Their Vicious Games(60)
Penthesilea steps forward, looking at ease even in battle fatigues. Lifting her chin, she meets Pierce’s gaze easily and he steps close into her personal space, a comfortableness that only time can create. He doesn’t smile as he reaches for a delicate butterfly knife, flipping it open and then closed again before he turns it handle first. She takes it from him, fingers brushing over his knuckles.
“And?” she prompts.
Pierce’s eyes narrow, like he finds a thousand meanings in that one word. He reaches past her toward the table and holds up a machete. This one he offers blade first. Penthesilea’s smile widens.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, and then she steps back into place, nodding her thanks also to Leighton for graciously allowing her to be gifted two fucking knives.
“Very good,” Leighton says, sounding impressed, which is also alarming. “Now, Saint.”
Pierce smiles politely at her as he alternates between a broadsword and a rapier-and-dagger set. He tilts his head as he looks between the weapons and her, and then he says, “You strike me as sneaky.”
“I have that air about me,” Saint deadpans. Pierce does not seem to find her nearly as funny as I do, frowning as he passes her the rapier and dagger.
Esme is next and Pierce is quick to give her a large hunting knife, as threatening as her smile. Hawthorne is given a crossbow that she throws back over her shoulder. A pit forms in my belly as I suddenly remember that Hawthorne is a prizewinning archer.
What is Pierce thinking?
I catalog the table quickly, looking for anything that remains usable. Jacqueline and Hannah G are eyeing the very sharp battle-ax. Each weapon I see is more intense than the last. A broadsword, a spear, nunchaku. My survey is cut off as Pierce finally steps in front of me. He holds out a hand to me, full of expectation.
Everyone is watching. There is already a target on my back. This will make it worse.
I take it anyway. Pierce grins as he tugs me forward, out of line.
“You think you have me figured out yet?” I ask.
“Nope. But I do know exactly what suits you,” Pierce says. He reaches for a slim black case with a handle. I frown at it—black, hard plastic that I don’t recognize. It’s unintimidating. And then Pierce flips it open, like a box of jewelry, and I force myself not to retreat.
This weapon feels more violent than the rest—a row of shiny bronze bullets to go with the slim, sleek gun. It is the one that Jacqueline pointed at me, and now I know where she stole it from. Touching it feels forbidden. I can hear Jacqueline’s bloodcurdling screams, can see her staggering toward me, drenched and burning with fury, gun in stretched-out hand.
When Pierce sees me hesitate, he pulls the gun from the case and sets the case aside before he steps back into my space with an unearned intimacy. The barrel of the gun brushes my stomach before he spins it on his finger, offering the handle toward me. He’s not even looking at me, I realize. His blue gaze cuts deep into Jacqueline’s twisted expression. He’s punishing her, as much as rewarding me.
It’s her face that makes me take it. I want to make her feel every bit of fear that swelled deep inside me and never left. I grab the grip and point the empty gun directly at Jacqueline, and I can’t help the sick flare of satisfaction when she staggers back, hands held up over her face.
“Pew, pew,” I say, voice flat, before I turn back to Pierce.
I do not like this smile of his. Everything is too wide, his mouth, his eyes. My own momentary victory is dulled under the scream of my hindbrain. He doesn’t look like the kind of person anyone could make feel small.
“Pierce,” Leighton prompts, settling a hand on her nephew’s shoulder.
Pierce schools his expression again, looking apologetic toward me. “Um…,” he says, blinking rapidly, resetting mentally. “Hannah G?”
Hannah G receives a fairly innocuous staff. For Jacqueline, there is the battle-ax, but to my relief it is almost too heavy for her. It’ll slow her down. And finally, to Reagan goes a baseball bat.
When Jacqueline scoffs, Pierce smiles and says, “Reagan is a softball player. I think she knows her way around a bat.”
And for the first time in days, Reagan smiles, stretching the cut on her face.
Leighton nods her approval at Pierce. “Very good,” she agrees, and where we might have preened under her praise, Pierce disregards it altogether, barely blinking. “To prevent any undue accidents, each of your weapons will need to be checked out through the proper channels for practice. Now come closer, we will begin to lay out your training routine over the next few days.”
We are meant to huddle closer, but as the other girls squirm in front of me, I fall back to survey them all.
“I’ve always thought guns to be dishonorable.” Esme’s voice is a hiss in my ear as she sidles closer. I reach to my left, toward Saint, without taking my eyes from Leighton’s hands as she describes our schedule. Saint grabs my wrist, assurance that she’s here. Pierce sees nothing; he’s watching over Leighton’s shoulder, politely disinterested. He’ll be there just for today’s practice, but none of the rest. “It puts distance between you and the target. With a gun, you don’t even have to have the courtesy of looking them in the eye. Knives are more personal.”
I flicker a look at her from the corner of my eye. Esme shakes her black bob out and her shoulders wobble; she’s laughing silently though I have no idea why. She leans into my space, and the scent of her perfume turns my stomach. It’s the Chanel perfume, hints of lavender and sandalwood. Not the Dior that killed Margaret. Plausible deniability and all that.