Page 55 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)

Fifty-Four

J ust like that, the dinner I had been dreading slips away, dissolving into the thick, suffocating tension between us.

I stare up at Dr. Shadow, and my mind drifts back to Tristan, standing there when I first arrived—the striking, muscular figure with tousled dark hair who seemed to steal the very air from my chest. His strong, clean-shaven jaw, his chiseled features, the glasses perched on his nose that framed eyes so deep, so expressive, they seemed to carry a lifetime of secrets.

But now, Dr. Shadow looms over me, a dark, menacing presence that sends a cold draft through the room.

His shirt, half-unbuttoned at the collar, is tight with the fabric stretched taut across his broad shoulders and muscular frame.

The scruff on his jaw only sharpens his intensity, his gaze a burning thing that pierces me, hollow and predatory.

He is the same, yet completely different, and that difference feels like an omen.

Something changes in this moment, though I can’t quite put my finger on it.

Something has shifted, the air around us thick with tension, but it feels just outside of my understanding.

With an intentional, quick breath, I avert my gaze and retreat down the hallway, my shoes clicking sharply against the cold stone floor.

The sound feels too loud in the silence, echoing off the walls, but I don’t bother trying to quiet my steps. My mind is too far away.

I enter my bedroom, the familiar surroundings now foreign, as though I’m walking in someone else’s space.

My hands move mechanically as I pull open the wardrobe, the wood creaking softly as if protesting my touch.

I gather my pajamas, feeling their weight in my hands but unable to focus on their texture as my thoughts continue to scatter.

I slip off my shoes and take off my socks before I head toward the bathroom, each step seeming heavier than the last as the cold floor bites at my heels.

My mind is fractured, broken into pieces I can't fit back together.

Today has been a blur, a series of moments too tangled and chaotic to decipher, like trying to assemble a puzzle without seeing the pieces.

I step into the bath, the cool porcelain pressing against my feet as I draw the curtain around me, enclosing myself in a small, intimate space.

The sound of water filling the tub is soft at first, the trickle growing into a steady stream as the heat rises, steam beginning to curl around me, thick and heavy, filling the air.

I sink into the water, feeling the warmth flood over my legs, my back, my chest like a slow, enveloping embrace that will steal away the tension.

The steam swirls in the dim light, filling the small bathroom with an almost ethereal glow.

The sound of the water is consuming, muffling the world outside, and for a moment, it feels as if nothing exists beyond this.

I close my eyes, letting the water pour over my shoulders, hoping it will carry away my thoughts, my worries, all the confusion that lingers in my mind.

The steam rises, and I let myself sink deeper into the tub, wishing I could disappear into it.

The water surrounds me like a cocoon, but beneath it, the gnawing feeling of unease refuses to fade. My fingers trail over my body with a delicate touch, nipples stiffening beneath a gentle caress as my other hand sinks between my thighs.

I think of Tristan’s lips pressed against mine, the way I climbed onto his lap as the kiss deepened, how I could feel his bulge growing, pressing up against me, wanting me, desiring me.

My fingers glide through my slit as a moan escapes my lips.

How I wish we could have stayed trapped in that moment.

My breath sharpens as I slip my fingers inside me, imagining the way his cock would fill me as my body willingly accepts him.

The slow pace of his thrusts. The way we would make love.

The trail of kisses he would leave on my neck.

But it is not only Tristan I think of.

Dr. Shadow’s imposing presence is quick to make himself known.

My thoughts drift down to the darkest depths of my mind as I picture myself trapped between them, Tristan’s muscular forearms hooked beneath my knees as Dr. Shadow’s cock presses up to my ass.

He kisses my shoulder, his scruff scratching at my skin as he teases me from behind; his fingers find my nipples, twisting and pulling.

“Fuck…” I let out a jagged breath as I climax, my body trembling as I convulse around my own fingers, continuing to slowly plunge into me as I ride the waves of my pleasure.

I sink back into the water as I slip my fingers out, rinsing them in the water. My toes play with the drain as I release the cool and refill the depths of the tub with heat. For a moment, I stare blankly at the running faucet, the steam continuing to rise.

After a moment of collecting myself, I sit up to grab the hand towel and lather it with soap.

I scrub at my skin, trying to rid myself of the lingering heaviness.

The water swirls around me, the tiny ripples lapping at the sides of the tub, and for a moment, I imagine it taking everything with it—the confusion, the ache, the unsettling feeling of being out of place.

But as the water cools, so does the illusion, and I’m left with only the quiet hum of electricity coming from the vanity lights.

I consider my position here. Tristan’s distance is confusing and concerning—yet I worry for him, and I can’t help but admire his genius, his dedication, his commitment to heal himself.

Dr. Shadow’s sensual visits have awoken a carnal creature in me, and I fear the hunger is insatiable save for through his touch.

For a moment, I consider running away from it all.

But that won’t solve the mystery of this place. To return to my father’s house would be to admit defeat—and the loss of another job. Staying means freedom, income, and, yes, sometimes pleasure . Despite the sense of danger, I am not willing to give those up. Not yet.

When I finally pull myself from the tub, the chill of the air greets my damp skin, sharp against the lingering warmth of the water.

I reach for a towel, the fabric soft and comforting as I draw the curtain back.

The mirror is clouded with steam, turning my reflection into a hazy blur as I work to dry myself off, each motion slow and deliberate, trying to shake off the weight of the last few hours.

I hang the towel on the hook behind the door and my gaze drifts to the counter, where my pajamas lie waiting. But then, something stops me—a small box sitting innocently atop the clothes.

I freeze.

A tightness coils in my chest, the air suddenly colder, heavier.

My heartbeat quickens in my chest, and I glance toward the door, panic stirring in my veins.

Did someone come in while I was in the shower?

Had I not noticed, distracted by my pleasure?

But how? The thought presses against my ribs in suffocating terror.

I step forward slowly, my eyes darting between the box and the locked door, an uneasy tension settling in my stomach. Every part of me feels on edge.

The box is small, exquisitely delicate, and old—its worn surface hints at the passage of time.

The rich wood is dark, nearly black, polished to a dull sheen, its corners rounded, as though softened by years of gentle handling.

The lid is adorned with a subtle, intricate carving, a design of curling vines and roses.

Inside, resting on a deep purple velvet cushion, is a necklace—its rose-shaped charm catching the dim fluorescents, glimmering ethereally.

The metal is aged, gold, and the rose is carefully detailed, each petal etched with delicate precision.

The velvet pillow cradles it like a precious relic, the deep hue of the fabric contrasting sharply with the delicate gold of the necklace, creating a haunting sort of elegance.

I can’t help but feel as though it’s not just an object, but a message—a gift.

But from who?

Tristan? Dr. Shadow?

Questions swirl in my mind, each one darker than the last. I quickly pull on my pajamas, my eyes never leaving the small, ornate box and the necklace it cradles. The charm glints in the dim light, taunting me with its new mystery.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I summon the courage to slip the necklace from its velvet cushion. My fingers tremble as I fasten it around my neck, the cool metal resting against my skin.

I glance up at the mirror, the fog beginning to clear, leaving behind a dripping reflection. For a brief, unsettling moment, something shifts—someone else seems to be staring back at me. It’s a stranger’s gaze, dark and familiar, yet not mine.

A chill spasms up my spine, and I stumble backward, my breath catching in my throat.

My pulse spikes, blood rushing to my ears as I blink rapidly, trying to will the image away.

But when I look again, only my own reflection remains—just me, standing alone in the bathroom, my brown hair dripping over my bare shoulders.

My heart thumps like a drum in my chest.