Page 71 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)

Seventy

T ristan presses a soft kiss to Amara’s forehead before carefully slipping out of bed, leaving her deep in sleep.

He moves quietly around the room, pulling his pants up and fastening the zipper before slipping his sweatshirt back on.

He pauses, casting one last, lingering glance at Amara, her peaceful form bathed in the soft morning light.

For a moment, he listens to the gentle rise and fall of her breath.

The sheets are tucked snugly around her, hugging her up to her chin as she sleeps soundly, beautifully, undisturbed.

He slides his glasses back on before quietly slipping out of her bedroom.

He moves soundlessly over the hardwood floor as he walks through the foyer.

Each step is deliberate and gentle, mindful not to disturb anyone in the house, even though he knows everyone is awake and somewhere nearby.

The last thing he needs is to draw their attention.

He needs to be alone.

As he enters the east wing, the chaos Dr. Shadow left behind hits him like a cold breeze.

Papers are scattered everywhere, torn to shreds.

Months of his meticulous research, now reduced to meaningless scraps.

The work he had poured himself into, all in the desperate hope of ending this nightmare, had always felt futile.

Still, he’d always told himself there must be a way .

For months now, he’d known the truth. It had always been obvious, if he were honest with himself, but he hadn’t wanted to accept it.

There is no answer, no way to survive without his counterpart. For a brief moment, he considers that maybe he could continue their tenuous coexistence—but Dr. Shadow crossed a line when he tried to kill Amara.

It’s time for this to end. He can’t risk Amara’s life out of selfishness.

What was it Amara told him? She admired his selflessness and tenacity?

A painful smile crosses his lips.

Tristan moves quietly through the room, the soft creak of the floorboards the only sound as he steps carefully around the wreckage.

He gathers the torn fragments of papers, each one a reminder of the months of work now violently ripped apart, and puts them where they now belong: the trash.

With methodical precision, he sets the overturned furniture back into place, the heavy weight of each piece a stark contrast to the lightness of his movements.

His hands move steadily, as if restoring order to the room will somehow reestablish a sense of control to the chaos within him.

He walks over to his desk, still a mess of scattered notes and medical textbooks flipped open to neurochemistry pages, and kneels beside it.

He feels beneath the lowest drawer on the left for a key.

His fingertips brush its cold metal, and he pulls it free.

Rising to his feet, he moves toward a nearby cabinet, the wooden door creaking as he opens it.

Inside, he finds what he’s looking for: a syringe, sterile and gleaming, and a vial of potassium chloride, its contents sealed tightly, waiting for their grim purpose.

His hands tremble, but only slightly, as he sets up the IV drip.

He pulls a bag of chilled saline from a small refrigeration unit and hangs it from a hook, the tubing snaking down, ready to be hooked to a catheter he placed into his own arm.

The cold from the saline will spread through him, numbing from the inside out.

It’s something he’s paired with a mixture of benzodiazepines, beta-blockers, and dopamine antagonists.

A carefully crafted chemical prison .

Tristan walks to his bathroom, where he stands at his bathroom sink, staring at the small assortment of pills in his trembling palm.

The overhead light flickers, casting sharp, angular shadows across his face, highlighting the exhaustion etched in his features.

His reflection stares back at him, but his eyes aren’t quite right.

They’re too sharp, too intense, the gleam of Dr. Shadow lurking just behind them.

He grips the counter harder, as if he’s trying to hold himself together.

All of this ends now.

He draws a steadying breath, clenches his jaw, and swallows the pills dry, the bitter taste lingering in his throat. The effects are almost immediate as he staggers back to his desk.

Tristan paces as the benzodiazepine spreads like liquid lead in his veins, his limbs growing heavy, his thoughts slowing. The beta-blocker dulls the rapid thud of his pulse, silencing the usual flood of adrenaline Dr. Shadow feeds on.

The room stills around him as he sinks into his desk chair, his body sagging under the weight of the chemicals. He hooks the IV tubing to the catheter in his arm.

For the first time in a long time, he feels…still.

He presses his fingers to his temple, his thoughts growing sluggish. But instead of a rising panic, his heartbeat stays slow, his body calm, unwilling to respond.

But something’s wrong.

The saline should feel icy, spreading cold through his veins, but it doesn’t. The line isn’t dripping fast enough.

Tristan’s brows furrow as he checks the catheter, and his breath catches.

The tubing is cracked.

For a moment, he struggles with trying to adjust the line, but his grip is weaker than normal. The drugs are kicking in fast, slowing his reflexes, making him clumsy.

Dr. Shadow always seemed to be one step ahead of him, but not this time.

Tristan forces himself to his feet as he rips the catheter from his arm, barely registering the pain, and stumbles to the bathroom.

His vision blurs, his body already heavy with sedation, but he forces himself forward.

A cold plunge tub awaits him, one he often used for muscle recovery and to reduce inflammation.

It was a tool he had used long before he ever met Cordelia, a failsafe Dr. Shadow would never suspect.

The IV wouldn’t cool his body temperature, but this will.

He steps in without hesitation, the shock of the cold knocking the air from his lungs as his body instinctively rebels against the sudden temperature drop.

Tristan lowers himself further, the cold water clawing at his skin, biting deep into muscle and bone. His breath escapes in jagged gasps, the drugs and cold working together to drag him down.

But then, his body twitches.

A muscle spasm here, there.

His body jolts. His left arm jerks violently, splashing water over the tub’s edges as Dr. Shadow tries to fight him. Tristan forces himself lower, the water lapping at his chin and numbing his lips. The drugs should be keeping him still, the cold dragging him under.

But his body will not stay still.

Until finally, it does.