Page 66 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)

Sixty-Five

T hese days, the manor feels even more sinister.

Without Tristan’s gentle presence or Gisella’s innocent laughter, the emboldened darkness presses in from every corner.

The shadows in my room seem to stretch, twisting like living brambles, their dark tendrils creeping across the peeling wallpaper as if they’re reaching for something—for someone .

My mind drifts back to the cozy beach house I imagined Tristan living in, with its whitewashed walls softened by the wear of salt and sun, the paint peeling as nature begins to reclaim it.

The rhythmic crash of waves against the shore would be his constant companion, a soothing backdrop to moments of peace away from books and experiments.

The sunlight would spill through wide-open windows, casting a golden warmth across the room and leaving a trail of dancing light on the hardwood floors.

The air would be thick with the scent of saltwater and tropical fruits, a far cry from the musty smell of old books and decay.

Scattered around the beach house could be traces of the ocean: seashells, bits of driftwood, and the fine sand that always seems to find its way inside.

Outside, a hammock would hang lazily between two palm trees, a few surfboards leaning casually against the walls, waiting for him to seize the next wave.

Instead of the tranquil, sunlit beach house I pictured in my mind, this oppressive manor looms before me, steeped in darkness.

It’s guarded by bare, skeletal trees whose twisted branches claw at the sky, the winding road that leads to it stretching endlessly to wrought-iron gates like a forgotten path far removed from civilization.

When I try to think about my life before coming here, it feels gray and distant—as if the person I was before wasn’t truly me .

Even in the fog and gloom of my current life, I feel an undeniable sense of coming into myself that seems at odds with my simultaneous intellectual certainty I don’t belong here.

Or perhaps I do.

I simply cannot decide.

Shifting uneasily on my bed, I turn my gaze toward the rose, now drooping in its slender vase.

The once-vibrant petals have curled and blackened at the edges, a grim reminder of its decay, and a few fallen petals lie scattered on the writing desk.

I reach out to caress the delicate flower, my fingers hovering for a moment before I pull away, as if I fear touching it will cause it to wither faster.

A deep ache settles in my chest.

I miss home.

I miss my father.

Yet somehow, the vividness of moments here eclipse the details of that life. The crystalline clarity in Tristan’s honest eyes and the orgasmic power of connection with Dr. Shadow—they bind me to this place.

With a soft sigh, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and reach over to slip on the worn leather boots sitting nearby.

It’s cold against my bare skin, sending a quick chill through my body.

I grab my jacket and shrug it on before quietly slipping out of the manor and into the night.

The shadows of the trees stretch long in the moonlight as I make my way toward the dense forest.

My feet hesitate, echoing my heart’s silent attempt to keep me anchored to the house and away from the forest as I slowly trudge toward it. The cool air presses against me as I walk through the garden, the only light coming from the distant moon in a cloudless sky high above.

I scan the scenery as I enter the trees. I still can’t determine if I’ve ever truly walked here before. Was it a dream? A vision? Sometimes, I wonder if I sleepwalked into a fevered nightmare. Even now, there are moments I can’t tell if I’m fully awake or still trapped in some half-formed dream.

The path ahead is foreign, winding through towering trees and thick underbrush that swallow any trace of light.

I tug my jacket tighter around my body as the shadows stretch and twist, growing longer with each step I take.

The uneven ground beneath me seems like a long-forsaken path, and the occasional snap of a branch or rustle of leaves sends a cold shiver creeping up my spine.

The thick silence is broken only by sounds of the forest and my own breath.

Still, I continue, compelled as though the distant call of the ocean is guiding me.

Now that I listen, I’m struck by the absence of animal sounds. Not a single birdsong dares challenge the silence.

Though I live in what many consider paradise, I haven’t visited the beach in years.

The sand always feels too harsh against my skin, the waves too wild and unpredictable.

Yet tonight, I walk toward it despite the unease that clings to me.

I’m not quite sure what I hope to find. I don’t expect answers.

Perhaps I seek closeness. Tristan loved the beach.

The overgrown trail clears slightly as the damp earth turns to pale sand.

I wonder how often he walked this path. I could see it in his eyes.

There was a sparkle in those hazel hues, his skin with that newly bronzed glow after being kissed by the sun.

In a way, he was his own sun, endlessly pursuing a brighter future despite the shadows surrounding him.

The manor is so much darker without him.

The scent of the ocean reaches me first, a salty breeze that wraps around me, followed by the melodic gusts of wind that harmonize with the distant, rhythmic crash of waves against the shore.

The sound cuts through the quiet, a stark contrast to the heavy silence of the forest threatening to swallow me.

There's an unexpected comfort in it, one I’ve never known when visiting the beach before.

Maybe it’s simply the relief of leaving the forest, of escaping its eerie quiet and the unnerving weight of the shadows that still cling to my mind.

My boots sink into the dry sand as I step out from the forest’s edge, my eyes drawn to the vast, dark ocean ahead. The waves crash relentlessly against the shore, their frothy edges tumbling and retreating in an endless cycle, as though the sea itself breathes.

The shoreline is littered with thousands of strange blue shapes scattered across the sand like some twisted, otherworldly treasure.

At first, I think they’re Portuguese Man o’ War, their translucent bodies usually seen drifting along the surface and their long tendrils stretching out like ropes, waiting to ensnare anything that comes too close.

The sight of them sends a chill through me, the memory of their painful sting still fresh in my mind from when I was a child with one wrapped around my ankle.

But as I step closer, squinting against the faint moonlight, something about the scene doesn’t sit right. These aren’t the bluebottle creatures I’m used to. They’re too fragile, too delicate. My breath catches in my throat as the truth settles in.

They’re not jellyfish at all.

They’re butterflies.

Countless tattered wings flicker in the wind, the soft, iridescent blue of their wings shimmering under the moonlight.

Some of them are still, their lifeless bodies crumpled and abandoned on the sand, while others twitch weakly, as if desperately trying to lift off but failing, their wings crushed by the weight of whatever has befallen them.

The sand is dotted with them like a graveyard.

A strange unease curls in my stomach. There’s something unnatural about the way they’ve gathered here to die.

I drop to my knees, cradling one as it clings to life, its movements weak and erratic.

The faint, unpleasant scent of decay lingers in the air, mixing with the briny tang of the ocean, sending a chill through my spine. Its delicate wings cease to flutter, and the small butterfly goes limp in my hand, a deathly stillness settling over it.

The waves roll steadily onto the shore, their powerful pull dragging the tiny, lifeless bodies into the depths, the relentless tide breaking the fragile wings with each crash against the sand.

I carefully lay the fragile creature back onto the sand and slip off my boots, feeling the coolness of nature beneath my feet.

The sand, once harsh and gritty, now feels soft, almost comforting, against my skin.

With each step, I move closer to the water's edge, drawn forward as if the ocean itself is calling me toward a watery grave.