Page 45 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)

Forty-Four

I find myself standing in the library again, at the same desk where I found the letter.

The air smells of dust and old paper, the familiar scent that’s been a part of this place long before I was.

My eyes drift over the cluttered surface, noting how things have shifted, how the scattered items no longer sit in their exact places.

Yet, there’s one thing that hasn’t changed: the candle in the corner, its wax still solidified in long, delicate tears, frozen and untouched.

The journal rests beside it, though I have no idea between which pages the letter was originally tucked.

I’ve walked through this library dozens of times over the past few weeks, each visit feeling like it belonged to me.

But now, as I stand here, something is different.

Something feels...off. For the first time, I sense I don’t actually belong here.

I shouldn’t be in this room, surrounded by the remnants of forgotten stories.

The weight of it hangs over me, like I’ve crossed an invisible line I didn’t know existed until it was too late.

The letter feels unbearably heavy in my hands, a burden I’ll never escape.

Every part of me screams to put it back, to slide it into the journal where it belongs and walk away from it for good, but I can’t shake the words that keep echoing in my mind, each one deeper than the last. I regret reading it—I should have left it alone.

But curiosity had me in its grip, and now, I’m forced to live with the consequences.

What did she do to him? What painting is she talking about? Is she referring to the one Mortimer and Mrs. Wong swapped out in the other room? The questions swirl in my mind, relentless and unanswered, and I feel the weight of them pressing on my chest.

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

And what about Dr. Shadow? Tristan blamed him. How does he fit into all of this?

I draw in a sharp breath, my fingers tightening around the journal. Without thinking, I flip to a random page, tuck the letter inside, and set the journal back down beside the candlestick with a quiet thud. It’s done. It’s over. I no longer have it.

What was borrowed has been returned.

“People underestimate the weight of knowledge.”

The voice sends a jolt through me, the unexpected sound cutting through the silence like a knife. I whirl around on my heels.

“You scared me,” I say, my pulse still racing.

Manu stands by the doorway, his massive form nearly blocking the entrance, his thick mane of brown hair covering his shoulders and bleeding into his beard. He shifts slightly, as if chuckling, but no sound escapes him.

“It’s easy to spook you, isn’t it? Girl .”

I refuse to react to his bait.

“It’s a spooky house,” I mutter, eyes shifting toward the window.

“And someone was just murdered outside.” I turn back to face him, gesturing toward where he stands in the doorway, his bulk a looming presence.

“Even you’re in the house. I didn’t think you went into any room but the kitchen and the dining room.

” I lift my gaze to meet his; he hadn’t taken his eyes off me since I turned around.

“What did you mean? People underestimate the weight of knowledge?”

Manu inhales deeply, the sound of his breath filling the space as he takes slow, deliberate steps toward me.

Each heavy footfall seems to shake the very floor beneath us, the sound of his boots echoing through the library like a distant drumbeat.

Without a word, he reaches out, his large, calloused hands closing around the journal I’d just set down.

His fingers, rough and steady, flip the pages with a flick of his wrist, his gaze intense and focused.

He pulls out the letter, the same one I’d tucked away moments ago. The parchment crinkles softly in his grasp as he holds it up between his thick fingers, the creases of the letter catching the dim light seeping in through the drapes of the window.

“This what you read?” His voice is low, steady.

He briefly glances at his own hand, then back to me, his brown eyes narrowing, as if waiting for something to flicker across my face.

Waiting for an answer to surface. I can’t hide the tension that rises in my chest. I’ve never been good at masking my thoughts, and right now, I’m certain my face betrays me.

He watches me for a moment longer, pursing his lips, his expression unreadable, before he nods. He looks back down at the letter, deftly unfolding it with one hand, his gaze sweeping across the page for only a second before meeting mine again.

“She was…an interesting one,” he murmurs, the words carrying weight, a knowingness that sends a chill through me.

My mind stumbles over his statement, trying to latch on to the meaning.

I shake my head slightly, still trying to process the implications.

“Wait,” I finally manage to say, my voice a little breathless.

He doesn’t seem to notice as he carelessly tucks the letter back into the journal. “You knew her?”

Manu scoffs, the sound harsh and bitter as he flings the journal back onto the desk with a thud. I flinch still, even though I expect it.

“If you can call it that,” he mutters. His eyes lock on to the unlit candle sitting on the edge of the desk.

He stares at the charred wick, and a long pause hangs in the air before he shifts his gaze to me, his expression unreadable.

“Love.” He says the word slowly, and he gestures toward the journal.

“She speaks of love, but that wasn’t love.

That was...possession. Witchcraft. Wicked woman. ”

I blink, trying to make sense of his words, but they feel like shards of something broken—too sharp and too small to piece together. I open my mouth to speak, but only a breath escapes.

“I don’t know what any of this means,” I confess, my voice barely above a whisper as he begins to move toward the door.

“It means you're in way over your head, Amara,” he says, his tone so matter-of-fact, it feels like a warning and a judgment all in one.

The way he says my name catches me off guard, like a hand closing around my heart. My chest tightens, and I blink rapidly, the realization hitting me like a splash of cold water. He called me Amara. Not girl . Not the usual condescension.

My name. He said my name .

I look back at the desk, the flickering candle flame trembling in the dim light. My mind races, trying to wrap itself around everything he’s said, everything that’s happened. But as I turn back to the door, a sudden shiver runs down my spine.

The candle .

When did he have time to light the candle? I was watching him the entire time.

I glance back at the flickering flame, its soft glow casting eerie shadows across the room.

A chill crawls across the back of my neck, and before I can think, I lean forward and blow it out.

I quickly scramble out of the library and back to the comfort of my own bedroom, suddenly terrified by one of the few rooms in the Black manor I felt at home in.