Page 65 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)

Sixty-Four

A s the days slip by, Tristan fades further into the distance, his presence growing smaller and more distant in my mind, like a whisper carried away by the wind.

I haven't seen Dr. Shadow in days—not since that dreadful dinner, not since his cold dismissal of me, the way he looked at me with pure disgust in his eyes.

Mortimer, however, seems to be the only person Dr. Shadow will meet with, though he remains tight-lipped whenever I ask about it.

Mortimer looks worse with each passing day, though I never imagined he could look worse than he already did.

His appearance has become even more ghostly, if that’s even possible.

His eyes are larger than I remember, but not in a way that brings any life to him—instead, they seem hollow, almost vacant.

His skin, once the color of damp ash, now seems drained of even that, a sickly, deathly gray clinging to him like a shroud.

I haven’t seen him eat, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s the weight of whatever’s unfolding with Dr. Shadow slowly eroding him.

I’ve avoided the library, avoided my laptop, avoided anything that might offer an escape, even reading and writing—those things that once brought me comfort.

I even hid the anthology Tristan gave me because I didn’t want to think of him.

I didn’t want to be reminded. While it might be nice to lose myself in a story, to drift away into a world where things make sense, it feels pointless now.

No matter how deep I go into those pages to escape the nightmare I’ve fallen into, I’ll always wake up, and my reality will remain unchanged.

There’s a part of me that knows the truth in my avoidance—it holds too many memories, each one tangled with a different emotion.

I remember the quiet shuffle of my feet between the bookcases, searching for biochemistry books for Tristan, the hum from my laptop fan during my writing sessions, the soft laughter as I shared gossip with Gisella, the way I felt when Tristan asked about my writing.

But most of all, I remember the moment everything turned upside down…

the encounter with Dr. Shadow that shattered everything.

A tight knot forms in my stomach, the bitter realization sinking in that my job, getting hired, had all been a lie. I haven’t confronted Mortimer about it—haven’t found a reason to. Perhaps, I just don’t want to hear the truth anymore. It’s too late for answers now.

Tristan’s blood is on my hands too. If I hadn’t been so easily captivated, so easily seduced by Dr. Shadow and everything he represented, maybe he’d still be here.

I never should have come here.

I could leave, I suppose, but what would I tell my father?

I need to see this through, wherever it goes. And so far, no one has mentioned firing me…

Yet.

Sitting in the garden, I absentmindedly trace the golden rose charm back and forth along the chain around my neck, the smooth metal cool against my skin.

Manu is nearby, his large hands methodically pulling weeds from the soil, though the work feels secondary to the quiet presence he brings.

We don’t speak much, but there’s something in the way he moves, the way he lingers, that makes me feel like he’s developed some sort of fondness for me, even if he never shows it and likely would never admit to it.

Part of me believes he’s looking out for me in his own way, offering a silent, steady protection.

There’s a gruffness to him, a roughness in his movements that gives him the air of someone hardened by life.

Yet, beneath it all, there’s something almost fatherly about him, a quiet shield against the world, only protecting those who he feels might deserve it.

Of course, it could all just be my imagination—a wishful thought in a world that feels increasingly unreal. If that’s the case, I’d rather live in my own head, where things make sense to me, however fleetingly.

The brilliant, vibrant wings of a blue butterfly flutter nearby, catching my attention with their delicate, almost ethereal beauty.

I watch, mesmerized, as it hovers for a moment before landing softly on the rose bush, its wings trembling slightly in the still air.

Each delicate beat of its wings seems deliberate, steady, time itself slowing to appreciate this transient moment.

Its thin legs rest gently on a large, blooming rose, its petals a rich, blood red, bright against the green leaves and shadows.

Slowly, the butterfly rises from the rose, its vibrant blue wings rustling in the air as it sways in the breeze, drifting toward me. It moves with a quiet elegance, graceful and fluid, like a fleeting dream, its wings pulsing gently with each beat, as though syncing to the rhythm of my heart.

I extend my hand, careful not to startle it, hoping it will trust me enough to land on my finger.

I feel foolish, like a child trying to form a connection with something so delicate and otherworldly.

Yet, despite the silliness of the moment, a part of me clings to that sense of wonder, unwilling to let go of the magic it brings.

I want it to trust me, to land just for a second, to remind me there’s still something pure and alive in this place.

I hold my breath as it drifts closer, its delicate legs barely brushing my skin.

In a heartbeat, it falters, its wings folding as it drops to the ground before me.

The vibrant blue fades, the color bleeding into the soil beneath it as shadows stretch across the garden and the sun disappears behind a passing cloud.

A cold chill sweeps through me, and I rise quickly, a sense of unease tightening in my chest.

It’s not safe .

Gisella’s warning replays in my head again and again.

I can still hear the fear in her voice and see the terror in her large eyes.

Her vibrancy seemed to have faded too in her final days before she left, and now, as I look down at the dead butterfly, I wonder if perhaps I, too, have overstayed my welcome here.

I was never needed, not really. Not truly.

For what purpose am I even still here?