Page 95 of Cruel Cravings

I’ve relished doing so. Some petty, small part of me has enjoyed making the girl who thinks she’s my sister’s best friend suffer. If I can’t have my sister, who does she think she is trying to take my place?

I lurk in the lobby, waiting for the first sign of her. I’ll get rid of her myself once I’ve confirmed she doesn’t have any info Brontë and I don’t already know.

She can’t reach my sister first. I’ll dispose of her before she ever comes close.

I move from behind a collection of tall plants, craning my neck for a better look at who’s approaching the glass doors.

It could finally be Imani rushing inside. She won’t expect me to reveal myself and take her down.

Something lunges at me before I can make out the person approaching. I hit the floor hard, my shoulder cracking as it takes the brunt of the fall. The knife I’d swiped from the kitchens slips out of my hand and skids across the blood-streaked tiles.

A weight presses down on me, suffocating, pinning me in place. Hot breath—sour with alcohol—floods my nose.

Hands clamp around my wrists as the man on top of me comes into focus. It’s the same man who had stopped me weeks ago at the Winchester. He’d told me I looked familiar and had eyed me as if he’d seen my face somewhere.

“Well, look who we have here.” His laugh is wet, like it’s coated in the phlegm of his throat. His eyes are bloodshot and wild. His mask from the masquerade has slipped off like mine has, revealing skin that’s clammy from exertion and too much alcohol. “You’ve been a very bad girl tonight. What were you planning on doing with that knife? I knew I recognized you!”

I snarl, twisting beneath him, but his pudgy weight is a crushing force. His knee digs into my ribs, pressing me down, his hands tight enough to leave bruises on my wrists.

“Get the fuck off me!”

“You dirty little sneak,” he spits in another phlegmy laugh. “You thought no one would remember your face? What you did to Klein Fairchild?”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!”

A third voice enters the screaming match. One sharp and shrill that comes from somewhere to the side.

“Harold!” his wife screeches. “Harold, now is not the time!”

“Now is exactly the time!”

“We need to find a way off this island. We don’t have time to hunt down the help.”

“Off this island? We’re just getting started! The night is young!”

“I said get off me!” I yell again.

Mr. Vanderson throws his head back in laughter and reaches for the knife that I’d dropped.

I jerk beneath him, twisting my body, trying to throw him off, but he’s heavier. The blade comes down in a swift stabbing motion, missing my throat by inches as I shift my head to the side.

His grin spreads as he raises the knife again. “Don’t think you can escape. Scream for me.”

Rage surges through me.

I grit my teeth and slam my head forward, cracking my forehead against his nose. The sickening crunch is satisfying.

Mr. Vanderson rears back and lets out a startled, slurred howl of pain. I take advantage of the opening and trap his legs inside mine, using the muscles in my core to flip us over. We roll onto opposite sides, with him now on the bottom and me on top.

I wrest the knife back from him and don’t hesitate driving it straight into his gut. The blade sinks in with little resistance, tearing through the fabric of his shirt, through his flabby flesh.

He gasps, his body arching against mine as his gaze drops to the knife sticking out of his stomach. His hands shake as he goes to pull it out, but I’m quicker than he is. I do him the favor of wrenching it out for him.

And then ramming it in a second time. I go for a third and fourth time as his mouth opens and he produces a wet, gurgling sound.

His body sags against the tiles like he can no longer bring himself to flop about. He only has energy for one last gasp for air and then he goes still.

My breathing is erratic. My heartbeat a painful thud against my ribcage.

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