Page 48 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)

Forty-Seven

I feel as though I’m drifting through life, lost in a haze, tethered to nothing.

I’m on the edge of slipping into a dark abyss, desperately trying to outrun the weight of my own thoughts, the fears that come from questions left unanswered.

What once felt like a mystery worth uncovering now stirs a terror inside me I’m too afraid to face.

I’ve come to find comfort in the shadows now—those quiet, familiar presences that warm my bed and pleasure my body.

It’s the nights that beckon to me, that make me feel truly alive.

Nights where I can stop thinking about Gisella, stop wondering how she’s faring, whether she’s all right, or if she ever thinks of me, of this place, of what she discovered that one morning.

I no longer hold anger toward her, but rather acceptance and a faint hint of worry.

Sometimes, I have the faint urge to check my phone, perhaps see if she texted, but we never exchanged numbers.

There was never a need for it when we lived in the same house.

But in the dark, none of that matters. My mind becomes a still pool, unburdened by the questions and worries that chase me during the day. My body is relaxed, pleasured, at ease, as though everything else has faded away.

I feel nothing but his tongue, his lips, his lust.

But not tonight.

Tonight is different. Even as I lay awake in bed, a stillness remains in the silence.

No creak at my door, no turn of the knob.

There’s a weight in the air, a shift I can’t place.

It’s as if something is watching, waiting.

I can’t shake the chill that bites at my exposed skin.

I get up from beneath my heavy sheets to shut the window.

As my hands reach for the frame, I freeze as a sudden chill bites my neck.

She’s there again, watching me from the woods, hair flowing in the breeze like threads.

I can see her pale skin in the darkness, brightened by the shadows of the gnarled woods surrounding her.

“Amara…”

A voice calls to me, soft and distant.

“Amara Rose….”

The words barely rise above a whisper, but the wind seems to carry the tune, weaving around me like a haunting lullaby.

Her voice envelops me, a delicate serenade that lingers in the air, tugging at something deep.

It’s a voice at the very distant edge of comfort, but an unsettling feeling remains twisted in my stomach that something isn’t quite right.

“Amara…”

In the blink of an eye, she’s at the window, her pale hand brushing my cheek.

Her mesmerizing blue eyes lock on to mine, sharp and unwavering, as though she can see straight into the hidden corners of my soul, unearthing the secrets I thought were buried for no one to find.

She’s very beautiful and yet somehow ordinary at the same time.

High cheekbones, an upturned nose, and the sharpest of eyes, but I wouldn’t be able to pick her from a crowd.

“Such a beauty… You care for him, don’t you?” she asks, her voice a haunting melody, echoing the faint call that reached me before.

“Who?” I reply without thinking, the word slipping from my lips.

“The beast ,” she whispers. Though her tone remains soft and lyrical, there’s an icy edge to her words that sends a shiver down my spine.

Her hands, cold and delicate, slip into mine, pulling me gently out of the window, urging me into the darkness beyond her.

The woods. Lovely woods, dark and deep.

“Don’t worry,” she soothes as I climb over the windowsill. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

My feet find the rosebush below. Somewhere, I’m conscious of the thorns cutting into my soles, but I register no pain as she leads me into the shadows of the forest. She walks beside me, her presence a quiet comfort, her hand gently brushing strands of my dark hair from my face as if in admiration—or jealousy.

Who are you? I want to ask, but the words can’t seem to find the strength to leave my throat. The question is trapped in my mouth. From my own fear or the force of her power, I can’t be sure.

Her cold fingers lace with mine, her touch soft as she traces a line down my arm with delicate strokes.

“I think you’re falling in love,” she says, her voice smooth and gentle, as if the words are nothing more than an observation.

She meets my gaze with her piercing ocean eyes, searching for any sign of acknowledgment.

I try to keep my expression neutral, but she catches the flicker, and a small, knowing smirk tugs at her lips.

“Who? Tristan?” I scoff, the words coming out too quickly. “I barely know him.”

She laughs then, low and wicked—not quite a cackle, but throaty and rich with disbelief.

She doesn’t believe me. “Darling Amara… Naive Amara… You know him far better than you think.” She stops suddenly, her hand tightening its grip on mine.

“ Think ,” she says again, stronger, a challenge in her voice.

I begin to shake my head, my eyes never leaving hers.

“I don’t—what do you mean?”

She loosens her grip and lets our hands drop between us as she leads me further into the darkness, her steps fluid and knowing, careful not to trip on wild roots, while I stumble to keep up.

“You read, do you not?” she asks, a faint edge of condescension in her tone, though I can’t help but wonder if it’s just my own insecurity clouding my perception.

“Yes, I read,” I bite back, the words sharp on my tongue. “I write, too.”

She responds with a daring smile, her eyes still glinting with defiance, as if urging me to speak again. I get the sense she knows she’s hit a nerve, and it clearly amuses her.

“Oh, a writer. How… quaint ,” she says, her tone laced with judgment. I furrow my brows, scrutinizing her expression as she scrutinizes me. “So you’re a romantic.”

I stiffen slightly. I want to pull away from her icy touch, but I can’t seem to.

“I wouldn’t exactly say that,” I say.

“No?” She phrases it like a question, but she doesn’t believe me. “Do you not dream and fantasize about being ravished and adored by the master of Black manor?”

My face flushes with embarrassment. How could she possibly know that? Is she toying with me, waiting for me to slip? I feel like I’m being tested.

“Are you C?” I finally force the words out of my mouth.

Her smirk widens into a full grin, and she throws her head back, laughing loudly.

The sound bounces off the gnarled, skeletal trees, echoing through the forest, a sharp, unsettling cackle that hangs in the air long after it fades.

Soon enough, she tilts her chin down and gazes at me, her eyes remaining an icy bright glow in the darkness.

She leans in close, and I’m frozen, unable to move. Her lips hover just inches from mine.

“My name is Cordelia,” she murmurs, her breath cold against my skin, sending a shiver through me. “Ask him about me. I dare you.” She steps back, her fingers slipping from mine. My hand instinctively curls inward, seeking warmth from my palm.

The winds stir, rising around us with a restless energy, whipping twigs and dry leaves into a spiraling dance of their own.

She steps away from me, her arms lifting gracefully overhead toward the thick canopy of leaves and branches, and with a fluid motion, she twirls, her body flowing with the wind as if she's uniting with the forest itself.

The air crackles with an ancient, wild power as she begins to move, and I know, in that moment, she's not just dancing—she’s calling something forth.

She stops and looks at me with a warning stare.