Page 75 of Cruel Cravings

I stick with the same t-shirt and jeans of Mrs. Klum’s that I’d already been wearing.

Brontë loads up the station wagon (of which he’s replaced the flat with the spare tire), and he gets in the passenger seat for me to drive.

My brows raise in surprise and then I shrug. “Okay, fine. But this doesn’t mean you’re in charge of the radio. I call dibs.”

It’s a joke meant to lighten the air.

Brontë turns his head toward mine, his expression obscured by the return of his minotaur mask. But I see the humor sparking in his eyes. I know he enjoys it when I provide my little silly side commentary.

The wagon starts with its usual whine. “So where are we headed?” I ask, checking my side and rearview mirrors and flicking on the headlights. “I mean, I know you said Easton. Butwherein Easton? And when are you going to tell me more details? I need to know what I’m getting myself into.”

He stares out the window as if admiring the dark shapes the trees have become in the middle of the night. It’ll be another few hours before sunrise.

“Brontë!” I moan. “An answer would be nice.”

“Soon. Drive.”

I sigh and shift gears from park to drive. The gravel from the pavement crunches beneath our tires as we turn out of the driveway and onto the off-beaten path that leads to the road. We drive by the other cabins in these woods one by one, the lights dark in them all.

If anyone is staying in any of them, they’re sound asleep.

They have no clue what kind of brutal crimes have been committed mere miles away, or that their local sheriff and deputy have been murdered.

We make it to the highway minutes later. I take in a deep breath and then press on the gas, setting off on this journey together.

It’s fourteen hours and hundreds of miles later when we finally decide to stop at a motel. We’ve settled on one from the highway called Eazy Sleep Motel, because it has a diner and gas station adjoined.

Brontë insists on lurking unseen while I head inside the office and book us a room. Though he might be out of sight for most, I’m still cognizant of his presence every moment I’m at the front desk. I fall into step with him as we head up the exterior staircase to the room.

“You know, someday you’re going to have to get used to taking off the mask,” I say, swinging the key attached to a baton as we walk. “You can’t wear that mask everywhere you go.”

His silence tells me he disagrees. He sure as hell can—and has been—wearing his mask every single time he’s outside.

I roll my eyes despite the way my lips almost quirk into a smile.

I don’t bother nagging him anymore. Clearly, he won’t be changing his mind anytime soon.

The motel room is about as fancy as the one at the Mariner’s. The furniture’s creaky and beat up, and the ceiling fan circulates nothing but dust.

But it’s just for the night, and for forty-four bucks, we can’t exactly complain.

I flick on the TV and toss down my duffle bag, making myself at home for the time being. Brontë hovers at the front of the room. As I dive onto the bed and fold my legs crisscross style, Iglance over at him and realize I’ve never seen him in a setting like this before.

The cabin doesn’t count—we were both captive at different points during our stay there. Even once he’d uncuffed me, we were in cleanup mode, too busy disposing of McGrath and Dudley to relax much.

I raise my brows at him. “Sit down, Brontë. Get comfortable. This room’s just as much yours as it is mine.”

He waits a second, then lurches forward, stopping at the set of table and chairs by the window. He pulls one out and drops down, the chair legs wobbling.

“Where do you live?” I ask, then I think up some options. “You’re not on some barbarian, man of the wild type nonsense, are you?”

He shakes his head to the side.

I gasp as it occurs to me. “The hospital. But… but you weren’t a patient. Not with how you came and went.”

He gives a nod and then adds, “Basement.”

“That would make sense. Was I the only one you watched… like you did?”

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