Page 86 of Cruel Cravings

Does this mean Brontë knows?

I can’t even begin to process anything else as I lean forward and press my cheek against the solid wall of muscle that’s Brontë’s stomach. His arms close around me, holding me in place. He’s an anchor even as I sit in the armchair on solid ground. He’s the one thing that’s holding me together, keeping me sane.

My eyes flutter closed as exhaustion finally drags me under.

The man Brontë visited is named Nolan Ramsey, and he not only grew up with him, but he’s a prominent member of the Midnight Society.

All information I discover the next morning as Brontë and I wake up and get ready for the day. It’s discovered through my usual means of thinking up questions to ask and Brontë confirming them with head gestures and short, one or two word answers.

“Okay,” I say slowly, tying up the laces of my boots, “so you’re loaded. You grew up with a silver spoon in your mouth.”

Brontë’s in the middle of doing the same, standing broad and tall and shirtless as he slides his large feet into his combat boots. He pauses long enough to shoot me a look that’s almost scolding.

“What?” I ask innocently. “If you went to Easton Preparatory School for Adolescent Men, you were most definitely loaded. Iknew Doc Wolford had some money, but I had no idea he had it like that!”

“What does it matter?” he asks.

I give a shrug. “Trust me, when you come from one of the poorest neighborhoods in the city, it matters. But you don’t… strike me as someone from a wealthy family.”

I watch him as he reaches for the minotaur mask he finally took off last night. It was a night of firsts between us—the first time he consoled me, the first time he slept while I did, and the first time he took off his mask and boots and got comfortable.

He’s even been speaking more. Still sparingly compared to the average person, but it’s a marked difference.

I’ve been rolling with it, refraining from pointing it out in case it’d make him self-conscious. While Brontë seems to understand me in ways most people don’t, I’ve begun to understand things about him too.

He’s a loner. An outcast.

He’s spent much of his life in the shadows, never really a part of society. It’s made him reclusive and hesitant for interaction. He hides behind the mask and lurks.

“Your accident… did it happen at the academy?” I ask.

Brontë pauses with the mask in his hands and his uneven eyes meet mine. I return his silent stare, marveling at how I could have ever considered him hideous.

He has dozens of scars. He has features that have been permanently dislodged or damaged. But the more I’m around him, the more my attraction grows. The more I appreciate the uniqueness of his face, scars and all.

He nods at last, answering what I’ve already figured out.

“You know, you don’t have to wear it around me. I… I actually prefer it when you don’t.”

“Why?”

“Because…” I shrug again, wrapping my arms around the front of my knees. “Because there’s nothing to be ashamed of, Brontë. The scars are a part of you and I like looking at them.”

The arm holding the mask drops to his side. “The accident happened when I was fourteen.”

“Oh.” My voice dims, sadness taking root. “Does that mean you’ve been in hiding ever since?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s how you know that man—Nolan Ramsey.”

“And Kaden Raskova.”

I grimace. “My sister’s alleged boyfriend. Tell me this—is he really a serial killer?”

Brontë pauses a moment, then says, “Yes.”

“Oh my god,” I whisper. “My sister’s… she’s…”

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