Page 72 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)

Seventy-One

I wake in a cold sweat, gasping, as if his last breath has stolen mine.

My eyes slowly and sleepily flutter open, a little discombobulated from the strange dream about Tristan.

I stretch my arm across the bed, seeking comfort in his warmth after witnessing something so horrible.

My hand slides across the cold mattress where he should be, but it’s empty.

Panic surges in my chest, mixing the dark dream with his unexpected absence to form sinister conclusions.

I quickly sit up, my heart pounding rapidly.

I throw the sheets off and stumble out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cold floor.

I rush through the foyer, my mind replaying the terrible events from my nightmare as I make my way toward the east wing.

I force myself to push aside the storm of dreadful thoughts swirling in my mind as my steps quicken, my heartbeat racing in my chest. This can’t be happening.

Surely, it’s not real. My heart is beating wildly, as though ready to burst within my ribcage.

It’s the only thing I can hear pounding in my ears.

My hand grazes the cold handle of the east wing door, and I brace myself for the familiar resistance.

I expect it to be locked, to keep me out—just like every other time.

But to my surprise, it turns easily in my grasp.

“Tristan?” My voice trembles, soft and uncertain, as I cautiously step into the room.

I can't help but recall the chaos from the last time I was here—papers torn to shreds, scattered across the floor, furniture overturned and broken, remnants of the fight he had with Dr. Shadow that led to Tristan’s disappearance.

Now, the room is unrecognizable. It's been cleaned, straightened, the disarray replaced by a sense of eerie order.

Everything has been carefully restored to its original state.

My gaze inevitably lands on the desk, then to the saline bag hanging beside it, its presence sending an unsettling chill through me. My dream .

But how could it be real?

My heart sinks into my gut.

It wouldn’t be the first time my dreams held some semblance of reality.

I can’t hear anything but the sound of my heartbeat thudding in my ears.

“Mortimer!” I shout toward the door, my voice cracking as I race toward the bathroom. My desperate cries for him tear through my throat, but they stop abruptly when I see him—Tristan’s body, lifeless, sprawled in the cold plunge tub.

“No…” The word barely escapes my lips, a fragile breath of disbelief.

Panic claws at me as I rush forward, my hands trembling as I try to pull him out.

I hook my arms beneath his, straining with every ounce of strength I have.

His limp body is heavy and ice-cold against mine, his weight sending us both crashing to the bathroom floor with a sickening thud.

In a haze of frantic motion, I reach for the towels hanging nearby. I wrap them around him as best I can, pulling him close to me, trying to transfer some warmth to his frozen, unmoving body.

“ Please , no…” My voice cracks, breaking into a sob as I clutch him tighter.

The warmth that once radiated from him has vanished.

His skin, once sun-kissed and vibrant, now looks ashen, a ghostly pallor taking over, his lips and face tinged a sickly shade of blue.

My arms tremble as I hold him, squeezing him against me with frantic desperation.

Each breath I take comes out jagged, uneven, like the very air is being ripped from my lungs.

I cling to him, my tears soaking his shoulder. My body is distant, empty, a cavity that used to hold my heart. Now, there’s only a hollow, aching void in its place.

Something presses against my back, unfamiliar hands touching me as they try to coax me away from him, but I scramble to keep hold, refusing to let go.

“Miss Amara, please—he’s here to help. You have to let go.”

Mortimer’s cold touch sends a shiver through me as he gently pries my hands from Tristan.

My hiccups are jagged and painful, scraping against my still-raw throat with each harsh breath that escapes me.

I rise to my feet and turn to Mrs. Wong, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, though she seems determined not to let them fall.

Without thinking, I bury my face into her shoulder, and after a brief hesitation, she wraps me in a tight, reluctant embrace. Her arms are warmer than I expected.

I steal a glance at the other man as he kneels beside Tristan, his presence unsettling and entirely out of place.

His face is unfamiliar, his posture stiff, like he’s uncomfortable in the manor.

He’s dressed in all white, like a scientist from a lab, and carries a worn leather bag that seems almost too large, its contents rattling with a faint, unsettling noise as he places it down gently next to him.

The bag is bulging, overflowing with strange, unidentifiable tools—some sleek and metallic, others oddly shaped and rough-edged.

Bottles of various sizes, filled with liquids I can’t name, glint in the dim light, their labels smeared or entirely absent.

The assortment of medical instruments inside the bag feels like something from another world—something dangerous, like a medieval plague doctor’s macabre equipment.

I can’t quite place what they are, but the sight of them makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

“Who are you?” I ask, my voice shaking as Mrs. Wong gently tries to guide me away from the bathroom. “Who is he?” I ask her desperately.

The man doesn’t look at me as he speaks to Mortimer, his tone firm and detached. “I’m going to have to take him.”

Mortimer hesitates for a beat, his eyes flicking between Tristan and the strange man, before he gives a slow, reluctant nod of approval. He pays no mind to me.

“Take him where?” I demand, my words rising in panic, but no one answers me. No one even acknowledges my question.

“Dr. Wollstonecraft is here to help,” Mrs. Wong says finally, her voice soft but offering little comfort.

I nod weakly, though the words do nothing to calm the storm of confusion and fear swirling in my chest. My body trembles with shock.

Only hours ago, Tristan had been alive and smiling, holding me, showing me love like no one before.

How could he have left my bed to do this?

I stare at his cold, unmoving face.

With gentle persistence, she leads me out of the east wing.

As we pass Manu, he looks up, his gaze meeting mine for a fleeting moment.

With that brief glance, I catch a glimmer of compassion in his dark and intense brown eyes—before his expression swiftly hardens, returning to its usual, guarded state.

I look back at him and watch as he disappears into the bathroom.

“Will he save him?” I ask Mrs. Wong, my voice thick with desperation as she guides me toward the kitchen.

“He’s quite an…experimental doctor,” she says, her words laced with an uncertainty that only adds to my growing confusion. “He’s performed miracles before.”

I narrow my eyes, my brows furrowing as I chew on my bottom lip, trying to make sense of what she means.

“I’ll make you a cup of tea,” she adds, her tone almost too calm, too detached.

Tea? Tea ? Tristan could be dying, could already be dead, and she’s offering me tea ? The absurdity of it hits me like a punch to the gut. I open my mouth to protest, but before a single word can escape my mouth, she raises her hand to silence me.

“I know you’re upset, Miss Amara,” she says softly, her tone sympathetic but firm. “But all we can do now is wait.”

In that moment of silence, I realize I’m trembling, shivering, cold and afraid.

I hate waiting, but there is nothing else to do. At least here, with Mrs. Wong, I don’t see Manu carrying Tristan’s limp body out the front door.