Page 82 of Cruel Pleasures

“This out of hand!” Mr. Vanderson grunted.

“Unacceptable!” his wife agreed.

“I was just smoking cigars with Quince last night,” Wesley Cromwell said, shaking his head.

A crowd had formed and everyone spent minutes whipping each other up into a frenzy. I hung back unsure of what to say, still frazzled and cloudy-brained from last night. I’d gone to another live show at the Market and indulged in some spice.

By the time I stumbled my way up to my room, I passed out within minutes.

Some of the best sleep of my life, though once again I’d almost felt like I was awake when I was asleep—like I could sense some dark presence in the room with me. Then I racked with pleasure and fell deeper into my dreams.

“How could this happen?” Olivia asked from my side. She sniffled, on the verge of tears. “Someone’s after us. Did you see anything?”

“Huh?” I murmured, then shook my head. “Oh, no. Nothing.”

My stomach flipped when I returned to my room and realized what I’d overlooked in my haste to rush out into the hall—the bloodied knife that had been left at the foot of my bed. The same knife I’d found in my room the night Talia died.

The knife I quickly stash away again in a panic so no one else will find.

I can’t stop thinking about the morbid possibility for days to come.

Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m losing my mind.

I lay staring up at the canopied ceiling of my bed, numbed in a way I had hoped to avoid.

I was supposed to be seeking answers about what really happened to Lyra.

Instead, all I’ve done is worsen the trauma I’ve experienced from losing her. I’ve found myself steeped in a world where lives are taken for sport, and the rich and powerful place bets on death for fun. Once they’ve been entertained by the carnage they’ve delighted in, they seek out after-hours pleasures. No desire too dark or off limits.

I’ve begun to question if I’m morphing into what I never thought I would…

I’d sat down to brunch with the likes of Wesley Cromwell and Olivia Belini and felt like I was seconds away from screaming at the top of my lungs. They sipped mimosas and dined on quiche without a care in the world. No fucks given about the recent deaths.

Not Quincy Mercer’s. Not even Talia’s.

Lyra meant even less in comparison.

“I’d say this has been a successful games,” boasted Mr. Cromwell between sips of mimosa. “Much more bloodshed this time around. But still a success.”

Olivia had sniffled, her artificially plump lips poking out. “I do wish Talia were still around. She was my sunbathing buddy.”

“I could be your buddy.”

My nostrils flared as Mr. Cromwell wiggled his white brows and Olivia went from mourning to giggling in five seconds flat.

“The club has lost several members in recent times,” I said with barely any restraint. “Isn’t that what happened to Kaden Raskova and Lyra Hendrix?”

“Lara who?”

“Wasn’t she one of Kaden’s victims?” Olivia returned to her quiche, suddenly bored.

“Oh, right. Right!” Mr. Cromwell snapped his fingers. “Well, I wouldn’t hold my breath on the skeletons falling out of that closet anytime soon. The Owner was always clear that he expected utmost discretion. His son is no different.”

They were back to flirting over blueberry crepes in no time.

I sigh, sitting up on my bed. My fingers come up to rub at my temples. The migraine that’s been plaguing me pounds away.

“You don’t need it,” I whisper. “You don’t need any of it.”