Page 82 of Cruel Cravings

Brontë stares straight ahead, unfazed. “He was in the way.”

I smirk to myself.

There’s something attractive about the unapologetic way Brontë conducts himself, no matter the situation. I find I can’t even be frustrated with him when he’s always so unperturbed by everything.

I need to get to his level of unbothered.

We ride the elevator all the way toward the top of the building and get off a few floors shy of the rooftop.

“Are you going to explain what we’re doing here or who we’re visiting?” I ask as we step off the elevator and start down a carpeted hallway.

Artwork decorates the walls, and on either side there’re a few doors. Probably apartments belonging to whoever’s lucky enough to live this high up in a luxury building like this.

Predictably, Brontë tells me nothing.

He finally stops in front of one of the doors and gives a heavy, solitary knock. His fist sounds like a hammer against the solid wood, an intimidating noise.

We listen to rustling on the other side of the door before it’s yanked open and we find ourselves opposite a man in a silk smoking jacket with tousled auburn hair. He peers at us with bloodshot eyes that tell me he’s in the middle of an excruciating hangover.

“Who’re—Brontë?”

The man’s jaw goes slack from shock and he lets out a stiff laugh.

“Who else would be batshit enough to turn up in a minotaur ma—ARGH!”

His words are interrupted by Brontë’s fist.

The man stumbles back, crumpling to the floor and paving the way for us to breeze through the doorway. He clutches at his face as blood leaks from his mouth, his bottom lip quickly swelling to twice its usual size.

“What the fuck?” he coughs.

I glance over at Brontë, curious myself as to what’s going on. Who is this man and why are we here? What does this have to do with the Midnight Society, and more importantly, my sister?

We’re in the middle of this strange man’s apartment, standing among his leather sectionals and huge, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.

Brontë peers down at the man who’s lip he just split open. “We need you to get us into the next event.”

The man blinks in confusion until it dawns on him what Brontë must mean.

“The Society?”

“You will tell no one.”

The man wipes blood from his mouth and gives off a sardonic laugh. “Some things don’t change. You’re still a man of few words after all these years. Who’s the girl?”

“Never mind her.”

“She looks familiar—I know!” The man snaps his fingers. His bloodshot eyes light up as he pushes unsteadily to his feet. “Kaden’s girl. You look just like her.”

“She’s my sister!” I blurt out to Brontë’s irritation. “You know her? Where is she?!”

“I knowofher. As in she was the girl Kaden was infatuated with for some odd reason or another. He let Klein die over her.”

“Deserved,” Brontë grits out.

“You’d probably say otherwise if you were bit in the dick, then stabbed in the dick,” the man replies with a shrug. His tone dries up, like he’s bored of the conversation. “Anyhow, you’re not the only ones searching for Kaden and the girl. I had a business meeting with Francesco Gigante just yesterday and he was going on about some girl Imani searching for her.”

“The girl who calls herself my sister’s best friend,” I say, recognizing the name. “She’s searching for her?”

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