Page 51 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)

Fifty

M y heart skips a beat as his free hand moves toward the handle.

The east wing has always been off-limits, and a shiver brushes up the back of my neck.

My gaze flickers to the stairway beside me, thoughts of the portrait room creeping in—of the strange painting of Dr. Shadow that replaced Tristan’s haunts my memory.

I snap my attention back to Tristan, my breath catching in my throat as he slowly opens the door.

The private study we enter is thick with the scents of age and neglect.

A mixture of old paper, dust, and something sharper—an unmistakable tang of iron—lingers.

It reminds me of blood. The walls are lined with towering shelves, but the clutter is not of books; instead, medical instruments—worn scalpels, rusted syringes, glass beakers filled with faint traces of forgotten liquids—are haphazardly arranged, as if abandoned mid-use.

Some of the tools gleam dully in the dim sunlight that filters in through heavy curtains, their edges sharp and cold, while others are coated in a fine layer of dust, forgotten by time and care.

On one table, a microscope sits beside a half-open leather-bound notebook, its pages yellowed and curled at the edges, filled with illegible scrawls in ink that has long-since begun to fade.

The air is thick with the oppressive stillness of a place that hasn’t been touched in years, save for the occasional shuffle of feet or the faint scrape of metal against wood.

The metallic scent—I am now certain it’s blood—lingers in the corners, enveloping the room in an unsettling embrace.

A lone chair sits in front of a desk cluttered with diagrams of the human body, their paper edges curling and fragile.

The walls are covered in faint stains, as if the room has witnessed things best left unspoken.

The dust clings to everything, settling over the equipment like a heavy shroud, but the iron smell remains, gnawing at the back of the throat, a reminder that this place has seen far too much.

“Do you remember my email?” he asks, letting go of my hand with a deliberate, almost hesitant motion.

I shrug and cross my arms over my chest, feeling suddenly small and overwhelmed. “I haven’t touched your email since?—”

“The one you texted me about,” he interrupts, his voice soft but firm. He lingers near the desk, his eyes scanning the scattered diagrams, his fingers brushing over the papers without much thought. “The PET scan.”

I nod, my throat tight with unease. I don’t speak—not because I’m not curious, but because I’m afraid my words will drive him further away, make him retreat behind that wall he’s been building since before we met.

“It’s an imaging test of the brain,” he explains, his voice flat, like he’s telling me something he’s said a thousand times. “It shows how the tissues are working and uses a tracer—a radioactive substance—to look for disease and injury.”

“What about it?” I ask, already dreading the answer.

“Something’s wrong with me,” he mutters, rifling through the papers with a restless energy. “I’ve been trying to figure out what it is. If I can fix it…if I can reverse it…”

“Reverse it?”

“Dr. Whitfield—my professor who just left—has been coming by to help me, but…” Tristan lets the papers fall back onto the desk in frustration.

He turns to face me, leaning against the desk, as if the weight of his thoughts is too much for him.

His hands grip the edge, knuckles white, as he looks at me with a look bordering on defeat. “It’s hopeless.”

My brows furrow as I think about the email and the books…all those biochemistry books. What did he say?

I feel a dull ache in my chest as I try to piece things together—the email, the books, the scattered notes. Then it clicks, and I murmur to myself, “Hormonal influence on behavior…”

“Hm?” He looks up at me, eyebrows drawn, as if surprised I caught on.

“There’s no project, is there?”

“This is the project.” His lips twitch in a bitter smile. “ I’m the project.”

“You?” I walk over to him to close the distance between us. Even when I’m standing right in front of him, he feels miles away.

“I do, you know,” he says quietly, gazing up at me.

“What?”

“You asked me if I like you. I do.” He turns away for a moment, his eyes flickering, as though he’s unsure whether to meet my gaze. “I’ve just…I’ve been trying not to. I’ve been trying to keep my distance from you.”

“Why?” I ask as I take a seat on the desk beside him.

“I don’t want you to get hurt. He takes everything from me.”

“Who does?”

“Dr. Shadow.”

I tighten my jaw, suddenly haunted by the nights we shared as guilt washes over me.

“That isn’t for you to decide, Mr. Black. I’m not a thing that can be taken.” I try to steady my breath, forcing my frustration down, but it lingers. The realization he kept himself from me—out of fear, out of some misguided attempt to protect me—stings.

“I know,” he says, so softly, I barely hear him over the heat of my annoyance.

“You don’t get to decide for me, and it’s not fair that you were trying to take that choice away from me.” I get up from where I sit and cross my arms tightly over my chest again. I inhale sharply and spin around to face him. “You’ve been incredibly selfish.”

“I have. Because you are my weakness, and in that weakness, you are his greatest strength.” His hazel eyes roam over my face, studying me as though trying to memorize every detail.

His hand gently brushes up against my arm, and I slowly uncross them, letting him take my hand within my own as he draws me closer.

For a moment, his eyes meet mine before drifting down to my lips.

“Do you mind?” he asks, his voice low. We’re mere inches apart now.

His fingers caress my cheek as he brushes a few strands of hair out of my face.

I blink slowly, caught off guard by his gentle question.

“What?” I whisper.

“If I’m selfish with you, one last time?”

I nod, and Tristan’s mouth crashes into mine.

His lips are soft and inviting as I feel myself melt into him.

I am suddenly awakened from my haze as the fog lifts and realization washes over me.

Dr. Shadow has never once kissed me . Never once have his lips pressed against mine.

His tongue has delved between my lips to tease me with the taste of my own pleasure, but never once did he let his lips touch mine.

Never once did he kiss me tenderly, passionately.

Passion was not about love to him, but power.

And I gave it to him. Had I told him any more secrets?

Had I betrayed Tristan again during those nights his presence darkened my sheets?

No, I couldn’t have.

I had no more to tell.

I pull Tristan to me and savor the taste of his lips.