Page 113 of Cruel Cravings

Part of what made it so entertaining staying on the go.

Today, I hardly look like the Jael Hendrix who had been pictured in theEaston Times—my hair’s an auburn shade that makes my dark brown complexion look radiant and I’m groomed and cleaned up well from the crazy-eyed girl smeared in blood and dirt, wearing torn clothes.

I’m almost an entirely different woman.

Before I can make up my mind about the couple bickering near me, a heavy hand clamps down on my shoulder.

I glance up and meet a face carved in scars, jagged and deep, twisting what was likely once-perfect symmetry into something brutal. Something grotesque to some.

But beautifully unique and special to me.

Brontë.

My little smirk progresses into an equally little giggle that I can’t stop. In the glowing sun, with tanned bodies in bikinis and swim trunks, surrounded by crystal waters, he stands like the hulking brute that he is—his uniform hasn’t changed. Neither have the large black combat boots he wears no matter the location.

“Never one to conform, are you?” I tease, though I take his outstretched hand without hesitation. He pulls me up to my feetwith no effort, holding my hand in his as we set off across the sand dunes.

We spend most of our time together. Most of our time in companionablesilence.

While Brontë’s ditched the mask, he’s still a naturally quiet person. I’ve learned to appreciate his silence, using it as a chance to settle what’s usually my chaotic mind.

But he communicates in other ways—nothing can beat the piercing stare of his dark green eyes or the firm, squeezing touches he gives me.

For the past year, we’ve lived like ghosts, slipping through cities, traversing across continents, never staying in one place for too long. Paris, Istanbul, Bangkok, Cairo. Moving, always moving, just the way I’ve always wanted. No roots, no chains, no expectations. Just the two of us, untethered, unstoppable.

Our latest stop has brought us to the charming, picturesque shores of Montenegro.

I lean into his side, tilting my head up to him. “Let’s go to Croatia next. Hop on a train and just disappear into the coast.”

Brontë doesn’t react at first, his expression unreadable as ever, but then I catch the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips. He’s amused by me, like always.

“Maybe,” he murmurs.

My heart flutters, pleased by his concession. Maybe is almost always ayesin his language.

We make it from the sands to the promenade, the aged cobblestone warm and bumpy beneath our feet. This area is alive with movement—tourists browsing little shops, vendors calling out their daily specials, the air filled with the scent of citrus and fresh bread. I scan the faces around us, watching the different expressions, a hundred different stories unfolding in real time.

“Are you happy with how things have turned out?” I ask suddenly, my voice soft.

Brontë’s hand tightens around mine, an answer in itself.

I press myself even closer to him, but just as I do, something catches my eye.

A figure, tall and lean, standing at the edge of the crowd. Dark hair unruly from the wind, features cut sharp like a male model, but there’s something cold and aloof about him.

There’s something unmistakablyfamiliarabout him.

My stomach clenches as a woman steps up beside him, tilting her face up to his with a small, knowing smile.

I go still at Brontë’s side, the shock so immense that I feel dizzy.

There she is right before my eyes—my sister.

Her thick braids are gone, traded in for a short, coily bob, and she’s a few years older since I last saw a photo of her, but I know my sister.

It’s her.

She curls into the side of the man she’s with like I’ve done with Brontë, and together the two seem content to walk the rest of the promenade.

---