Page 81 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)
Eighty
I n the dead of night, I drift down the dark hallway, my fingers brushing the icy railing.
The shadows seem to stretch, swallowing the distance as I approach the room at the end.
The door stands half open, tempting me into its forgotten embrace.
I can't recall the last time I stepped into the portrait room, but the memory slips through my mind like mist, elusive and distant.
Still, an invisible force tugs at me, an irresistible pull. It rouses me from the comfort of my bed, guiding me here as though something in the room had been waiting for me.
With a soft push, I open the door, its hinges protesting with an eerie creak as it swings wide.
The flickering glow of candles at either end of the mantle throws dancing shadows across the wall, the wallpaper pulsing with a life of its own.
The large portrait remains shrouded beneath a heavy tarp, silently inviting me to finally unveil what secret lies beneath.
I take a cautious step forward, my every instinct screaming to turn away, but I can’t seem to stop myself. With a trembling hand, I reach out, my fingers barely brushing the edges of the canvas before I yank it free from its frame.
It falls to the floor with a soft whisper, and my heart races, pounding erratically in my chest as I step back, putting deliberate distance between myself and what now stands before me.
The portrait is not what I remembered. The scar, jagged and deep, cuts across his face, a brutal testament to his true nature.
His eyes, dark and intense, hold a maddening seriousness that seems to pierce the canvas.
His jaw is sharp yet scruffy, cut from stone, and beneath his sweatshirt, a collared shirt peeks out, an odd yet fitting reflection of his conflicting personas fighting for dominance in the same body.
I take a tentative step closer, my breath catching in my throat.
The scar—no, it’s not a scar at all. It's a tear, jagged and raw, ripping through the canvas as though the very fabric of the painting cannot contain the depth of what lies beneath.
The wound stretches across his face, a deliberate gash bleeding into the painting itself.
My gaze falls to the inscription delicately carved into the frame, the letters so fine, they seem almost too fragile to exist. The words remain unchanged: May this serve as a reminder for the beast you truly are within.
I whisper each word, my voice barely audible, even to my own ears.
As I finish, the window suddenly crashes open, and a violent gust of wind sweeps through the room, extinguishing the candles in an instant.
My hand presses gently against my ribcage as I try to soothe myself, my heart pounding so fiercely, it feels as though it might burst free from my chest. I watch a delicate blue butterfly flutter in through the open window.
The sight of the fluttering cerulean wings sends a shiver down my spine, reminding me of that dreadful night on the beach. I close my eyes, my body trembling uncontrollably, goosebumps rising in waves across my skin as a chill creeps up the back of my neck.
Footsteps echo unevenly behind me, my breath quickening as fear tightens in my chest.
“Miss Rose…”
That voice . My heart nearly stops, and I quickly spin on my heels.
There he stands—rugged, impossibly seductive, the top buttons of his maroon shirt undone, the fabric stretched across his toned chest. The moonlight through the open window catches his face, revealing sparkling amber eyes that pierce into me, intense and unyielding.
“You aren’t looking for me, are you, little one?”
The blue butterfly flutters desperately, its wings beating in frantic attempts to escape through the window, but it collapses, lifeless, onto the sill.
My heart pounds violently in my chest as he steps into the room, his presence all-consuming. He slowly nudges the door shut behind him with the heel of his shoe, sealing us in an eternal darkness—something full of desire and promise.