Page 21 of Cruel Pleasures

Something about the calm way in which she keeps repeating herself, as if it’s already a certainty that I’ll obey, completely unsettles me.

It gradually sinks in that I have no choice. At least right now.

I can’t escape this room and there won’t be any escaping this manor. The security will make sure of that. I’m truly… trapped.

Calm your shit. You’ll figure something out. You’ll just have to be smart. Remember, play your role!

With a slow breath, I bite back my temper. “Fine… I’ll… I’ll return to my room.”

The mask conceals any delight she might have at my submission. It remains as eerily pale and vacant as ever, brightened only by the decadent detailing painted on.

“That is for the best,” she says simply. “Please do ensure you get some rest, Imani.”

I turn to go, hoping the door will finally be unlocked, but then I stop just as abruptly. The panic that’s occupied my chest explodes. My skin chills and I spin back around with wide eyes.

“What did you just call me?”

“Good night. One of the staff will escort you to your room.”

I can hear the smirk that must be hidden by the mask. Her passive aggressive satisfaction at dropping such a bombshell on me so out of nowhere.

Aware I’ve been summarily dismissed, I head for the door, realizing I’m not a step ahead in this mission to infiltrate the Midnight Society at all.

I’m several steps behind.

6. Archer

Devil - Two Feet

Ihave a hacksaw dripping with blood in one hand and my phone in the other when Mother calls me.

“Hello?”

“Archer, my sweet boy, how are you?”

“I’m doing excellent, Mother. Just a little preoccupied at the moment.”

“Is this a bad time?” she coos. “It always seems to be. You stay so busy. I’m so proud.”

Sure you are. As proud and delusional as you always are.

I drop my gaze to the half-dismembered body spread out on the table before me and playfully glide the hacksaw’s jagged blade along the next limb I intend on cutting off. “I’m in the middle of something important.”

“I can only imagine. You are always so productive. A real entrepreneur. Just like your father. Why, I remember the time you were eight years old, maybe seven, and you opened up a lemonade stand. You sold out within the hour.”

“That never happened.”

“I was so impressed,” she prattles on, her tone as sweet as honey. “There was a line down the block. You ran out of lemons!”

“Mother, I said I’m busy.”

“I sent a servant to the store to grab you more?—”

Patience vanishing, I snap. “I’m in the middle of disposing of the person I just murdered in cold blood. I do not have the time to listen to you reminisce about fake memories from whatever TV sitcom you stole that story from?—”

“Your father didn’t believe it until I showed him the jar of money?—”

“I’ve hacked off the feet and hands. Next are the arms, then the legs. Last, I’ll remove the teeth?—”