Page 13 of Cruel Pleasures
The main house sits at the center of the property, six stories high and with so many windows it’d take too long to count. Columns etched with iconic scrollwork line the front of the house, capped by a gable roof a darker gray than the rest of the house walls. Interconnected buildings flow outward, fanning out around shimmering pools and blooming gardens visible through the iron bars of the property gates.
There’s even what appears to be a gigantic hedge maze toward the back that must’ve taken weeks to erect in such perfection.
Three of the four property views are waterfront. The sides and the back all offer picturesque sights of Hurst Sound.
The setting would feel serene if not associated with the club that it is. The Midnight Society taints the lavish manor no matter how many waves crash against its nearby shores. A long town car pulls up to the gates just as I’m coming around the walkway’s bend.
I hang back slightly and observe the guard conversing with the chauffeur behind the wheel. Only a couple seconds later he’s standing aside and granting the car entry.
My turn.
I inhale a breath. “Let’s see how this goes…”
“And this,” says Timothee, flinging a door open and stepping aside, “is your room.”
I roll my suitcase into the huge living quarters and thank the man I only just met five minutes ago.
The room’s big enough to encompass the entire third floor of the townhouse I live in. The hardwood under my feet feels smooth, likely carved of some of the finest wood, and the canopied bed sits in the center of the room, a cascade of differently shaped pillows perched atop. On the right there’s a large wardrobe and an ensuite bathroom, and the on the left are French-style glass doors.
I have my own balcony.
“I’ll leave you alone to unpack,” says Timothee in his dry voice, his eyes heavily lidded. The manor’s tall and skinny caretaker gestures to my bed. “You’ll find a brochure with the property details, including a schedule for tonight. Social hour begins at six. The formal sit down at seven. If you should need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask myself or the other primary caretaker, Jerome. Enjoy your afternoon, Ms. Newton.”
He bows himself out of my room.
The door snicks shut, and I grasp that I’m alone inside a bedroom designated for Sasha Newton. If I were to ever get caught, I’d be in a hell of a lot of trouble.
“You better be worth it, Lyra,” I grumble. I walk over to the bed to grab the brochure Timothee mentioned. I flip through, whistling at the various amenities. “Private yoga classes. World-class spa with hydrotherapy pools. Theater entertainment. Cuisine from over a hundred and three different countries. Is there anything this place doesn’t have?”
Lyra.
The answer is Lyra.
Lyra is the one thing I’m looking for at Hurst Manor that doesn’t seem to exist. If she and Kaden will be attending the annual Midnight Society event, then they likely would have arrived already. She’d be in one of the many rooms just like this one checking in.
A slow breath blows out of me as I drop down onto the bed and remind myself yet again what I have to do. I have to stick this out if there’s even a kernel of a chance of locating Lyra.
I’m going to get to the bottom of what happened to her. I’m going to find out how she could leave me behind without so much as a heads-up.
…or did Kaden not give her a choice? Has he taken her captive?
The Easton papers have dubbed him the Cleaver, after the deadly weapon he wields against his victims. Last I read, the body toll was up to eleven. A queasiness roils the contents of my stomach, and I have to breathe slower to keep myself in check.
I’m not sure how Lyra could date a monster like him, but maybe there’s something I’m missing. Maybe there’s a gaping hole in the middle of their story that would make sense of everything. These are the things I tell myself to keep going, to study the events schedule and decide on a game plan for the night.
My suitcase is unzipped and dumped out on the king-sized bed. My hands notch at my waist, and I peer at my outfit options for the night.
I’m getting answers… no matter what.
If the grounds of Hurst Manor remind me of a time gone by, the interior of the massive property makes me feel like I’m living in it.
For the first hour I’m alone in my room, I marvel at the many fancy details I come across. Touches like the fifteen-feet-high coffered ceilings and the golden wreath patterns I find in them. Thousand thread count cotton percale sheets imported directly from Italy decorate my bed. The beveled glass sprinkled in various places around the room, adding dimension to my reflection.
I get so lost in the small details, I lose track of time.
Before I know it, the sky’s darkening outside my window and the clock’s about to strike four p.m. I leap out of the bed, where I’ve spent way too long reveling in the percale sheets, and scramble for my suitcase.
Tonight’s the first night of the Midnight Society’s annual event. It’s the welcome dinner, which means it’s extremely important I’m not only present, but I find my in as soon as possible.
