Page 6 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)

Five

D espite my initial assessment of the manor’s chill, I discover that the rest of the house is surprisingly warm.

With the sun spilling through the tall, arched windows, its golden rays bathe the furniture in an enchanting glow, illuminating the rich woodwork and carvings across the walls.

The shadows that once seemed foreboding now flitter playfully across the room, inducing an inviting charm rather than fear that I quickly chase down the hall toward the kitchen.

The lingering aroma of fresh coffee lures me in through the swinging door.

The heavy oak cabinets stand proud while sunlight splashes over the polished countertop and copper pots hanging from hooks.

Their surfaces catch the sun’s rays, shining a myriad of colors on the worn walls, like a reflective windchime of broken glass.

Leaning against a counter is a man who resembles a modern-day warrior.

It feels like Kamapua’a, the Hawaiian hog god, stands in the kitchen with me.

His sun-kissed skin and burly build evoke a sense of strength and power that almost makes me want to shrink away in his presence.

With a scowl etched on his lips, he sips his coffee, the mug dwarfed in his massive hands.

Dark hair covers his shoulders in thick waves, framing an aged face defined by strong cheekbones and a rugged jaw shadowed by a beard.

He casts an unwelcoming demeanor, but I refuse to be intimidated.

“You must be Manu,” I say, forcing myself to approach him as I step further into the kitchen. He is the only one I haven’t met yet, and I figure now is as good a time as any for an introduction. “I’m Amara, the personal assistant.” I offer my hand, but he regards it with a disdainful glance.

“ Right ,” he replies, seeming to scrutinize me over the swirling steam of his coffee. “You’re the new girl.” His voice is rough and feels condescending.

“I’m not a girl ,” I assert, a spark of defiance igniting within me as I fetch a mug from the cabinet. “I am a woman.”

He snorts almost mockingly before he takes a long drink from his cup. Once he has drained his coffee, Manu sets the mug down in the steel sink with a clang before flipping on the faucet. “For your own safety, girl , follow the rules. The shadows aren’t as friendly as they appear.”

As the water splashes against the porcelain, he abruptly shuts it off, leaving a heavy, uncomfortable silence between us. I huff in frustration as he strides away through the side door. It creaks ominously as it slowly shuts behind him.

Girl .

Gisella cautioned me of his unfriendly manner.

Surprisingly, a stubborn resolve seems to have taken root within me, determined to win him over.

I’m determined to win the hearts of everyone who lives in this damned house.

I am used to being liked . To be met with such coldness and indifference is bothersome, a feeling that leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, far more bitter than any coffee I’ve ever had.

I don’t like it.

I pour myself a cup from the steaming pot and rummage through the cabinets for sugar while muttering angrily to myself.

“It’s on the table.”

I don’t need to look to recognize the voice. Mortimer’s chilling tone could easily narrate my nightmares, each syllable heavy with alarming gravity, and yet, somehow, it’s as light as a ghost.

“Thank you,” I say, turning to find the glass jar of sugar cubes glimmering like fragmented ice against the wooden surface.

“How did you sleep, Miss Amara?”

“Just Amara is fine,” I reply, opening the jar with a soft clink of glass, using the small, stainless-steel tongs to drop a few cubes into my coffee.

“I slept great; the bed is really comfortable—hey, is curfew for everyone?” My gaze flickers to him as I close the container, and the shadows around him seem to deepen, as if responding to my question for him.

Dressed in a tailored black suit that clings to his gaunt frame, he stands in the doorway like a specter, his pants so dark, they nearly vanish into the floor.

“Why do you ask?” he inquires, a slight edge of grimness in his tone.

“Someone was outside the bathroom last night when I took a shower.”

He draws in a deep, judgmental breath through his nose. “Next time you find yourself in need of a shower so late in the evening,” he warns, his voice low and grave, “I suggest waiting until morning. There are rules in place for a reason, Miss Amara.” The words hang heavily. “For everyone’s safety.”

“What if I have to go to the bathroom?” I challenge him, feeling the chill of his gaze.

“Hold it.” His response is swift, final. “Please do not act as though these rules are a surprise to you. We went over them on the phone.”

“I know, I just…” I didn’t think they were that serious .

I falter. It is my fault, and I should have known better.I should have listened.

“I’m sorry, Mortimer. I’ll do better tonight.” My voice is small as I feel myself shrink in his presence.

He nods approvingly, his eyes glinting in the light. “Thank you. Your schedule for the week is in your room,” he says as I head for the door. He turns as I move, but his shoes don’t make a sound. “Please remember we all have dinner together in the dining room on Wednesdays.”

“Yes, Mortimer,” I say with a nod. “Thank you.”

“Have anything interesting planned for the weekend?” It’s a casual question, and it sounds almost ridiculous coming out of Mortimer’s formal mouth. I assume he’s curious as to whether I’ll be snooping about after I already broke a rule.

I keep my hands clasped around the coffee mug for warmth.

It’s surprisingly cold in the kitchen, despite the natural light of the Hawaiian sun streaming through the windows.

“I’ll be in the library doing some writing, actually.

Gisella showed it to me yesterday, and it’s absolutely beautiful.

I’ll probably spend all weekend in there. ”

Mortimer gives me an approving nod, and I quickly leave.

I feel like I can still feel his eyes on me even after the kitchen door swings shut. I stop at my room to pick up my laptop and quickly flee toward the library.

I push open the heavy door, and the scent of aged parchment and polished wood engulfs me.

The library stretches long and wide, even more enticing now with the golden glow of sunlight seeping from behind the edges of the heavy drapes obscuring the large windows.

It chases shadows across the walls, revealing towering shelves that creak and groan under the weight of countless tomes with cracked spines and faded titles.

A velvet chaise lounge nestled in a corner beckons me, and as I approach it with my laptop under my arm and coffee in hand, I notice a desk pressed up against the wall, lined with ancient scrolls.

It looks more like a workbench from an old alchemy lab than something belonging in an otherwise-organized library.

Constructed from dark mahogany, it bears scars from experiments—a unique series of etchings depicting cryptic symbols and stains of mysterious substances that elude me.

Vials and glass beakers sit precariously atop it, their contents glinting in the natural light, while a magnifying glass lies there, waiting for something it can reveal.

I can’t remember what Tristan is in college for—I think medicine, or perhaps science, though I suppose they’re in the same vein.

Tall, elegant candlesticks stand proudly at either end, their wax drippings creating a sculptural effect as they descend like frozen tears.

A tattered leather journal lies open near a corner, filled with elegant handwriting that hints at a mind teetering toward madness.

It gets messier by the page, and a solitary pen rests nearby, ready to capture the next fleeting thought.

My fingers trace over the deep scratches and ink stains marked into the surface of the desk beside the journal.

My breath hitches, and curiosity swells within me—but I shouldn’t read it.

I wouldn’t want someone reading my journal, and I already got in trouble with Mortimer once this morning for breaking curfew.

I need to watch my step if I hope to stay longer than three months.

I swallow my curiosity and turn away. I curl up on the lounge chair and place my coffee mug down on the side table before getting comfortable with my laptop.

A sudden coldness caresses my neck, causing the hair to rise, and I tense.

I dare not glance up, fearing what might await me, lurking just out of sight, watching.

When I finally work up the courage to look around, I am underwhelmed by the emptiness that greets me.

Still, the feeling of being watched clings to me like a cloying, damp chill.