Page 87 of Cruel Pleasures
“Archer, stop!”
“What’s the matter, minx? You look sick.”
“Maybe… maybe that has to do with the fact that you’ve fucking murdered a guy,” I say, my brows knitting. “You can’t seriously be so casual about—oh my god! Shit! It’s you, isn’t it? You’re the one who’s been going around offing people!?”
“Which time?” He laughs at the horror that unfolds on my face, my jaw dropping open. “Has anyone ever told you you’re not as tough as you think you are, minxy? I expected more from someone like you.”
“You killed Talia? Mercer?”
“Not my style.” He picks up what looks like a hacksaw from the selection of instruments. “I tend to prefer… a more deconstructive approach. You know, I learned it from the best.”
I lean against the stone wall, feeling sick all over again. “This has to be some nightmare. You can’t be… there’s no way…”
“Does being a serial killer pose a problem for you? Is it a dealbreaker? We should probably talk about that little outburst of yours the other night.”
“You’re mocking me.”
“Maybe a little. But we really should talk about that night.”
“You mean when you were an unsympathetic ass and then proceeded to take another woman to a live sex show?”
He runs his finger along the hacksaw’s ridged blade. “You were being unreasonable. What can I say? I wanted to make you jealous.”
“If you think I’m going to hang around like a sad lovesick puppy?—”
“You don’t need to tell me all about how you’re such an empowered, sexually free woman. Believe me, I’m well aware. You got your own revenge soon enough.” Suddenly, his expression darkens. A violent air surrounds him as he places the hacksaw against Timothee’s knobby throat like he’s debating whether it’s the first cut he wants to make. “I know all about playroom six.”
“I don’t owe you anything.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, minxy. You owe me everything. Every strand of hair on that pretty little head of yours and every single curve of that gorgeous plump body you have. Every part of you. Because, though you might not realize it, you belong to me.”
He speaks with such conviction, I’m floored. Seconds go by where I’m speechless, blinking over at him, my heart pounding fast.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” I say finally, my tone hushed. I take another step back. “Please let me go.”
He laughs, the sound wild and sonorous in the small space. “That’s not possible. You should know that by now. We’re in the middle of the games. The only way out is through.”
“Why would you want me when I don’t want you?”
“That’s the thing, you do want me. You’re just afraid of what that means. What it says about you.” He sets down the hacksaw and wanders over to the deep, stainless steel sink against the opposite wall. Running water trickles in as he squirts soap and washes his hands. “Do you want to know the truth about yourself?”
The hairs on my back of my neck raise and my skin chills. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“On the contrary, minx, I know everything about you—I’ve dedicated a lot of time to you. Learning about your childhood. Memorizing your habits. Understanding your personality and behaviors. Watching you sleep… and do other things.” He smirks at me as if less than pure thoughts pollute his mind. “There’s a reason why you insist you don’t need anyone. You’re afraid of being abandoned. Afraid no one could ever love you the way you wish they would.
“Your search for your friend is because,, deep down it disturbs you yet another person has left you. You’re alone all over again—and though you say you prefer it that way—that couldn’t be further from the truth,” he explains, twisting off the sink faucet. He reaches for a towel to dry off his hands, turning around to face me again. “Which brings me to my next point, minx. You don’t have to be alone anymore. You have me.”
Unease ripples inside me. I’m not sure if I’m disturbed by Archer’s scarily accurate assessment of me or the fact that he speaks with so much conviction about belonging to him.
Maybe it’s both.
But as Archer smirks over at me, his eyes gleaming like dark sapphires, I pick up on something else too. A pulse of desperation that emanates from him. Silent hope, however twisted, that I’ll give into him.
I’m not the only one who’s alone.
For as pompous and cavalier as Archer presents himself, there’s a whole other side many fail to see. Many in his world likely don’t care or bother to see.
This new possibility lowers my defenses. If only slightly. If potentially foolishly.
