Page 59 of Their Cruel Love

I head for where I think the kitchens might be located. This area would be less searched if they are yet searching. The lack of phones makes telling time difficult, though some guests have thought to bring watches.

The sound of cooking, muffled voices, and the clanging and scraping of metal pans and implements tells me I’ve found the right door. The sign on it says STAFF ONLY.

Silently, I push through then follow a narrow corridor that bypasses a kitchen and six or seven staff who are preoccupiedwith their work. Two doorway-sized openings need to be sneaked past but at the end is an actual door. A stainless-steel door.

I pull and it opens, revealing the thickness of the door. The blast of cold air, the insulated seal, the frozen look of everything on the shelves, this tells me I’ve found a cold room and not some devious lair.

Even so, I am here. I may as well check it out. I wedge open the door with my shoe then double check my shoe won’t be squashed flat and allow the door to seal me inside when I release it. Then I turn proceed, gingerly. My one bare foot is freezing. I’ve seen all those stories about people sticking their tongues to frozen surfaces and tearing off skin.

I should go. I hold my foot off the floor while I give the room one final examination. Shelves, boxes, a few swinging corpses on hooks, but they’re obviously animals and not humans.

Then…

I see a landscape of round, frozen things. Eyeball-sized round things in a bowl. I hop closer, tempted to touch the metal shelf the box is on, but I don’t. Thoseareeyeballs.

“Fuck.”

And behind the bowl is a tray of severed fingers. Have I found the souvenirs of a serial killer?

Shocked, I stagger backward, manage to bump the door and it opens. Trying to regain my balance, I half-fall backward and right myself with a palm slapped to the wall.

“My shoe,” I whisper, and I stoop and snatch it up. Who can I tell?

After popping on my shoe, I spin to begin my stealthy escape and find myself face to face with Marcus and Razor. A staff member brings up the rear, perhaps as reinforcement, ormaybe they told my men I was here. He might even be the guy guarding the reception door when we arrived—Panties Guard who watched me remove my underwear.

I need to say what I found.

Is it safe to do that in front of him? A kitchen staffer pokes their head through the far doorway to the left then ducks away, clearly more interested in food preparation than a lost guest.

The door wheezes shut behind me. I open my mouth to speak, and Razor dangles the black collar—the one with FUCKTOY engraved on the jingling tag.

“Oh,” I begin.

“Yes, oh.” Marcus leans a hand on my shoulder, pressing me down. “Kneel.”

I lower myself to my knees, because it’s easier than arguing two different things at the same time. I even raise my head so he can fasten the collar. As he buckles and adjusts it, his hands touch my neck, here, there, sending frissons of excitement cartwheeling down my spine. I should be truthful to myself. I gave in because I wanted to and not just to avoid confrontation.

Slowly, deftly, he buckles it, admires me and the tag before he lets go and steps away. “What were you doing here? This is a strange place to hide.”

“You know what she’s doing,” Razor says dryly, with an undertone that hints at our ongoing detectiving.

“Yes.” I swallow. “That. Also, there are eyeballs and cut-off fingers in this freezer.”

Now they look interested in more than collaring me.

24

Phoebe

“What and where?” Marcus gets in the first query and steps around me, except the guard beats him to it and opens the door, disappears inside.

“I have this!” he shouts back, his words French-accented. He has a small mustache too. This isn’t that first panties-eyeballing guard. “I have the answer.” He emerges, smiling, and rolling in his hands are three of the frozen eyeballs. He picks one up and opens his mouth, bares his teeth.

And I know how stupid I’ve been in that moment. These are not real.

“Bon appetit?” He bites down and slices the eyeball in half with those white teeth. “Miam.These are frosting sugar or glaçage.”

Dammit. I’m mortified by my mistake.This is a freezer attached to a kitchen. Why did I leap to that conclusion? The gloomy lighting in there that cast a yellow hue over everything? The horror movie theme running through my mind? Those are my excuses, and they’re lame.

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