Page 671 of Lessons in Cruelty

“Then please dumb it down for me, Professor.”

He exhales slowly in my ear. I can picture him lounging back on his sofa, a tumbler propped on his knee, smirking like the arrogant, evil psycho that he is.

“I want both of you.”

I scoff. “Kai will never⁠—”

“Then you’ll have to persuade him, sweet girl.”

“That’s—“ I squeeze my eyes shut. “I can’t promise anything.”

“You’ll have to. My part of the deal has already been delivered.”

I laugh. “I said I’d try, that’s it!”

“I know you will, girl. Just like I know he’ll cave, because he loves you, and he’ll do anything to keep you.” Bastian sighs.

When I say nothing, because—what the fuck?—Bastian gives me another happy sigh. “Why don’t you Uber yourself into town and go buy something pretty for him on my credit card? I bet if you wear it when he comes home tomorrow, he’ll hardly need any convincing at all.”

The pressure behind my eyes is suddenly gone.

I blink back tears, sniffing hard. “They’re releasing him?”

Instead of answering my question, Bastian hums softly.

“Young love is so pathetic.”

Chapter 15

Kai

I’ve traced every crack in the ceiling and turned them into pictures. If I squint, a cluster of them near the water stain looks like someone giving me the finger.

I got some sleep last night, but not nearly enough. I’d take a fucking nap, but every time I close my eyes, I see Haven walking into those woods.

Away from me.

Toward him.

It’s Monday morning, and I’m alone.

The drunk they brought in around 2 a.m. is gone. Someone bailed him out while I napped. Or he choked on his own vomit. Either way, I’m jealous as fuck.

My wrists ache, but at least my lip’s finally scabbed over. I’m hungry and stiff from lying on this concrete slab—and I’ve only been in jail for forty-eight hours.

Jesus, I’ll never make it on the inside.

Footsteps echo down the corridor.

I don’t bother looking. Probably another shift change, or a cop coming to take a piss in the staff bathroom. Might be Thatcher, but he ignores me whenever I try to speak to him, so I’m not wasting my energy again.

The footsteps stop outside my cell.

“Mr. Jordan.”

I roll my head to the side. Barnes is there in another Italian suit—charcoal this time, with a royal blue tie—his briefcase dangling from one hand.

“You look worse than yesterday,” he observes.