Page 118 of Lessons in Cruelty

“Does it matter?” He strokes my cheek, voice gentle. Soothing. “Be a good girl and take your medicine.”

My lips part, stars glittering in my eyes as I peer up at him through tear-studded lashes. He puts the pills on my tongue and hands me a bottle of water to wash them down.

They’ve barely hit my stomach before I want to puke them out again.

“Bastian,” I whisper, forcing the rest of the words. “I can’t stay. I have to leave.”

He touches my face, fingers tracing my jawline. I should pull away. Should ask why he’s looking at me like that. But I’m so tired, so fucking exhausted, and his touch feels so warm, so safe, so gentle.

“Get some rest, girl.”

And for some fucked up reason, that’s all it takes to ignore the part of my brain that’s screaming at me to run.

Because nothing, nothing about this is safe. Nothing about this is sane.

Especially his smile.

That smile promises me every bit of pain and pleasure and suffering I’ve silently been begging for.

It’s the most beautiful, terrible thing I’ve ever seen.

Chapter 31

Bastian

The brain releases more dopamine when we fantasizes about sex than when we’re actually fucking. Fantasies in themselves, then, should be enough of a thrill.

We convince ourselves they’re not.

Perhaps because humanity’s survival depends on copulation and reproduction.

Or perhaps because we crave the emotional aspect of such a primal connection with another being.

Seeing their desperate need reflected in ours.

Their emotions. Their arousal.

The realization of their own fantasies.

I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, palms flat on the vanity’s cool white marble. My pupils are blown black, swallowing the brown. The line of coke I just snorted lights up my nerve endings like the Fourth of July, sending my heart into a frantic drumming that’s both exhilarating and terrifying.

Balancing on this cusp is what I’ve always craved.

The moment when I always wonder if, this time, it’ll be too much.

I’ve been toying with death since I was a child. Playing Russian roulette with God.

Or Lucifer.

If I die before I wake,

The devil already owns what’s his to take.

A grin flashes over my face, but I quickly smooth it away. No one enjoys looking at the visage of a lunatic. They prefer charming, intelligent, rational Professor Rooke.

That’s why I had to come to this shitty town. People became opinionated about me at my old haunt. They became nosy. Guarantee it will happen here, too. But in such a small town, it’s easier to control the flow of gossip.

I pause on the bedroom’s threshold, watching Haven as she tries to pull herself together. As she tries to rally the defenses I so methodically wreck every time I see or speak to her.