Page 107 of Cruel Cravings

A strange peace settles over me.

“It reminds me of the first time,” I say softly.

Brontë doesn’t move, but I know he’s listening. He always listens, silence his language.

“The first time I set a fire,” I clarify. My voice is steady, but my fingers dig into my thighs. “I was just a kid. We were living with my grandma then. My sister and me. After she—” I stop to swallow. “After she killed our mother. She never said she did… but we knew. I knew because I knew how they were hurting her… and me.”

Brontë turns his head slightly toward me, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“I was so angry with her,” I say. “It fucked up my whole perception. I blamed her somehow. For the way my mother favored her, even if it was only ’cuz she saw her talent as a meal ticket. But it was easier to blame my sister than face the fact my mother never really cared about me. She let that man—the man who was my sister’s piano instructor—do things. She never stopped him.

“But she was my mother and… and I loved her. I always wanted her approval. Some of her attention. So when my sister took the possibility away, something inside me snapped,” I sigh, forcing the words out for the first real time. “I couldn’t cope so I tried to burn the apartment down with my sister inside.”

Brontë doesn’t react. He gives no judgment or any kind of repulsion like most people would.

“I waited until Grandma Opal was out running errands and we were home alone. I remember being so transfixed by the flame on the match. For the first time in my life, I felt powerful. I was in control.”

The fire crackles below, smoke hazing in the brisk night air. I take a second or two to breathe it in, choosing my next words.

“I had problems. Lots of them. I was sent to a place for troubled children and my sister was put into foster care. Our grandmother couldn’t handle us. We were never able to fix any of it. My sister promised she would write me… but she never did. I hung onto the hope that maybe… maybe someday she wouldn’t hate me anymore. It’s why I’ve searched for her the way I have. I love her. I really do, and I wish she knew that…”

I sniffle and fall silent, admiring the flames and their glowing beauty. It feels cathartic to get things off my chest, even if it won’t fix anything. My sister’s still gone and we’re as far apart as ever.

Brontë slides his large hand over mine, giving it a squeeze.

A simple gesture most would think nothing of, but it means everything to me.

Our fingers intertwine as he anchors me to the present and we sit with a front row view of the raging fire.

The flames curl high into the night, licking at the plum sky. Glass shatters as the windows burst from the heat, sending jagged shards raining down onto the pavement. The air is thick with plumes of smoke. It should choke my lungs. It should sting my eyes.

But I just breathe it in, letting it cleanse me.

“I used to dream about this,” I murmur, my voice quiet, almost lost in the distant wail of sirens.

Brontë turns his head slightly to nuzzle the top of mine. “Burning it down?”

“Yes. All those days locked inside my room.” My fingers tighten around his. “And not being alone when I did.”

A long silence stretches between us, filled with nothing but the distant roar of the fire and the slow, rhythmic sound of Brontë’s breathing. Then, finally, he shifts. One of his arms moves, wrapping around my waist, pulling me closer. I go easily, molding against him, my body fitting against the hard planes of his like I was always meant to be here.

Down below, the fire trucks finally arrive, too late to save anything. The brilliant orange glow bathes the whole street in light, flickering against the sides of the other buildings, making the whole world feel like it’s on fire.

I tilt my head back, gazing up at Brontë through the firelight. The mask covers his face, but I don’t need to see his expression to know how he’s feeling. His arm around me says enough. His heartbeat, steady beneath my ear, tells me everything.

I smile to myself. “I think this is the first time I’ve ever felt free.”

Brontë’s fingers brush along my spine, slow and gentle, as if he’s tracing every vertebra, memorizing every inch of me.

We stay like this for a long time, wrapped in the glow of destruction, bound together by blood and fire and the unshakable truth that nothing—not his father, not the Midnight Society, not the past—can ever keep us apart.

34.Jael

Here She Comes Again - Röyksopp

The city feels more alive than I’ve ever felt it as Brontë and I eventually flee the scene of the burning hospital. We wander the dark streets and pause long enough to watch the police cars zip by, red and blue sirens ringing. We pass by a boulevard lined with bars and restaurants and my heart flutters spotting the breaking news on the TVs through the windows.

BREAKING NEWS:Patients Escape the Brighter Days Psychiatric Hospital - Some May Be Considered Dangerous

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