawing, distracting longing.

Instead, all I do is stare blankly, my body rigid, fighting the urge to run and hide from both the man I’m talking to and the parts of myself I don’t want to acknowledge.

“I am fine,” I say steadily, trying to find the strength in my voice. I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince: him or me.

I am not fine. I see him, think of the way his muscular frame felt pressed against my back as his cock filled me in those final thrusts. I am distracted by the mystery of how he really feels, of what it’s truly like to have him pound into me.

“I can’t think right now,” I mumble as I turn away from him again. “About…about anything. I just want to write. I think.”

“Of course,” Tristan replies softly, his voice trailing off as he retreats toward the door. His hand lingers on the doorknob, as if hesitating, almost like he’s waiting for something more. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Wait,” I say as I spin to face him.

His eyes sparkle behind those glasses. “Yes, Miss Amara?”

“Why do you want to read my writing?”

He tilts his head, his eyes searching for an answer in my expression. I try to keep it neutral and unreadable.

“I’m curious about you,” he says. “How you think. Words are very telling about a person. Still, I know people find writing to be a personal thing, and I wouldn’t want to intrude?—”

“Do you like me?” The question slips out before I can stop it, my voice trembling with a mixture of nerves and raw honesty. In a part of my brain, it feels like a childish question, but I also think it’s childish to keep stepping around it. I need to know.

Tristan furrows his brows, clearly caught off guard by my question. “I’m sorry?” he asks.

“Do you like me? Sometimes, I feel like you do. I mean, you clearly find me attractive, right?” I say.

“You compliment me, you step a little too close. You gave me that book—and now, you want to read my writing… I think you feel something, but then you pull away before I get any answers. It’s very confusing. I just… I just want to know.”

His expression shifts, and I see something soft flicker behind his glasses. His mouth opens, as though he wants to say something, but the words seem to stall in his throat.

“I—”

The pause stretches for far too long, the silence growing into an impassable emptiness between us.

“Nevermind,” I mutter, my stomach knotting. The pity in his eyes and the weight of that silence are too much. I don’t want to hear it. I’m not ready. “Just forget it. Forget I said anything.”

I turn away quickly, my chest tightening with the sting of vulnerability I wasn’t ready to face.

I don’t want him to see how much it hurts, how exposed I feel now that I’ve opened up, only to be met with nothing but his silence and hesitation.

I can feel the hot press of tears threatening to spill, but I hold them back, waiting for him to leave.

I wait for the sound of his footsteps retreating, the soft click of the door closing behind him.

I wait until I’m alone again, until the silence in the room feels like a blanket I can finally pull over myself, hiding from the world.

My hands clutch the back of my chair, the wood creaking beneath my firm grasp as I stand facing the writing desk.

I can see the letter peeking out from under the edge of my laptop.

The unknown information it contains calls out to me.

I rake my fingers through my hair before brushing a few strands from my face.

My heart flutters in my chest, racing as my thoughts shift back and forth.

Do I read it first? Do I simply return it to the library unopened?

Who am I kidding ? I think to myself as I lift my laptop and slide it out.

I can’t return it without reading it.

I have to read it. I have to know what it says.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale .

My hands shake as I begin to unfold the letter, the edges stiff beneath my fingertips.

I don’t know what it holds, what secrets or truths it might reveal, and a part of me is terrified of what I might find.

Still, deep down, I know it would be worse to leave it unopened, to just return it to the library without even a peek, where it will continue to taunt me with its silence.

If I don't look now, I will never stop wondering.

I will never stop questioning what it might have said, what it could have meant.

I can’t live with that kind of uncertainty.

I have to know.

My dearest Tristan,

I have started this letter to you over a dozen times with the same question in mind, wondering if I should bother, if I should say something. I wonder if you’ve noticed yet, what I have done. If you noticed what I did to you—for what you did to me.

The painting will reveal what words cannot.

Try as you might, you won’t be able to pry it from the wall. This beast you’ve created will stay with you always. A beast you will never escape. Never outrun. Never outlive.

A beast you will one day be forced to surrender to, and I will come to collect what’s mine.

Try as you might with that brilliant brain of yours, but you will never succeed in gaining your liberty. For magic is rooted in love and hate, and all you understand is indifference.

I love you, my dearest Tristan.

One day, you will love me too, and I will be here, waiting.

- C