Page 68 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)

Sixty-Seven

T he distant echo of shouting pulls me from the haze.

My eyelids flutter open, heavy and reluctant, and the dark outline of my bedroom begins to take shape as my vision gradually sharpens.

I’m propped up in bed, the sheets comforting and warm beneath me.

Mrs. Wong sits quietly at my side, her hand gently holding a warm compress against my forehead.

I feel the familiar, soft fabric of my pajamas, comforting against my skin, and my hair is nearly dry, still a little damp around the edges.

The room is dim, but the quiet presence of Mrs. Wong offers a strange comfort, her expression hinting at compassion.

“What happened?” I croak, my voice rough and strained, each word scraping painfully against my throat.

The burn is sharp, a cruel reminder of the thrashing, the feeling of being held down beneath the water.

My chest tightens as the memory floods back, and I gasp for air.

Mrs. Wong shifts beside me, sitting up to meet my frantic gaze.

“Calm down, Miss Amara,” she murmurs softly as she makes an attempt to comfort me, her hands soothing as they rest on my arm. She is surprisingly gentle and nurturing, and I am able to steady my breathing in her calming presence. “You almost drowned.”

The way she says it almost makes it sound like an accident.

“There were so many butterflies,” I whisper, mostly to myself, shaking my head slowly as I try to piece together the memories of what happened.

Mrs. Wong's brows furrow in confusion, her expression questioning, as if she doesn’t understand what I’m saying. “Butterflies?” she asks finally.

“On the beach,” I say, lifting my gaze to meet hers. “So many dead butterflies.”

Her frown deepens, but she doesn't speak. Instead, she presses the warm cloth back to my forehead as I settle against my pillow. That's when I notice the scent around me—familiar and comforting. I don’t smell the ocean’s salt, but rather the soft, soothing fragrance of my soap and shampoo, the kind that always lingers in the steam of my showers and wraps me in its warmth like a soothing embrace. But then, a thought nags at me.

Had Mrs. Wong been the one to strip me of those sea-soaked clothes and clean me up?

I wonder, but I don’t ask.

It doesn’t make a difference either way, yet I can’t help but wonder if Mrs. Wong and I might be more similar than I thought—I know I would have done the same for her, or anyone, in my position.

I sink into the softness of my bedsheets and plush pillows, letting their warmth envelop me as I close my eyes. Just as I start to drift off again, the sound of raised voices jolts me back awake, the same voices that woke me the first time.

Even with my door shut, the argument echoes loudly from down the hall.

“What’s that about?” I glance at Mrs. Wong, noticing how she avoids my gaze as she adjusts the damp cloth on my forehead.

"What’s going on?" I ask again, my voice quiet but persistent. She doesn’t answer, so I peel the cloth off and toss it onto the writing desk.

There’s only so much secrecy I can take.

"Tell me," I press on, my tone firm now, demanding an answer.

Mrs. Wong purses her lips. “Dr. Shadow’s drunk and angry,” she says, her voice heavy with reluctance.

I furrow my brows, confusion flickering across my face. “As opposed to what?” I ask in reply, dismissing it as nothing new.

But then, the memory hits me—the muffled sound of his voice through the water, his hands tightening around my throat.

For a moment, the memory had held only the sheer reality of a dream, but at her words, it crystallizes into fact.

Goosebumps ripple across my skin as a chill shivers down my spine.

My eyes widen in sudden realization, and I shove the sheets off of me.

“Miss Amara— please ,” Mrs. Wong urges, her voice laced with concern as she gets up. “Stay in bed.”

“No,” I say firmly as I swing my legs over the side.

I stagger slightly, my vision wavering, the world tilting just enough to make me feel unsteady.

My throat still feels raw when I swallow, and I vaguely wonder if it’s bleeding.

I clutch the doorknob for support, taking a breath to steady myself before opening the door.

The hallway stretches before me, and with slow, deliberate steps, I carefully make my way with my hand gliding along the wall, following the sounds of raised voices drifting from the parlor.

The door is cracked open, and the only word I catch is “Tristan.” My heart races as I shove the door open without thinking.

“What have you done with him?” I demand, the rasp in my voice adding a tinge of desperation.

I see him sitting there, speaking to Mortimer.

Mrs. Wong’s steps stop behind me as I charge into the room.

Dr. Shadow lounges on the couch, the brim of his top hat casting a shadow over his face.

It’s as if he’s purposely trying to shield himself from recognition.

From light. I recall the shape of it, a dark silhouette drifting just beneath the surface of the ocean, and suddenly, I’m drowning again.

The memory chokes me, but I blink it away as quickly as it comes.

“Why do you cling to him?” His voice is cool, detached, and yet, he doesn't shift. I can't see his eyes.

“ Please …” My voice falters on a plea I can’t even finish.

“Do you not care for me , little rose?” he asks, his tone soft yet heavy, like a whisper of a threat. He still doesn’t let me see his face.

“You tried to kill me,” I say, my words sharp and raw.

“I tried to kill—” The muscle in his jaw ticks as he clenches his teeth. “I thought you were Cordelia.” I faintly remember the mention of her name, seeing the threads of her golden hair clouding the water, but there is no way she was there. It’s impossible—isn’t it?

Dr. Shadow runs a finger along the rim of his top hat, pausing before he lifts it off his head.

Until that moment, the brim had concealed his face, casting shadows that hid most of his features.

As he removes it, the dim light reveals his injuries—dark circles beneath his hazel eyes, a bruised and swollen cheek, a nose that looks painfully fractured, a deep cut in his jaw.

“What happened to you?” I ask, my voice laced with a mix of curiosity and concern. Why do I care? He tried to kill me.

“Manu,” he mutters, his eyes flickering briefly toward the gardener, though he doesn’t quite meet his gaze. “Manu happened .”

I’m suddenly aware of Manu’s presence, but I don’t bother turning to look at him.

Instead, I drop to my knees in front of Dr. Shadow, taking his hand in mine.

As I touch his coarse hands, I try not to think of the way they were wrapped around my throat or the other things they’ve done to me.

I study his face, the flickering candlelight throwing shadows across his handsome features.

He still makes my heart race despite what he’s done, but now, it’s like the salty water washed away my former delusions.

I see the darkness in him for what it truly is.

He’s a monster, a wicked beast.

“ Please ,” I whisper, my voice barely a breath. “Tell me where he is.”

“He’s going to kill me,” he replies, his voice low and desperate.

“Maybe that’s what you deserve.”

His brows raise slightly, a mix of surprise and defeat crossing his face. He leans back against the sofa, his hand slipping from mine. The words came out harsher than I meant, but a strange sense of relief washes over me.

Maybe I did mean it.

I shake away the thought. If Dr. Shadow is concerned Tristan will kill him, that means he’s still alive.

Without another word, Dr. Shadow rises from the couch. He places his hat back on his head, tilting it just enough to hide his face from view. He doesn’t look at me as he steps around me, his fingers adjusting his sleeves that had been rolled up to his elbows.

He walks to the door with quiet, measured steps then pauses, turning to look first at Manu, then at Mrs. Wong, and lastly, at Mortimer. Mortimer’s eyes are always heavy with that same sullen weight; he had been so silent, I had forgotten his presence until now.

I had been too distracted.

My gaze snaps back to Dr. Shadow, and in that moment, it almost feels as though he's offering a silent goodbye.

He lowers his head slightly, a gesture that feels more like an acknowledgment than a farewell.

“Miss Rose,” he says softly, his voice barely rising above a whisper.

He leaves without saying another word, and Mrs. Wong quietly steps aside to allow him to pass.

A tight tug in my chest urges me to chase after him, but I remain frozen, rooted to the floor. My gaze shifts to Manu, who refuses to meet my eyes. His beefy arms are crossed over his chest as I turn to Mortimer, whose stare feels like it’s going to zap my soul through my eyes.

This isn’t my fault, and yet it feels like it is.

Mrs. Wong gently pulls me up from the floor.

“This is a good thing, right?” I whisper, my voice barely audible as she guides me back to my bedroom. She doesn’t answer immediately, simply settling me back into bed with quiet efficiency.

After a long pause, she finally speaks. “I don’t know.” Her voice is soft, uncertain. “Please rest, Miss Amara. It’s been a long night.”

She meets my gaze with weary eyes, her hand giving my leg a soft pat over the comforter she tucked around me. I offer her a quiet nod, the weight of my body pressing in, sinking deeper into the softness of the mattress.

Rest does sound nice.