Page 75 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)

Seventy-Four

M y heart skips a beat as I find myself staring into those piercing blue eyes, barely visible through the curtain of long, straight, straw-colored hair falling across her face like a disheveled veil.

The sight of her standing there sends a cold, electric tremor through me, needle-like chills pricking into my bones.

My knees shudder and grow weak, and a heavy sense of fear anchors me in place.

I know she’s dead.

How is she standing before me? Is this a dream? I’m struggling to separate the false from what is real while keeping my grip on reality. My mouth moves to say her name, but no word manages to escape my lips.

“You interfered,” she says, her words sharp as her hand shoots out to grab my throat.

Her grip is tight over the deep bruises left across my skin.

“Tristan was supposed to kill himself, and you just had to get in the way and save him.” Her words are punctuated by the tightening of her fingers as they wander from my shoulder to my throat, squeezing gently, almost teasingly.

Then, her fingers clutch my skin. I claw at her hand, my nails desperately digging into her cold skin, but it’s like trying to cut into stone.

She lifts me effortlessly, my feet leaving the ground, and all I can do is gasp for air as she holds me suspended in the air, her presence consuming every breath.

One hand reaches out blindly, flailing toward the desk, desperate to grab something, anything , to use as a weapon.

Something I can hit her with. Something to force her to release me.

Something to let me breathe . I begin to grow faint as my eyelids start to flutter.

They grow heavy the more I struggle to keep them open, and my vision blurs.

I struggle to speak; I can’t even manage to make a sound.

“Cordelia!” someone’s voice rumbles loudly, tearing through the silence in the library.

Her head snaps away from me as it captures her attention, and with an almost reluctant movement, she loosens her grip on my neck.

I crash to the floor with a sharp thud, jolts of pain rattling throughout my body.

My breath comes in desperate gasps as I tenderly clutch my throat, fingers trembling as I try to soothe the sting and force my windpipe open.

Slowly, I sit up from the floor, my hands still gently pressed against the bruising on my throat, hoping to ease the lingering pain.

I cast a faint glance in Cordelia’s direction, but she vanished.

A cold shiver runs down my spine, and goosebumps prickle across my skin as I scramble backward, pressing myself against the desk for some semblance of safety.

My heart races as panic surges through me.

Where did she go?

I feel the solid wood of the desk behind me and glance to the door, to the figure who scared her away.

Manu stands there, a sharp yet concerned glint in his dark eyes.

Could he see her? He turns away without another word, and I force myself to my feet to scramble after him.

My limbs feel unsteady and clumsy, and I nearly trip over my own feet as I chase after him, each step a struggle to catch up.

“Wait!” I shout, my voice cracking as I chase him down the dark hallway.

“She’s not done with you,” he says gruffly over his shoulder, not slowing his pace.

“What are you talking about?” My voice comes out strained, throat still throbbing from the pain of her cutting off my air.

“You need to get out of this house until Mr. Black returns.”

“I’m not leaving!” My protest is immediate; I refuse to leave. I’ve survived too much to back down now.

He spins around, his massive frame towering over me like an angered Hawaiian war god. His large hands clamp down on my arms, grip firm and tight, pulling me closer as he brings himself down to my height to look me dead in the eyes.

“She’s going to kill you, girl .”

I am frozen in his grasp, my body stiff as his words replay in my head like a broken record. I slowly begin to shake my head as I try to process the words.

“But… No, she…she wants Tristan. She doesn’t care about me,” I stammer, trying to rationalize the impossible.

Manu’s grip loosens, and he releases me with a sharp exhale, his eyes never leaving mine.

“She can’t kill him herself,” he says, his tone steady but firm.

“That isn’t how it works. He has to choose it.

” I’m still reeling, trying to make sense of this twisted logic when his finger jabs in my direction warningly.

“But you?” He pauses, the words almost a threat now. “You, she can kill.”

I feel disoriented and out of touch.

She’s a ghost , but the bruises on my neck burn with pain at the thought.

If she can touch me, she can kill me.

I instinctively rub my arm where his fingers had gripped me, as if trying to erase the sensation.

“You should have left with Gisella,” he adds, his voice colder now as he turns to walk away. His heavy footsteps echo down the hall. “Go home , Amara.”

I stand frozen. Leaving would be a shameful surrender to Cordelia and her evil schemes. Leaving would mean surrendering Tristan to her manipulation.

But I know I’m in over my head. For the first time since I arrived, the magnitude of the situation—and the full dark truth—looms over me, ugly, unbending.

I know he’s right: I am in Cordelia’s crosshairs. I am at risk. I am a liability.

It is with those final words that Manu calls a car for me and sends me on my way, right back to my father. I barely have time to collect my necessities before the cab pulls up outside. Mortimer is there at the door, and Mrs. Wong watches from the kitchen with her own silent goodbye.

As the car pulls away, a sharp ache settles in my chest, as though a skeletal hand grips my heart.

I glance out the window, watching the dark, looming mansion fade into the distance, its silhouette shrinking until it’s nothing more than a shadow swallowed by the trees as we go down the winding road.

The further we drive, the heavier the emptiness feels.

I shouldn’t be leaving.

Is this really for the best?

I fiddle with my phone, the useless dead brick, as I press on the side button absentmindedly, trying to find something to occupy myself. My gaze drifts to the rearview mirror, and my blood runs cold as I meet the stare of two clear, victorious blue eyes glaring back at me.

A sharp gasp escapes my lips before I can stop it, my hands flying to my mouth as the phone slips from my fingers, landing in my lap with a soft thud. My heart races, the air in the car suddenly too thick to breathe.

The driver, unaware of the cold terror flooding me, adjusts the rearview mirror and looks back at me with concern. “Are you alright, miss?” His voice is rough, and a deep frown creases the space between his thick, unruly eyebrows.

I blink several times, my gaze fixated on the mirror.

I blink rapidly, my eyes glued to the mirror, but the blue eyes are gone. Only my reflection stares back at me, wide-eyed and shaking.

“I…um, yeah. I’m fine,” I mutter.

I shut my eyes as I shrink down into the seat, trying to find a comforting thought in the darkness. Something I can hold onto. Something to stop me from this terror gripping me.

Without thinking, my hand reaches for the small rose charm that hangs at the base of my neck. I drag it gently up and down the gold chain, finding quiet solace in the faint noise it makes, in the way it vibrates softly against my skin.

For a moment, it’s the only thing that feels real.