Their Vicious Games(64)

Graham groans, stepping away. “Adina, please—”

“?‘Tradition.’ You all love to throw that word around, but it’s not my tradition. I didn’t ask to have any part of it,” I insist, closing in on him, dragging my fingers over his skin, over the soft fabric of his T-shirt that probably cost three hundred dollars, to remind myself that he’s real, that all of this is real when it should be just a nightmare.

“Didn’t you?” Graham says, tone nasty. “You didn’t mind the invitation, I remember.”

I let him go like I’ve been burned. Wounded.

“Don’t even try to throw this back in my face,” I hiss.

Graham shakes his head. “I warned you. I told you that you didn’t have what it takes.”

“You didn’t tell me what that meant! What I had to do. What I’m expected to do.” My voice cracks and I don’t want to cry. I can’t cry now. “You didn’t tell me your brother would give me a gun or that your aunt would expect me to kill someone to win. Do you understand that?”

“I do,” Graham says. “But you’re here now. I don’t want you to kill anyone, but I want you to live. I want you to win.”

“Why? I understand you gave everything to Pierce to make sure that he never felt expendable like you did, but I’m not something to give, Graham.”

And there it is—the truth of what winning means. I’m as unready to confront it as Graham is, our mutual bewilderment digging deep to compete with mutual anguish. The idea of marrying into this family makes cold sweat bead high on my forehead, frizzing my hairline. And Graham looks revolted by the very idea, his fingers flexing like he needs to grab something. We both look to the house, as if expecting to see Pierce in the window, his presence felt so heavily that it’s almost like he’s sitting on my chest, and all the air whistles out of me, wasted.

“Adina, I can’t,” he says. “I can’t… I don’t know what to do.”

He sounds so sincere.

And it doesn’t mean a fucking thing.

Two Remington boys, both proclaiming how much they want to help but, in the end, never doing anything at all.

“You’re a coward.” I’m not sure who I mean—Pierce or Graham.

Graham doesn’t flinch at my accusation. He smiles instead. “I know. But I’m a coward who is at least going to make sure you can shoot.”

“I hate you,” I whisper.

I don’t believe it. Neither does he.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “But I’d rather you hate me than you be dead. Now… pick up your gun, point it at the target, and pull the trigger. Because I’m not letting you die, Adina Walker.”





CHAPTER 22





I SPEND THE ENTIRE MORNING putting bullets into paper targets, long after Graham leaves, still tender from our confrontation. I can sense the way the other girls feel, seeing me there early, training, and the way they react to Leighton smiling and remarking on my initiative and dedication to bettering myself. Still, I sponge her praise, parched for some acknowledgment or reminder that she sees herself in me, when I see it less and less when I look in the mirror. She is a reminder that I can do this. That I have to do this.

All throughout morning practice, Jacqueline stares at me and the gun now in my hands. I feel a thrill at her attention. She’s angry and afraid, and it’ll make her sloppy, exactly like I need her to be. I cut a look to her again and again, almost mocking, and it’s enough that Jacqueline begs to speak with Leighton over our lunch break, crumpling into petulant fury.

I expect her to return still fuming, reminded of how disappointing she is by Leighton, but when Jacqueline walks into the parlor after, she is all smiles, a certain level of calmness that has been missing the past few days returning. She immediately joins her clique of girls, joking softly, and for a moment I can see the ghost of who she might actually be, not the exaggerated fun-house aggression that she’s adopted here.

Then she looks at me and her expression flattens. “She’s asking for you, Walker,” she says primly.

I don’t quite pause in my game of Solitaire—I’m losing. Badly.

After lunch the games were laid out for us to pick from—the same games that I’ve seen before: Go, Monopoly, Catan—and an added stack of cards. Decision-making games, specifically. I chose to go back to a deck of cards. Solitaire seemed right, since I could do it solo, but I’ve already lost twice, made too many shitty decisions.

Saint looks up from her own deck, frowning over at me. “Since when did you have a meeting with her?”

“I don’t,” I say absently.

“Well, don’t keep Aunt Leighton waiting,” Jacqueline says sharply, finally shaking me out of my game. She twists back to smile toothily at Esme.

“Wish me luck,” I say to Saint.

“You think you need luck?” Saint asks.

“No,” I say with a tight smile. Whatever Leighton wants, I’m sure it’ll be good. It’s close to the Raid and I haven’t spoken to her privately yet. She’ll have something for me, something that’ll help Saint and me. “Protect my game. I’m going to finish it when I’m done.”

I stand and pretend that I don’t feel everyone else’s eyes on me. At least I’ve gotten a lot better about acting like it doesn’t affect me. I ascend the stairs, then walk down the hallway, moving as quietly as a breeze, my bare feet sliding across the wood.