Page 47 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)

Forty-Six

B y Monday morning, Gisella is gone. The house feels emptier now, quieter than it did before. Her absence weighs on me like a heavy quilt, the halls no longer brightened by the particular ray of her positive energy.

With the man who stops by to help Tristan with his project, I find myself slipping further into the background as he needs less and less of my assistance.

I’m not sure if it's purely from a lack of necessity, or if they don’t want me snooping around in their business.

Whatever the reason, I suppose it doesn’t particularly matter.

I don’t protest. My mind is swirling too much to give it significant thought, and I welcome the extra hours for my mind to wander.

I start taking over more of Gisella’s old tasks, the chores she’d once managed on her own.

Without truly deciding to, I find myself cleaning, helping Mrs. Wong with the endless household duties.

I’d never been one to care much for these menial tasks; they always seemed tedious, and I had a passionate hatred for chores and cleaning.

But now, with everything swirling in my head, there’s a strange comfort in the repetition.

The act of folding laundry, smoothing down fresh sheets, vacuuming the old carpets and mopping the floors—each motion becomes a way to numb my mind.

It’s almost therapeutic, in a way, to focus on something so mundane, to let my hands work while my mind drifts somewhere else entirely.

Dusting the surfaces, sweeping away the remnants of another forgotten day—each motion is a distraction, a way to keep my mind from sinking deeper into thoughts I’m not ready to face.

My thoughts drift like leaves in the wind, scattered and unfocused, as I go through the motions, losing myself in the quiet rituals.

I find myself avoiding my desk now, steering clear of my laptop and the blinking cursor impatiently awaiting words that won’t come.

I avoid writing altogether. Perhaps it’s because I don’t want to actually let Tristan read anything I write.

Perhaps I just fear my own thoughts, afraid to let them surface, afraid of what might emerge if I allow myself to dive too deep into the confusion that’s tangled everything up, to let my imagination run wild with the information I can’t comprehend.

I can’t help but feel if I give in—if I try to make sense of what’s happened—I might slip too far into my fears and lose myself in the process.

What happened to the man’s body? Who took care of it, and how? Why?

I had expected to be interviewed by police, but the truth is, I never saw a single officer or detective on the estate. Did Manu bury the body somewhere in the garden?

And who was that woman in the woods? Did she have anything to do with it? Did she kill him?

Is she the mysterious ‘C’ from the letter?

Those questions linger, waiting for me to confront them, but I can’t. I’m not ready. I don’t know where to start and what secrets might be waiting for me. Before, this mystery intrigued prying and erotic reasons. Now, with a mysterious murder added, I’m not sure I want to uncover all these secrets.

As I reach Gisella’s closed door, I think of the last words she spoke to me. She didn’t even say goodbye. She left too early in the morning, before anyone was awake.

“You shouldn’t stay either, Amara. It’s not safe. It’s not safe.”

It’s not safe .

What exactly isn’t safe, though? The grounds?

The house? The people? I can’t picture Mrs. Wong or Mortimer wanting to harm me, and as much as Manu annoys me, somehow I can’t even picture him as a murderer.

And Tristan—well, he might not want to work with me, but I don’t think I have anything to fear from him, no matter what the others say.

Gisella’s words still echo in my mind, though. It’s not safe.

The people of the house seem safe enough, and what could I possibly need to fear from the house or grounds itself? How could they hurt me?

I know I am intentionally avoiding thinking about the uncanny shadows and their champion who visits my dreams.

My hand trembles as it reaches for Gisella’s doorknob, but I can’t bring myself to open it. I know I won’t see her. Instead, I will be met with an empty room, grim, gloomy, and dark in the lack of her presence. I will be met with something I don’t want to see.

The reality that she left me.

A sudden wave of grief washes over me, mixed with anger and irritation, as it registers in my mind. She left me.

She abandoned me here. In this place.

This hauntingly beautiful place.

I feel the sudden sting of betrayal pierce my heart as I turn away from her door.

The days slip by, but with each passing one, the weight of her absence presses down on me more heavily.

Time seems to crawl, each hour stretching longer than it should, dragging me through a slow, unending ache.

My phone is buried somewhere in my room, out of sight, tucked away like something I no longer care to reach for.

I don’t want to talk to anyone, don’t want to connect.

I only want to move through the motions—complete my tasks, eat my meals, make it to the next moment.

Day by day, it’s as though nothing else matters, as if I could exist in this limbo forever, simply passing through time without really living it.

I’m still not sure what happened to the body. By now, I’m not sure I want to know.

Someone covered it up, and perhaps some things were better left in the dark.

Deep in the dark, where the shadows reign and the quiet beckons me with its hollow fingers.

I feel like I am standing at the edge of something sinister, that if I give in to my curiosities, I’ll stumble upon something I shouldn’t see. My intrigue used to be such a tug at my heart, leading me around like a candle in the night, guiding me.

But wicked beasts lurk in the dark, wicked beasts I am not prepared to tame.

Then, one night, he finally comes back.

The one whose claws have corrupted my very being.

My door unlocks, and the knob twists open. He stands in the darkness, his face obscured by his scruff, but I see that look in his eyes, one of primal lust and unsatiated desire.

Dr. Shadow.

I fall into comfort with his coarse hands caressing my soft skin.

His fingers always seem to easily find the right spots that make me melt into the silk sheets.

His lips bruise my tender throat. I find myself caring for nothing but his touch, his comfort.

I find myself aching for his release. Perhaps I was always meant to be lost in the shadows.

Perhaps they were always meant to be here, to welcome me home.

I cast a fleeting glance at the wilting rose, its once-vibrant petals now fragile and fading. As I watch, one delicate petal loosens from the stem, drifting slowly through the air before landing softly on the writing desk.