Their Vicious Games(78)

“And I don’t want you to think that it means something that Pierce says he cares about you. Pierce doesn’t care about you. If he did, he would’ve gotten you out of this hellhole,” she says. That word flies from her mouth with derision. “Don’t let him trick you into thinking he couldn’t. He could. No, Pierce doesn’t care about anyone but himself. He looks at you like you’re an ending. You’re the ‘happily ever after.’ He would take your come-up story and make it loud and make it his. Class-crossed lovers. Traversing boundaries to be together. Third has big plans for his son. Governor, I think, and a governor needs a story.”

Every word comes out like cracked porcelain. And all of it and none of it makes sense with what I know about Pierce. Pierce, who picked me because he believed in me, who wanted to help me but found himself trapped. Pierce, who was simpleminded and really did believe in his whole “level the playing field” schtick. Pierce, who put clothes on me that I would never wear and told me again and again that I was something that I’m not. Pierce, who, for all he talks about being different, is just like his father in a different font.

“That’s not—”

“I know he gave you that dress, too,” Penthesilea continues. “Or did he send Graham to do it? Always doing what his beloved little brother, Four, asks. If Four asked him to let you die, he would, you know. It would hurt, but he would do it.”

Penthesilea says all of this clinically, like it means nothing to her that she’s devastating the small oasis of peace I’ve found in a world that is trying to kill me.

“He wouldn’t. He—”

“Graham would. I know him. Just like I know Pierce and all the worst parts of him. There’s a lot of them. That boy is rotten,” Penthesilea says.

“Why are you here, then?” I demand.

Penthesilea’s smile breaks for the first time. “Because… I have nothing else,” she whispers. “You have your dreams. Your future you want restored. I have Pierce. I have this. This is what I was bred for. To grow up, get a liberal arts degree, marry well, elevate my family to new heights with that marriage, smile and shake hands, have babies, and pick out the fine china. Be a good influence on the wretched Remington boy. Lead him to success, not yourself. Keep him from doing harm or damaging his reputation. The family reputation. Our class’s reputation. ‘Shrink yourself, Penthesilea, so that he never looks small. So that he never feels wrong.’ That’s what they’ve told me all my life. This is what I’ve always had. I can’t go back now. There would be nothing to go back to.”

And finally, I get her. What makes her uncanny and strange.

Penthesilea is not nice. Penthesilea is not sweet.

She is seething. In the gaps between her teeth, she holds bitterness and rage, the kind that has built with resentment for years. Penthesilea is not the rays of the sun. She is a moon, tethered forever to a planet that she does not want anything to do with but can’t exist without.

Penthesilea has found purpose at an altar, and it is made of Pierce’s skin, his hair, his eyes. She adores him, but wants to destroy him, one kiss at a time.

“Pierce wants a girl who’s finished. One who’s broken, that’s why he keeps you here. And he will break you,” Penthesilea whispers, staring at the ceiling. “What he needs is someone who cannot be broken by him.”

“What is… so awful about him?” I ask, voice catching in my throat.

Penthesilea smiles. “Adina… have you ever said no to him?”

I still. “What?”

“Have you ever said no to him?” she asks. When I don’t answer, she continues, “Try saying no and see what he does. That’s what’s wrong with him.”

I don’t think I’ve ever said no. Not meaningfully or forcefully. Even the no to Widow Maker was spun into a choice that he’d like. “Integrity,” he called it. So he wouldn’t feel rejected.

“They want to make you a killer because that’s what being a Remington is about. Kill to keep what you have. Kill to keep others from having it. Kill to keep the status quo. Kill to keep it perfect. Kill others. Kill yourself. All to keep them from harm, even of their own making. And we can call it a metaphor, and maybe it is, out there, but in here, it’s real,” Penthesilea says, her tone severe. “And if he chooses you, you won’t be able to do it. You won’t be able to do what needs to be done to keep things perfect. But I have sacrificed everything to make sure that I can. So I’ve kept you alive to placate him, but if I need to put you down to keep him in check—to keep it perfect—I will.”

Every word is one I need to hear, because it makes my future very clear. It makes everything clear for me, especially the fact that I can’t do what they call necessary.

But Penthesilea smiles at being the source of this revelation, like she’s being compassionate. Then in that same sweet voice she finally whispers, “Now get out.”





CHAPTER 27





“LADIES, TONIGHT IS YOUR DEBUT. Welcome to the final Repartee.” Any other day Leighton Remington would be met with applause. But it is not any other day. It is today, when we are all brought so low that any moment could be shattered by a hard edge. Leighton continues as if she is unbothered by the atmosphere.