Their Vicious Games(55)
“So, go to breakfast with him. Smile when he says you look nice. Laugh at his stupid jokes. You don’t have to do much. He’s been impressed with your dismal performance already,” Saint drawls.
“Hey!” I snap.
Saint shrugs. “It’s true. While you’re doing very well for someone who is dreadfully underprepared, you’ve not done anything that particularly makes you stand out, and he still finds a reason to bend the rules for you. He wants to be a white knight. And you rejected him. I bet his dick is so hard.”
“Jesus, Saint, it’s, like, ten in the morning,” I say, my face growing hot. I roll out of bed and stalk past her as she laughs, jackal-like.
I feel like a caricature of myself as I get ready, dressing up pretty for this boy that I feel nothing for beyond attraction. But that attraction is strong, and it has overwhelmed my sense in sharp, gutting moments of want before. I have to control it and use it, not let it control me.
Hawthorne’s words from last night cut me all over again, and I shove all thoughts of want from my mind. I square my shoulders as I get dressed and make myself look as close to perfect as I can when I am a collage of bruises and exhaustion makes its mark under my eyes. When I finally emerge from our room, I make sure to look both ways before stepping out. I watch as Jacqueline slips into Esme’s room, giggling, and keep still, so as not to draw her eyes. Then I fly down the empty corridor as soon as the door shuts, scurrying down the stairs before someone can see me slipping away, dressed well enough to garner suspicion about where I’m going, though I realize I don’t know which room I am meant to be going to anyway.
“Miss Walker?”
I jerk on the second landing, looking up to find Mr. Caine. He moves with the silence of a shadow. He looks at me like I’ve done something wrong, or been seen somewhere I shouldn’t be.
“I’m… I have brunch with Pierce,” I say. “Do you know where he is?”
Mr. Caine raises an eyebrow. “He’s expecting Miss Liu.”
“Miss Liu is still recovering. She asked me to take her place,” I say, forcing a smile. Mr. Caine nods slowly, and then he stands at attention again, like now that I have permission, he’ll lend his assistance.
“This way, miss,” Mr. Caine says, and then he turns like he’s in the military and marches back up the stairs, leading me down a new corridor, to a wing of the Remington Estate that I’ve only been to once. The night I meant to escape.
As we walk along the red carpet, still beautiful, even though it should be dingy with centuries of tread, I think about a group of children running through these halls. I think of them playing tag, Esme always “it,” Penthesilea always strategizing, training for this moment without even knowing it. There are more dire consequences to the games we play now.
We stop in front of a door I recognize. This is the room where I overheard the Remingtons’ conversation.
“He’ll be in his study,” Mr. Caine says, gesturing to a closed door. “Have a delightful brunch… ma’am.” He tries the word out, the one he’s only ever called Leighton and Penthesilea. It means that he’s been paying attention, that he sees how three-fourths of the family treats me. I feel surer of our plan by the minute.
With confidence, I rap my knuckles on the door and open it to find Pierce sitting by the window, buttering his toast. He’s staring out at the gardens, a strained expression on his face. Even with a frown, he is unfairly handsome. Each glimpse reveals something new about him. This time, I find the tiniest scar on his upper lip.
I tasted that scar, I think, though it’s suddenly hard to remember what happened in the dark. I lick my lips, trying to recall, but all I can summon is the flickering of flames and the look on Esme’s face as I confronted her. Besides, I don’t want to be thinking about that now. Drawing myself back into the moment, I stare at Pierce, waiting to be addressed.
He shifts, like he’s just realized the door opened, and turns absent-mindedly.
“Saint, thank you for— Adina.”
“Good morning, Pierce,” I say. I have the oddest urge to call him “Four,” like his brother does.
“Good morning.” Pierce jumps up from his seat, a genuine smile now on his face. The study is similar to Leighton’s office, except for touches of moneyed youth. Old photos of a playgroup of children on the desk—even though they are young in the photo, I recognize Esme’s devilish smile and the pale shadow that was Hawthorne. Prints of him and Pen in various exotic locales line the wall. A receipt from Prada, with a note from Charles scrawled across it that I can’t read, pinned to a corkboard. A framed photo of him and his brother on the bookshelf, both of them in riding gear. “Come, sit. Caine laid out a spread for us.”
The table of choice is a heavy wooden one, set up in the round of a reading nook. It’s like a diner booth, designed to bring us close.
“You look lovely,” Pierce says. He sounds genuine.
“You always say that,” I say with a smile as I slide into the reading nook. I lean over the table. “I’m sure you’re surprised by… well, me.”
“Yes, but it’s a good surprise, I promise,” Pierce says, with what I once might have seen as an empty charming smile. Now there’s more to him—that smile means favor. He sighs, suddenly looking far looser. “To be honest, it’s the best surprise.”