Page 83 of Cruel Cravings

“She’ll be at the next Society event. Francesco invited her.”

Brontë takes a step toward the man and shoves him hard in the chest, knocking him backward. “Get us the invitation.”

It’s all Brontë offers before he turns and stalks toward the door.

We slip through an alley, keeping to the shadows, our breaths curling in the frigid air. It’s after dark and we’re approaching a building I’m more than a little familiar with after the last therapy session I had. The question is, why would Brontë bring me here of all places?

We need somewhere to crash for the night, but in a city as large as Easton, there are other options…

Cars roll over wet pavement and city lights twinkle in the distance as we emerge from the alley and start toward the brownstone building.

I’ll say one thing about being out so late with Brontë—I feel safe, even as we move through some shady parts of the city. No one’s messing with me so long as I have my own monster to provide protection.

Brontë walks the streets like he owns them. He welcomes anyone to challenge him otherwise.

“Why are we here?” I whisper, following him up the front steps.

He ignores me as he steps toward the door, his presence resonating the kind of quiet strength that demands attention. That I’m in awe of as I scurry behind and my pulse beats faster.

We have nowhere else to go—too little remains of the borrowed money from Stanley and too many people out looking for us—but this doesn’t seem to be slowing Brontë down in the slightest.

He stops at the front door and stares down at the keypad lock.

“It won’t work,” I hiss from behind, standing on tiptoe just for a chance to peek around him. “All the locks in his building are keypad. You have to know the access code to?—”

Click.

Brontë punches in the numbers and the keypad flashes blue. The door slips open, granting us entry.

I stop short. My stomach churns. “How did you?—”

“Quiet.”

Brontë stalks inside, soon swallowed up by the building’s deep shadows. I let out a shaky breath and then follow him.

More questions plague my mind, but what else is new? It seems I’ll never get any answers. I’ll be kept in the dark—both literally and figuratively—forever.

The familiar smells inundate me almost to the point of trauma.

Paper and pine.

Two scents that I’ve spent hours having to endure as my mind was cracked open and probed.

“Brontë,” I whisper. “I… I don’t think I can stay here…”

But Brontë doesn’t answer me. He leads the way down the hall of polished cherry wood and past leather chairs until we reach the office door marked Dr. Cornelius Wolford. He easily bypasses the keypad lock on that as well, the door swinging open.

I step in after him, the thud of my boots jarring on the wooden floorboards. The walls immediately feel as if they’re closing in on me.

The same bookshelves and sleek, sharp-edged furniture remain.

The same carpet where droplets of Dr. Wolford’s blood had dripped onto, except as I shine the flashlight from my phone, I discover it’s been cleaned.

The bloodstain has been removed so thoroughly it’s almost as if it never even happened at all…

I blink, a chill running down my spine. “Brontë, I… I don’t want to be here. Did you hear me? Brontë!”

My pleas fall on deaf ears.

---