Page 8 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)

Seven

T he next morning, I step into the kitchen at dawn, my heart quickening at the sight of Manu and his hulking figure.

While I expect to see him, he still startles me.

He stands there, the gruff caretaker of the grounds, his coffee steaming like the breath of some slumbering beast. His gaze lands heavy as I sit at the table, but I refuse to let it rattle me.

While I sit scrolling through my phone, he remains immersed in the blackened pages of the newspaper, intentionally oblivious to my presence.

As much as I try to feel indifferent towards him, I can’t help but want win him over.

After all, there are enough frightening things in the house that it seems inadvisable to create enemies out of the flesh-and-blood people I’m working with.

The quiet clinks of ceramic and the crackle of newspaper pages turning punctuate the silence between us.

I can basically hear the crumbs of my bagel hit the plate, and the silence is too much. It begins to annoy me.

I’ve only been here a few days, and I refuse to be enemies with this man.

“So, as a groundskeeper, what kind of things do you do?” I ask, forcing down a piece of bagel that suddenly feels too large. Naturally, he doesn’t respond, and I swear, he immerses himself deeper into the pages of his newspaper, as if to purposely shield himself from me.

“Well, Amara,” I muse to myself as I straighten my posture, adopting a mockery of his deep, gruff voice while spreading more cream cheese over my bagel. “It takes a lot of work to keep the plants healthy on grounds as extensive as these. That requires a lot of botanical wisdom.”

Botanical wisdom . I have no idea what nonsense I’m blabbering, but his gaze flickers toward me momentarily, and I see a shade of annoyance pass across his dark features just before he resumes his silent reading.

My eyes widen in irritation at his stony silence, but I continue to nibble on my bagel, chasing each bite with a bitter gulp of coffee.

After finishing, I wish him a good day and retreat to my room.

I snatch up my leather bag as if it holds the key to a more fulfilling day and tread carefully down the hallway to Tristan’s study.

My phone dings as soon as I sit down.

It’s Tristan.

Good morning, Miss Amara. I hope you’ve been adjusting well and that your room is comfortable.

Today, I’d like you to please sort through my emails.

I left my laptop on the desk. Feel free to sit there and work.

I receive a lot of junk mail, but on occasion, I miss important emails that have been marked junk by accident.

If you could declutter it, that would be great.

Of course. Have a good day, Mr. Black! Please text me if you need anything.

Likewise, Miss Amara.

My gaze wanders over the desk, where the remnants of his intellectual passion lie sprawled.

The thick volumes on biochemistry I gathered for him yesterday tower around a collection of hastily written notes, the ink barely dry, while his laptop hums softly, its screen glowing faintly.

The scribbles seem to hold fragments of Tristan’s relentless quest for understanding, and curiosity prickles my fingertips.

Was he up all night? Had he managed to go through all the books I gathered?

I inhale deeply, shaking my head in a futile attempt to quell my desire to explore, determined not to intrude.

I settle into his desk chair, feeling its comforting embrace, and slowly lift the lid of his laptop.

As I delve deeper into the task, the hours melt away unnoticed. I'm absorbed in the rhythm of sorting and deleting his junk mail, my mind drifting, until a sudden swish from his computer jolts me back to reality with the arrival of a new message.

NEUROSCIENCE LAB: PET Scan Request

Without looking beyond the subject line, it’s obvious this one is important. I quickly grab my phone and send him a text.

Hi, Mr. Black. Sorry to bother you,

but you just received an email from a neuroscience lab regarding a PET scan.

Did you open it?

No.

For a moment, I don’t know if his text was implying I ought to have opened it or not.

I hover the mouse over the email but wait.

I gaze at the laptop screen, my breath catching as the email quickly vanishes.

He must be accessing it through his phone.

The connection between him and that message pushes a chill down my spine.

Where is he?

My phone dings again, startling me.

Thank you, Miss Amara. You’re done for today. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon. :)

I steal a glance at the time in the upper corner of my phone—it’s barely past noon.

I’m not entirely finished organizing his inbox, and I’d like to ask for clarification about whether or not I’m supposed to read his emails in the future.

But I’d rather have that conversation in person—otherwise, I’m worried I’ll come across as nosey.

In reality, some people just have different expectations for personal assistants, and I’m having a hard time figuring out what Tristan’s are when he won’t even talk to me face-to-face.

I send him a quick ‘thank you’ text for letting me off early and shut his laptop before stuffing my phone back into my pocket.

As I rise from the desk chair, I ignore the shadows that seem to deepen in the corners of his study.

I grab my leather bag before taking my leave.

I feel the weight of the house’s gaze as I tread toward the kitchen, the floorboards creaking underfoot as I am led blindly by the growl in my stomach.

Just as my fingertips hover over the swinging kitchen door, hushed voices drift toward me, weaving an unmistakable web of tension. It’s Mrs. Wong and Mortimer.

“I don’t trust that girl,” Mrs. Wong snaps.

“Regardless, she must be kept safe ,” Mortimer replies, his tone firm.

“ Safe ,” Mrs. Wong scoffs, her laughter tinged with what sounds like discomfort. “She’s too curious, always poking around. What if she encounters Dr. Shadow? We can’t protect her from him, not even Tristan. Especially not Tristan.”

“She won’t,” Mortimer states, a surprising vigor echoing in his words of reassurance, resonating with a conviction I’ve never heard from him before.

I step back from the kitchen, heart racing, and make my way swiftly to my bedroom before they catch me eavesdropping.

I shut the door with trembling hands, careful not to make a sound as I lean back against the wood and lock the door.

My bag slips off my shoulder and hits the floor, the sound drowned out by their whispers replaying in my mind.

Who is Dr. Shadow?

I peel myself off the door and walk to my bed as I dig my phone from my pocket. I type ‘ neuroscience PET scan ’ in the search bar and climb into the comforting silk sheets.

A brain positron emission tomography (PET) scan is an imaging test of the brain. It uses a radioactive substance called a tracer to look for disease or injury. A PET scan shows how the brain and its tissues are working.

My breath hitches in my throat as I recall Mortimer’s warning from my arrival.

‘Be cautious of getting too close to him, Miss Amara. He’s not well.’

But he appears so vibrant, almost unnaturally healthy.

I struggle to suppress the rising tide of dread that threatens to wash over me, a chill settling deep in my bones.

Perhaps the PET scan is meant for another; perhaps it’s linked to his academic pursuits.

I fight to rein in my intrigue, knowing my imagination will only lead me down a path of unwanted assumptions and suspicions as it attempts to fill in the blanks.

I look at my phone again.

If you're experiencing neurological symptoms, your provider may recommend a PET scan to evaluate possible brain abnormalities, such as tumors, seizures, and other central nervous system conditions.

I immediately shut the browser, the weight of the words suddenly suffocating, but I’m trying my best not to jump to conclusions.

I refuse to see him as anything but the striking, albeit awkward, man I met on Friday—the one whose nervous stutter only added to his charm, whose strong arms seemed both protective and inviting.

A gentle giant, possibly even a tender lover .

My jaw clenches at the thought; I shouldn’t be indulging in such fantasies.

I shouldn’t be daydreaming in the midst of my anxiety.

Not when he could be sick. Not when he…