This is pleasure and it’s real, and it’s far more terrifying.
“Shit, Adina,” he whispers into my mouth. He tastes like cornflakes. He tastes like Suburbia, and for the first time, I miss it, my chest concave with how much I yearn for the familiarity, this feeling of home.
“Do you use Bath & Body Works?” I murmur into his mouth.
“What the fuck is that?” he asks.
I breathe heavily, breaking apart as I slowly drag my fingers over his jaw and close my eyes. “You’re nearly perfect,” I whisper.
“My father would beg to differ,” Graham laughs hoarsely.
And suddenly, all the threats, the powerlessness, return as I realize what I’m risking, doing this with the wrong Remington.
And suddenly, I don’t want this anymore. I can’t want anything to do with him.
“Don’t tell Pierce,” I say, letting him go.
Graham jerks away, staring at me as if I was the accomplice to the worst crime.
“Adina,” he says, and then he stops like he doesn’t know what else to say to that.
“This… can’t happen again,” I decide.
“No, it cannot,” he agrees.
I slip off the kitchen island before I can give in again, and I leave him wanting, because boys are allowed to want.
CHAPTER 20
“THE RAID… IS A METAPHOR.” Leighton paces in front of us, the dichotomy between the eight of us and her starker than ever. She is in her silk and satin, and we are in black military-grade fatigues. “Life is about searching for something worth living for. Searching for reason. Searching for purpose. We can spend all our days searching aimlessly. But you, young ladies, are not aimless. Life is made of decisions that will take you closer to or further from your goal. You are always constantly looking for the right direction… left or right? And if you don’t make that right decision, you can’t double back, as there will always be someone on your heels, ready to slit your throat and take everything from you. That is the Raid.”
It doesn’t sound like a metaphor.
Leighton’s gaze flashes over to me like she can read my thoughts. I redirect my stare at the ground, nudging my boot into the grass. I’m already sweltering, sticky sweat frizzing up my hair out of its gelled-down state.
“Pierce,” Leighton calls, raising her voice suddenly, and that changes everything.
The girls straighten up, all exploding into whispers, as the Remington in question jogs down the steps and across the grounds, dressed in blinding whites, like he’s about to step onto a tennis court. When he arrives in front of us, he claps his hands together and smiles brightly, eyes flitting over each of us. When our eyes meet, his grin widens.
“As my aunt has explained to you, the Raid is metaphor for obstacles you may face in the future. But we, as Remingtons, do not go into that future unprepared,” Pierce says, and then he leans forward to look Hannah G in the eye. Her lashes flutter, cheeks pinkening. “And neither should you.” He winks, and then turns away like he has no idea what he’s done to her. He’s enjoying this.
“In prior years, only the top three ranked were allowed to select defenses. Everyone else had to rely on their cleverness. However, this Finish is different. My nephew is… different,” Leighton says, weighing that word on her tongue. “My nephew will be the one to arm you. As the winner of the Ride, Penthesilea, you will be the first. In continued practice of rewarding those who succeed, you will be assigned two.”
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?”