Their Vicious Games(52)

“You made me someone I didn’t want to be,” I say. Violent. I was violent that day.

Esme sneers. “That day you showed me exactly who you are. Disloyal. Conniving. Selfish. And you’ve shown that every fucking day since, Adina. You showed it at the bonfire, too.”

I scoff. “What are you talking about?”

“Maybe you were too drunk to remember, but I wasn’t. I remember something else I saw happening in the forest. Slut.”

She knows.

I go cold all over then. I jerk from her grip and look down at the four welts forming on my bicep. Esme doesn’t back down, though. She stares at me, her lips curled back over her teeth.

“I know that’s why he’s helping you. He had you once and suddenly thinks that you might be worth something. But I know you; you’re nothing,” Esme whispers. “I’ve been his childhood friend for years. He knows me. All the good, the bad, and the ugly, and he knows we’re the same. He’ll soon understand.”

I swallow hard, rubbing at the marks that Esme has left behind. “You think you’re going to win and tell him about how your mommy stole money from her charity board, how Daddy has a few offshore accounts, how the Feds are after you, and he’ll think you’re worth the headache?” I shake my head in disbelief at the fairy tale that Esme is imagining. She’s always been an asshole, but never so unrealistic.

“You forget who you’re dealing with,” Esme growls. “Nothing is a headache for the Remingtons. They can make anything happen. After all, the Finish has been going on for over a century. Girls, weak like Margaret, have been dying forever. And no one has stopped them yet. My family’s shit is nothing. It’s a wish and an email away from being turned to dust.”

The claustrophobia that has haunted me from the moment I entered the house swells to a crescendo.

I refuse to break. I take Leighton’s advice and let it turn me into a diamond. Unbreakable.

“Yeah, but you won’t ask him for shit. Not unless you win, because if you ask now, you’d be begging,” I spit. I glare at her. “That would require you to swallow your big ego. And you’re not capable of it.”

“You don’t know what I’m capable of,” Esme bites out. “Not yet.”

“Unfortunately, Esme, I do,” I sigh, skirting around her.

“No, you don’t,” Esme promises. “You don’t know anything. Because while you’re here to get back something you lost—I didn’t take it from you, you lost it by being sloppy—I’m here because I have people to take care of. I have people relying on me.”

From this angle, in this light, I can imagine her as the wicked girl that sprayed poison and sent someone off to her death easily.

So for a moment it doesn’t really click that Esme’s cruelty could be derived from something not wholly selfish. That she isn’t only in it to protect her own reputation or spite me.

She’s here for her family, I realize. Esme’s unhinged look peels from her face like old paint. When she looks at me, she’s far more focused and intense than anyone ever gives her credit for. She touches her fingers to her diamond collar. Outside here, she wears it to remind people of her wealth, of who she is. Here, tonight, it feels more like a reminder for herself.

“I offered to sell this,” she says, “to pay for the lawyers’ retainer. My father said no. He said that it was a gift. I just think that he was ashamed. When I win… he’ll never have to feel ashamed again.”

When she takes a step back, she looks oddly vulnerable. She didn’t mean to reveal so much of herself, but I know why she did. It’s easy to show your underbelly to someone you hate, because hatred is strong, personal. It bonds people closer than most things. Before she can reveal any more, she leaves the room, ducking under Hawthorne’s outstretched hand, sending the room into a silence that feels like a funeral.

I stare down hard at the floor, fighting back the burning pressure in my eyes.

The silence is a heavy thing, suffocating.

“You should eat.” Hawthorne makes a plate for me, picking a little of everything, before she shoves it into my hands. I fumble to catch it and she holds my wrists steady, looking at me from under translucent lashes. “Are you all right?”

“I’m never all right.” I take the plate without thanks—it’s just reparations for not saving me from that fucking awful conversation. When I curl up on the couch, far away from where Hawthorne was sitting, she doesn’t seem to take the hint and joins me.

“You make her so angry,” Hawthorne says with a quiet sense of awe. “I don’t think you realize how much you do.”

“I think I’m well aware of the strength of her rage,” I mumble around puff pastry.

“I don’t think you are,” says Hawthorne. “You unbalance her. Make her feel like she’s out of control. There’s nothing she hates more than being out of control.”

Well, I suppose we have that in common.

“Why me? Why not… Penthesilea? She should be back by now, but she’s still downstairs with him right now. She’s winning. Not me,” I insist.

Hawthorne purses her lips. “Come on now, Adina. You’re both favorites. Pen’s performing better in the Finish, but up until the Ride he’s liked you better. We’ll see if that holds,” Hawthorne says with a quiet sigh. She squints down at the ground. “Pen’s always been just… nice. Since we were kids. She never cried. She always shared. She was never ‘it,’ even when it was her turn during tag, because Esme liked to be ‘it.’?”