Page 73 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)

Seventy-Two

I stay in bed for a few days, my arms wrapped tightly around the collected works of Robert Louis Stevenson.

Once in a while, I flip it open just to read through Tristan’s annotations.

The reminder of him makes me feel safe. I let my finger glide against the words, feeling the depth of the pressure from his pen pressed into the page with each stroke.

Robert Louis Stevenson was known for several of his classics.

My heart began to thrum rapidly in my chest as I turned the page.

The Strange Case…

Quickly, I sit up and shut the book, trying to calm myself as I attempt to steady my breathing. I slide out of bed as my attention is pulled toward the door and out into the foyer.

My fingers glide over the polished surface of the railing as I ascend the stairs, the cold biting against my skin.

Each step is slow and intentional, as though I am being pulled toward the portrait room by an unseen force.

The house feels unnaturally still around me, the silence always so suffocating, save for the soft click of my heels against the wood.

As I walk, the mysteries of the manor swirl around me.

Tristan’s work. Dr. Shadow’s lurking lust. The household staff’s confusing alliances and secrets.

I feel like I am finally on the brink of clarity, as though the icy cold of Tristan’s body has finally broken through the riddles like a sharp knife through a complex knot of golden threads.

I know before I reach the door who I will find on the other side. He’s always in the quiet, lurking just out of sight, somehow everywhere and nowhere. So easy to forget, yet the keeper of the keys to unlock all secrets.

My hand grips the tarnished brass handle.

It turns with a low, reluctant groan, and I step inside.

The room is bathed in a harsh, uninvited light, the curtains drawn back to let daylight flood the space.

It casts long, jagged shadows that stretch across the walls, distorting the familiar contours of the room.

The portrait above the mantle is covered, a tarp draped over it like a corpse’s veil.

I can feel his presence, as if something—someone—is watching me. The silence presses down harder, and a chill runs through me.

“I know it was you,” I mutter.

The dark figure steps into the light from the shadowed corner, and the first thing that strikes me is the glint in his hollow eyes—cold, sharp, empty.

His features are washed out by the shadows, his skin so pale, it seems almost translucent.

In the time I’ve lived at the Black estate, Mortimer has never quite looked entirely human.

He looks like something that’s lingered in the house far too long, a ghost in a barely living body.

“You killed that man, didn’t you?”

“I already told you, Miss Amara,” Mortimer replies, his voice as smooth as it is chilling. “The man from the garden did not die.”

“Well, why did you hurt him?”

“I didn’t hurt him. I saved him.”

“What? Why?”

“I needed a response time.”

Confusion knots in my chest, and I stare at him, trying to make sense of the cryptic statement. My fingers absently trace the rose charm resting against my collarbone, its cool surface grounding me as I fumble with it, seeking some kind of comfort. “For?”

“How long it would take for him to arrive.”

Him who ?

A sickening twist coils in my stomach, and a cold shiver slithers down my spine. His words are weighed; I feel them pressing down against my lungs, ready to clasp a hand around my throat and drag me underwater again.

“Dr. Wollstonecraft.”

“ You called for that doctor—before I—” I stammer, the realization sinking in. That’s how he got there so fast. “You knew Tristan?—”

“ Mr. Black ,” he corrects, just as he always has.

I clench my jaw, inhaling sharply through my gritted teeth, frustration bubbling up. But then, it hits me. To Mortimer, there had never been a Tristan and a Dante —only Mr. Black. Always the same to him. Always the same to Mrs. Wong and Manu. The shadows begin to form shapes in my mind.

“You knew Mr. Black would try to kill himself?”

“I suspected. He has considered it in the past.” Mortimer’s gaze drifts to the covered portrait on the wall, and there's something in the way his eyes linger there—something distant, almost mournful. “Do you remember his birthday? The fight in the east wing…”

I nod, remembering the crashes I heard and his distress.

“Dante was sabotaging his efforts. My assumption is, he crossed a line when he tried to kill you. I care for Mr. Black in any form he takes. I worked for his parents; I’ve known him since he was just a boy.

” Mortimer pauses, and when his gaze finally meets mine again, it feels unnerving.

“You understand now, don't you? Dante is Tristan’s?—”

Any form he takes.

“ Shadow .” My voice is so soft, it’s just above a whisper.

It clicks into place, and I finally understand how Mortimer could help Dr. Shadow.

He didn’t want to lose him . As my mind spins, reorganizing my memories with this realization, I marvel at how I never saw it.

The two of them, so similar, yet so different—by what magic had I never recognized one in the form of the other?

Tristan gave me that collection on purpose. He was trying to tell me something without actually saying it. ‘ You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. ’

Mortimer nods, though we both know it isn’t necessary. The secret is in the open, the need for discretion long since passed.

“As dark as his name. Two halves of the same coin. Mr. Black tried to suppress the pieces of himself he believed would hold him back from his academic success—indulgence, lust…sinful acts. Anything that could cause distraction.” He steps closer, his voice lowering, smooth like velvet but sharp as a blade.

“His girlfriend—at the time—did not like that. She liked who he was when he was reckless. Temperamental. Angry. Possessive.” Mortimer’s smile is slow, calculated, the kind of smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Instead of letting him go and moving on, Cordelia wanted to destroy him. She wanted him to destroy himself .” He pauses for a moment, as if weighing the next words carefully, the silence between us thickening.

“And she cursed him with her own suicide.”

My eyes widen as I tug the rose charm back and forth on the chain around my neck. “She’s dead ?”

The weight of his words press down on me, the room suddenly too small, too suffocating.

My heart races, every inch of me screaming that something in Mortimer’s words isn’t right.

I want to say curses aren’t real, that my fears and my dreams have been nothing but gaps filled by my own overactive imagination, that I’ve seen Cordelia in the woods—alive.

But then, I think of the recent dreams where I’ve taken her place.

I think of how I followed her into the forest and the trail of dead grass in my wake.

Her hair in the water. Her reflection in my mirror.

I know it isn’t the work of my imagination. Something isn’t right. Something hasn’t been right since before I accepted the job. I know Mortimer isn’t lying to me. He has no reason to, not anymore.

“Who hurt that man in the garden?”

“I think you know,” he says, a coldness in his voice.

He’s right. I do know, especially after what he tried to do to me.

I just don’t want to believe it.

A long silence rests over us, both our tired eyes wandering to consider the concealed portrait.

“Who will Tr- Mr. Black be when he returns?” I finally manage to ask quietly.

“That’s the mystery, isn’t it?” Mortimer tilts his head, his eyes narrowing, locking onto mine with an intensity that sends a chill down my spine. “Who do you hope for?”

My blood runs cold, and the suffocating silence stretches between us.

The words lodge in my throat, refusing to come as an unsettling truth claws at the edges of my mind.

My gaze instinctively returns to the covered portrait and the looming mystery it holds.

If I were to pull down the tarp, would it tell me who I would see?

Would it reflect the man who lost? Who would not walk through that door? Would he be gone forever?

Who do I hope for?

I struggle with the thought. The question feels like a weight in my chest, one I can’t answer. The obvious answer is Tristan, but deep down, I know there’s a part of me that refuses to let go of either. I know I should hate Dr. Shadow. He tried to kill me, didn’t he?

Or had he merely tried to kill Cordelia, the woman who broke him?

It’s not fair. She had both of them as one.

I want both of them too.

“Can I see him?”

“It is not safe.”

I draw in a sharp, deep breath.

It’s never safe.