Page 40 of Cruel Pleasures
He seems to be everything you’d want in a man.
…which is what makes him so dangerous.
The moment the door clicks shut, I’m breathing for the first time since round one of the games started. My hands come up to cover my face and I shake my head side to side. What the hell just happened?
How could a night that started so innocuously, doused in luxury and whimsy, turn so dark? Though, can I even be surprised after last night?
If anything, I should be used to it by now. Used to the grim death. Used to the blood and sight of dead bodies.
And yet I can’t get the image of Talia out of my mind. I’d spoken to her mere hours ago…
I drag my feet toward my bed and then stop once my gaze finally lands on the bloodied knife laying on the duvet.
A hollow breath hitches out of me, and I stagger backward. As if I wasn’t dazed enough, I’m staring at a knife that’s slick with blood.
It can’t be Talia’s… can it?
Horror drives me back several more steps as I dare my eyes to reveal it’s a mirage. What I’m seeing isn’t real and I’m imagining things.
Just like I had to have imagined Lyra my first night on the isle. Just like I had to have imagined pushing the dresser in front of my door and putting my pepper spray under my pillow.
I clap my hands to my head and wince as though struck by pain. The horror and confusion are so great, I might as well be.
Mrs. Vanderson and Quincy Mercer had turned to me and accused me of the unthinkable. The others in the crowd had shot me accusatory looks. Archer is right—I’m an outsider. I’m not a member in the way they are, dedicated to the club, present for all of its events.
As far as they’re concerned, I’m Sasha Newton. Granddaughter of a man that’s not even around for the occasion.
Clearly, I’m not safe here. I’m not even welcome. After my encounter with the Hostess last night, I should be very, very concerned.
No one knows what we could be dealing with. But I’ll look after you. If you’ll let me.
Archer’s voice sounds in my ear like he’s present in the flesh. I’ve waffled between being wary of him and charmed by him as we danced and flirted.
But it’s never been clearer I’m in deep, deep shit. I’m not even sure what I’m dealing with. Someone murdered Talia Weinberg and then they left this knife in my room for me to find. Who could’ve done such a thing when all of the members were in the theater?
I creep closer to the bed and pick up the knife with the skirt of my gown. There’s no way I’m putting my prints on the murder weapon. I’m not even sure what to do with it…
Opening one of the many empty dresser drawers, I drop it inside.
For a while, I can’t even bring myself to move. I spend another few minutes staring at the dresser where I’ve deposited the bloody knife, my heart racing.
“They’re trying to… they’re fucking with me,” I whisper. “The Hostess is… she’s fucking with me. That’s the only thing that makes sense.”
It’s the lie I tell myself, finally working up enough sense to get ready for bed. I’m a bundle of anxiety as I gather my things and stand under the burning hot spray of the shower. Every move I make becomes a paranoid endeavor where I’m glancing around and listening carefully for any suspicious sounds.
I don’t understand why I can’t shake the feeling things aren’t what they seem. Even when I’m alone, it’s like I’m accompanied by an invisible presence whose sole purpose is to unnerve me.
Morning comes with me feeling as heavy as lead. It’s a struggle sitting up from under the covers. I massage my temples and remind myself I’ve got to push on. I’ve got to find an escape route or find out who has been fucking with me.
I’ve got to find out what happened to Lyra.
“Ugh,” I groan, my heart aching. “Ly, why the fuck did you have to leave me? Why couldn’t you tell me where you were going? Why couldn’t you just say goodbye?!”
I should be used to it by now.
The man whose DNA I share had done the same. One morning, he left for work. That evening, he never returned. My sisters and I waited and waited. We stayed up through the night to see if he’d come home. Little did we know it was the last time we’d see him.
Mom spent the next decade spiraling. Her daily rants became a staple in our household as she made sure we understood what a sorry piece of shit he was for abandoning his family. She told us all about how he’d racked up debt and had been laid off from a number of jobs.
