Page 137 of Lessons in Cruelty

Is this a test? Are you supposed to drink wine with ice? Dad only had ice in his drink on the days he got his disability check.

“Silly me.” I toss two cubes in my glass, hesitate, then add a third. I suppose it will water it down.

I wander into the living area and give Bastian’s house another slow scan. Despite how many times I’ve been here, I can always find something new to appreciate.

Like that painting above the fireplace? I’ve seen it before, but I never really looked.

“You like fucked up art, don’t you?”

Bastian chuckles. “You’re admiring my Bosch?”

“Um…admiring it isn’t quite the right word. More like examining it. Is this supposed to be hell?”

“Limbo, actually.”

“Looks pretty hellish to me,” I mutter as I take a sip of wine.

The painting is very dark, the only specks of light those of tormented figures being harassed by demons. There’s a freaky creature near the top that’s all arms and legs, holding open its mouth.

It looks like a working-class demon is pushing damned souls into its gaping maw.

“Hungry?”

“This guy certainly is,” I mumble.

I shake off my creeps and go sit at the kitchen counter. Bastian is busy serving up the pasta, and I wish he’d hurry the hell up, because I’m dying to know what it tastes like. He sets a bowl down in front of me and takes a seat opposite me at the island.

I’m stabbing my fork into the pasta like a heathen when he holds up his glass. “A toast.”

Damn it. This better be good.

I force a smile and hold up my glass, trying not to stare down into my bowl. There’s this weird smell filling my nose that’s rich and musty and so fucking sexy I’m considering asking Bastian to leave the room so I can have some alone time with my food.

“Here’s hoping hell doesn’t exist,” he says, glancing at the painting.

“Fuck,” I say through a laugh. “I’ll drink to that.”

I clink his glass, my mouth pursed, but he keeps staring at me like he’s expecting a reply. It’s only when I take a sip of wine that he breaks his focus.

“Oh my God,” I murmur, as soon as I’ve slurped down the first bite of food. “What is this?”

“Wild mushroom ragout pasta with truffle oil.”

I stop eating. “Like…mushrooms you’ve picked yourself?” What else could ‘wild mushrooms’ possibly mean?

Kai made me eat ‘wild mushrooms’ once. Thank God it was only a sliver. I was sick the whole afternoon, but I didn’t even care because I was too busy talking to the grass. Wasn’t my fault—it wouldn’t stop talking to me.

Bastian laughs at my expression and takes a sip of wine. There’s a twinkle of firelight in his eyes when he looks over at me. “Like oyster and shiitake mushrooms from the grocer. But I’ll take the compliment.”

Why can’t I shut my damn mouth?

Thankfully, dinner is so good that I barely stop to breathe, never mind speak. Bastian is silent too. The only sound is the soft jazz playing through his invisible sound system.

Then I hear another sound, so quiet it barely registers. But when it does, oh boy.

click

My fork clangs down into my almost empty bowl.