Their Vicious Games(58)

“Are you all right? You seem lost,” he says.

I could ask how to get back. But I don’t want to go back to Saint just yet and tell her what I just learned we have to survive. Not when I don’t have any idea how to make that sound doable yet. I don’t want to get upstairs and potentially be found out by the other girls. And I definitely don’t want to run into Third.

“D-do you know where the kitchen is?”

Congratulations on not stuttering, Adina.

“The West Kitchen is just at the end of the hall and down the servants’ stairs,” he recites.

West Kitchen. Servants’ stairs. It sounds like something out of a fucking period drama.

“Right. Got it. Thanks,” I blurt before I take off down the hallway again. I look left and right for another set of stairs, and it takes me a moment to realize that the narrow, arched door half hidden behind a tapestry leads to a set of rickety steps.

I take one step down the stairs and hear them creak horribly underneath my feet. Another hesitant step, another creak. I turn, expecting someone to be staring at me in disapproval. But when no one comes, I rush my way down until I’m in the warmest room that I’ve seen yet in the Remington Estate.

It’s cozier than I was expecting, creamy and yellow with white cabinets and marble countertops. The lighting hangs low and intimate. But I startle when I notice I’m not alone. Graham sits at the enormous island in the center of the kitchen. Trading one brother for another. Great.

“Uh… hello,” Graham says with a nod.

“Hey.” I walk deeper into the kitchen. “Did you know only rich people have servants’ stairs?”

“Yeah, well… can’t imagine why we do, then,” Graham says sarcastically.

“Do they go through the entire house?”

“Yup. At each end of the house, there are servants’ stairs that lead up and down so they could move without being seen back in the old days. Sometimes Third gets into moods and makes them use them. My grandfather used to do it a lot more, though,” Graham says, distaste coloring his voice.

I look around for something that isn’t him. It’s funny. He’s not the golden boy. He’s not the sun. But it’s getting harder to look at him. His nose has a bump at the bridge, like it’s been broken before. Real.

“And you have an island,” I say almost reverently.

“What’s so great about a kitchen bar?” Graham asks.

“Island,” I correct. “And it’s more about the countertops. Marble. Only rich people have marble countertops. I know. I’ve collected all the substantial evidence proving this theory correct. All the houses in my neighborhood are the same. Granite. The workingman’s marble.”

“Yeah, I can imagine you have. You’ve known a lot of rich people in your life,” Graham says. He’s eating cornflakes. I crave the simple taste of it, soggy and thick on my tongue, and tasting faintly of cardboard. I’d rather have that than an a?ai bowl I ordered someone to make. I’d rather have something that I know, that’s familiar, that I’ve put together myself with my own hands. And that is a confusing thought, because I never thought I’d want cornflakes over caviar, over freshly baked croissants, over toast already buttered for me.

“Unfortunately,” I say, and creep closer, leaning on the edge of the island. “Anyway. Your brother told me about the Raid.”

“Did he?” Graham asks, doubtful. “Did he tell you how to survive it?”

“Not exactly. Isn’t that cheating?” I drawl.

Graham huffs. “I think we’re long past cheating, don’t you? I told you about the Ride.”

He was the one to give me real help. Not a horse I didn’t know how to ride at the last minute like Pierce or half answers and half explanations like Leighton. Not a bland, “I want you to win, because I will it so.” He wants me to win because he just wants me to live. And that shouldn’t be enough to make me like him, that should just be standard decency, but in this moment it’s enough. Suddenly, I can’t look away from him at all.

“There’s something different about you,” he says. He swivels in his seat to follow me, holding his bowl with one hand, letting cereal and milk drip from his spoon, a splash landing on the knee of his jeans.

I hop up onto the island, right next to him. Slowly, he sets his bowl down and looks up at me. “Is it my hair?”

“No, but it does look good,” he says.

I haven’t washed my hair in a week. “Flatterer,” I accuse. “Is it the skirt?”

“No, but that’s nice too,” Graham says, tilting his head as his gaze catches on my bare thighs. I roll my eyes. Graham’s eyes flicker back up to my face. He’s fighting a smile. “You look… well rested.”

“Now I know you’re lying.”

Graham laughs.

“Tell me more about the Raid,” I demand.

He shrugs. “You know… I really thought you were a good girl. Yet here you are, demanding I spill family secrets to you. You’re doing well in this game.”

The somberness in my belly rises to the surface again. “This isn’t a game,” I correct. “And I am a good girl. I just have to win, too.”

“I wouldn’t fault you, you know, if you weren’t being good. Integrity doesn’t mean much to the dead,” he says. He pauses, thinking. “The maze… is hollow.”