Page 103 of Cruel Pleasures

I’m left blinking in confusion by the time I reach the end of the card. The last time we were in the same room, the Hostess was leaping over tables with a steak knife, trying to stab her own son to death.

That was after she’d not-so-subtly threatened me and the others.

Two days later, I’m still not sure what to expect at any given moment. Earlier, when I went down to the sauna, I anticipated I’d be confronted by a masked man and a murder weapon. The only comfort I had was the knowledge that Archer or Ryu—possibly both, knowing them—were likely watching my every move.

Both men have been keeping a very close eye on me for who knows how long. At least a few weeks.

Stalking me.

The revelation still makes my head spin.

The Hostess, who happens to be Archer’s mother, had sent both men on a mission to track me and learn everything there was to know about my life. She wanted them to deceive me long enough as part of the Midnight Games. Then… then I’m not even sure.

Ryu had told me there were forces I couldn’t understand seeking to tear me apart. But if the Hostess wants me dead, wouldn’t it be easier to off me sooner rather than later?

“She’s kept me alive for some reason,” I whisper. My gaze drops to the pristine invitation in my hands, and I study the wording carefully. “She’s still pretending I’m Sasha. Is this part of the make-believe Archer mentioned?”

For the next hour, I’m pacing my room, stopping at various points. I come to the window and peer out at the miserably overcast day and then curl up in the cushiony armchair in the far corner. More than once I wander into the bathroom to study my own reflection and chat with myself.

“You got this,” I whisper. “Remember what Ryu said. I should be concerned with getting the hell off this isle. Making it out alive. You’ve survived everything else life has thrown at you. You’ll survive this too.”

My heart aches as the last words leave me and my mind lands on Lyra.

Maybe it’s time I accept she’s not coming back. Whatever happened to her, I’ll have to make peace with the fact that she’s gone. Our friendship is over.

I sigh and shift my focus to my next move. I’ve got options.

Two men obsessed with me (even if one won’t admit it). Both have made it their personal pastime to track me night and day to the point Ryu’s standing guard when I sleep.

I’ve never been the relationship girl. I’ve never wanted them… or the men longer than a night or two. Winding up brokenhearted and deserted like Mom was my worst nightmare from the time I was a small girl.

As far as I’m concerned, men have one use in my life—providing dick. My need for them begins and ends there. Something Archer is exceptionally talented at, and a sneaking suspicion tells me Ryu is too.

But they’re not the only ones. I’m also exceptional… at using men when I need to. I’ll do whatever it takes to find an escape. That includes using their obsession against them. It damn sure includes using my body and sexuality to get what I want.

“First,” I mutter to my mirrored reflection, “this afternoon tea.”

I go into it like I’ve gone into many situations at Hurst Manor: with my guard up, expecting anything.

Jerome stands outside the parlor door when I walk up. With a twist of the knob and bow of his head, he pushes it open and steps aside to let me walk through. I enter to pale sunlight flooding the room and the Hurst’s signature seventeenth-century-style furniture accenting the room.

The Hostess waits for me, perched on an upholstered, gold-trimmed chair with rolled armrests. Her gloved hands delicately grip the saucer plate to a teacup she sips from. Yet another ornate, intricately decorated mask adorns her face. This one features black musical notes that contrast sharply against the ghost-white canvas of the mask.

If she’s pleased to see me, I have no clue. The mask hides any discernible reaction of hers.

When she speaks, it’s not until I’ve padded halfway across the room and then stopped.

“Please,” she croons softly. “Take a seat.”

Hesitantly, I do as requested. I’ve slipped on a loose maxi-style dress and jean jacket that was about as dressed up as I’m willing to get for such a short-notice meeting.

“Please,” she continues. “Have some tea.”

“No thank you.”

One of the staff members who has remained dutifully on the sidelines of the room promptly steps up and pours me a cup anyway. It’s presented to me much like Jerome had the tray with the invitation earlier.

I take it without a thank you. “What do you want?”