Page 52 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)
Fifty-One
M y mind is a storm of thoughts, all swirling together in a dizzying haze.
The taste of Tristan lingers on my lips, haunting me long after the kiss has ended.
He pulls back, almost bashful, yet his eyes show no regret—only an unspoken longing.
His gaze drops to the floor, avoiding mine, but there’s a soft smile curling on his lips.
He drags his tongue slowly over his lower lip, as though savoring the taste of me, and I feel the fluttering of my heart, the way it swells then falters under the weight of his quiet, intimate gesture.
“I probably shouldn't have done that,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost a guilt-laden whisper. His eyes lift to meet mine, and in the flickering candlelight, they burn with a hidden desire. “But I'm glad I did.”
I want to tell him that I, too, am glad— so glad—but the words can’t seem to find their way out of my mouth.
Instead, I feel the heat rise to my cheeks.
My fingers tighten around the fabric of his sleeves, taut over the muscles of his arms. I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, my pulse quickening as I nod, unable to tear my gaze from him.
I am perched on his lap, my knees pressed against the cold edge of his desk, the hard wood beneath me somehow grounding while his strong hands rest at my waist, his fingers twitching against the delicate fabric of my dress, as though fighting the urge to pull me closer.
The world outside this room feels distant—blurred, almost irrelevant, as if time itself has stopped, leaving just the two of us, tangled in the comfort of this moment.
I refuse to let the memory of my nights spent with Dr. Shadow creep into the warmth of our embrace.
“My birthday is tomorrow,” he says in his low voice, the words hanging in the air between us like a soft, tempting promise. His voice dips, gentle and inviting, pulling me in closer still. “Will you have dinner with me? I want you to tell me a story.”
His words wrap around me like a scarf, and I feel the weight of them, of him, settle deep inside my chest. The invitation is a thread, delicate and dark, leading me deeper into the labyrinth of his world—a world I have wanted to enter since I stepped foot into his home. A world he is finally opening up to me.
I want nothing more than to spend all of my time with him, than to sit with him while he speaks of his sciences using words I don’t quite understand and I let him into my world of imagination.
I long to pull him into that strange, flickering realm that lives in my mind, hoping, perhaps foolishly, that in the depths of my dreams, I might offer him some fleeting escape from the quiet torment I see behind his hazel eyes.
“I would love to,” I reply, my voice barely above a whisper.
There’s a small part of me afraid, as if the very act of speaking could shatter this moment.
That it would cause me to wake from this dream the way I had woken so abruptly from so many others.
It’s a delicate moment we’re caught in, one I want to cherish for as long as I can.
Despite the chilling aura of the east wing, with its sterile medical equipment, the sharp, lingering scent of iron, and the forgotten, dark liquids collecting in half-empty beakers, I have never felt more at ease within these manor walls than I do right now, sitting so close to him.
His warmth anchors me, the solid strength of his form beneath me offering a welcoming comfort, even as the shadows of this forsaken place seem to press in.
My hands move instinctively to his broad shoulders, and a quiet hope blooms in my chest, filling the spaces inside me like a rose unfurling in the dark.
My fingers drift to the collar of his shirt, fumbling with the fabric.
“You know,” I murmur, my eyes still on the task, “I have to admit, I don’t mind this kind of selfishness.
” My hands move carefully, smoothing the fabric, adjusting his collar with a tenderness I don't often allow myself.
His shoulders shift beneath my touch, and a soft chuckle escapes him, deep and rich, a sound that keeps me anchored to him.
I am not asleep after all. This isn’t a dream.
I’m awake.
I am awake, and Tristan Black kissed me.
The thought echoes through me, like a pulse that refuses to quiet.
I want him to kiss me again. I want to fall into him, into the warmth of his touch, to dissolve in the softness of his lips on mine.
But at the same time, a part of me fears ruining the moment.
I feel giddy, like some lovesick teenager experiencing her first kiss.
It’s foolish, perhaps, but there’s nothing wrong with longing, with desire.
A sharp knock at the door shatters the fragile quiet and ruins the moment for me. I scramble off him, my body suddenly too clumsy, my legs betraying me as I feel like I am about to be reprimanded. I nearly trip, but Tristan’s hand is there, swift and steady, catching my arm before I can fall.
How graceful.
“I know, I’m so clumsy,” I stammer, a rush of scarlet floods my cheeks.
“Happy to be here to catch you, Miss Amara.” His voice is low, almost teasing, but there’s an unmistakable softness beneath his words.
Even now, he is so perfect. I look up at him, and my heart flutters wildly like a butterfly.
Suddenly, Mortimer looms in the doorway, his hollow gaze fixed upon me with a deadness that sends a chill through my bones.
It’s as though he sees right through me—into the darkest corners of my soul, where even my own secrets tremble in fear of being uncovered.
His eyes, sunken and unblinking, never stray from mine.
“Miss Amara, you have a visitor.”
My brows furrow. I have a what? Tristan’s hand slowly releases my arm, and I can feel the weight of his gaze lingering, heavy and questioning.
A visitor?
Who could possibly be visiting me ?
I smooth the skirt of my blue dress absentmindedly, trying to steady my racing heart. Glancing briefly at Tristan, I murmur an apology before excusing myself, though every part of me is reluctant to leave his side.
Mortimer’s eyes follow me with unnerving persistence. I had been warned, time and time again, to stay away from the east wing, but I was with Tristan. He was the one who brought me here. I didn’t come on my own. So I didn’t technically break the rule, did I?
Still, despite the absence of any accusation, I feel the sudden urge to defend myself, though I know it would make no difference.
The weight of Mortimer’s stare bears down on me like a suffocating fog. The silent judgment, the cold disapproval—it’s enough to make me feel like a child caught in an unspeakable crime.
He’s unchanged—still as gaunt as the day I first saw him—yet he somehow seems even more ghostly, though I’m certain that’s impossible.
His cheeks are sunken, his eyes bulging, as if the very life in him has been drained, leaving only a hollow, skeletal frame.
He is like a specter of this house, a living relic, his suit blending into the shadows as though he’s part of them.
The shadows have always found him, even in the harshest light, curling around him like old friends.
I feel the weight of them now, pressing in from all sides, and for a moment, I almost wish I could disappear with them.
I slip past Mortimer and make my way back to the foyer, my steps quickening as the anticipation grows. But when I step into the room, I freeze.
Standing there is the last person I’d ever expect to see.
His muscular arms are crossed over his chest, tanned skin catching the dim light.
His shirt, torn at the sleeves, hangs loosely from his frame, and he wears board shorts and slippers, as though he’s just strolled in from the beach, his appearance entirely out of place in the cold, oppressive stillness of the house.
His thick hair is tousled and windswept, yet somehow, not a strand seems out of place, perfectly arranged in a way that looks almost deliberate.
Ikaika Kahale .