Page 20 of Cruel Pleasures

She rises from the plush armchair she’s seated in like a throne, the long skirt portion of her robe-like dress skimming the floor. By the straight posture of her stance and the expectant air she gives, it’s clear she’s been waiting on me.

…duh. She probably ordered the security guards to deliver me.

Her hands connect in a delicate clasp, satiny gloves covering them. “Stand up.”

I’m not sure why... but I listen. I would’ve stood up on my own regardless, but the gentle request does something to me. Almost like a child being asked by their mother.

My feet feel wobbly in my heels as I get up from where the security guards had thrown me. I glare at her, my expression sharp.

“I want to leave.”

“It has been a long evening,” she answers. She turns away from me and begins strolling through the room as if the scenery is new to her. Every movement, every step, drips with practiced eloquence, grace like that of a queen. She reaches out her hand to touch the bright petal of a geranium in the flower vase perched on the mantel. “I suggest you return to your quarters to rest. The festivities will truly begin tomorrow.”

“I want to leave,” I repeat, taking an angry step toward her. “I’m going to return to my room, grab my shit, and get the fuck out of here.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

“Watch me!”

I spin around on my heel, arrowing for the door that I quickly discover is locked. I pull and tug on the brass door handle only to realize it’s been locked from the outside. A frustrated scream tears from my throat and I kick at the door as if it’ll magically make it open.

I’m tightly wound, infected with panic that makes it more difficult to think by the second.

Meanwhile, the Hostess remains calm. She finishes petting the vividly colored flower vase of geraniums and moves on to a marble bust of a woman I’ve never seen before. Her long, thin fingers glide over the chiseled details as she says, “Do you know who this is?”

My blinks are long and slow as I gape at her. She’s admiring the statue without a care in the world.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” the Hostess asks, stroking the marble face. “Do you know what this cost? It’s the only one of its kind in the world.”

“Look, lady, let me fucking go!” I grit out. “Or I’ll knock you and that statue down!”

“Two million. Two million it cost. It is something of a family heirloom. So is this home. It is with honor I open it to all of you once a year,” she goes on. Her voice is like silk. Soft and delicate yet sewn together with an unmistakable dark thread that sends a shudder through me. “I suggest you return to your quarters to rest.”

“Rest in a place like this? Are you insane? I want to go!”

As I raise my voice, ball my fists, listen to the heavy beat of adrenaline in my ears, I’m aware of the giant mistake I’m making. That I’ve been making for the past half hour. From the moment I got up out of my chair in the dining room and ran for it.

I’ve not only blown my cover, I’ve put a terrifying target on my back.

If I ever had any hope of finding answers about Lyra’s whereabouts, it’s done for. My life might be too—there’s no telling what these people will do now that I’ve ruffled feathers.

But I can’t bring myself to see beyond my spiraling temper. I can’t bring myself to cool off and play the role I was supposed to.

Two innocent people died! Everyone watched, entertained, as it happened!

I didn’t sign up for this.

“I have to wonder,” the Hostess says, pausing for her first glance at me, “why did you come?”

“Unlock the door?—”

“Our society prides itself on togetherness. Tradition. Celebration.”

“You call murdering innocent people a celebration?”

The Hostess forgets about the marble bust and shifts to face me, her hands folded. “I’m afraid you are not leaving anytime soon. I suggest you return to your quarters to rest.”

A long, poignant silence stretches on between us, where we stare at each other from halfway across the parlor, and another cold shiver races down my spine.