Vengeance (The Prince's Games Book 1) by Rebecca Grey (electric book reader TXT) 📕

the needle down. I walk carefully and calmly to the arrangement of tools, picking up scissors. As I wander back to his cot, I can't meet his eye.

Juilliard's arms have fallen to either side of him in a dramatic pose that suggests if we continue in this way he'll be likely to fall over dead. Torturing him would be fun if Marcello wasn't also torturing me.

Marcello Torres and I can never be, I remind myself. Marcello Torres is a lying Elf who only came into your life so that he could use you to get through the Games. This thing between us, this living, breathing, almost tangible thing might wreck me. It's not the same meaningless arrangement I have with Joss.

No, what's alive and connecting us now, this feels vulnerable. It's scary. I'm scared of it, I realize.

I want to hate the man. I want to only think of his death and spilling his blood at my feet. But somewhere between his flirty comments, passing touches, and faith in me... I've started to fall. And it's a descent to my demise if I don't shut the feelings down now.

"Do you have nothing to say?" Marcello's dark curls stretch to one side as he tilts his head.

"Marcello," I say sternly, cutting the excess wire. "You don't want me for any other reason than to have something to fuck while you're here."

He hums. "You really think that?"

"I know that."

"Do you think that you know me so well?" He watches me as I gather up a clean cloth to clean up the bloody mess on his leg. "Remember when you said you didn't think we should spend time alone together any longer? Remember our time on the rooftop?"

"Obviously." I brush the cloth in circles over the blood staining his skin. It catches the hairs on his legs and swirls them into new curls.

"Why did you say that?"

I force my gaze to meet him. Train my features into neutrality. "Because if we're ever alone again, I'll kill you."

He shows off all of his bright white teeth in a dazzling smile. My breath hitches in my chest at the sight. I set the cloth in my lap, waiting for him to respond. Both of his dimples make an appearance.

"I'd happily let you kill me if only you'll admit first that you like me. That we have chemistry."

Then I'm up. Standing and needing to find something to do to get me out of this conversation. Panic bubbles up my throat, burning like acid. I toss the damp cloth down on the cot, gather up Marcello's pants and toss them into his chest.

He catches them, holding them against him and letting out a loud huff of air. I want him to hurt. More importantly, I want him to not be able to hurt me.

Every shield I've ever built around myself feels like it's so close to falling when I am around him. My brain is foggy and I act foolishly. Marcello Torres makes me stupid in a way I can't even explain.

My mentality shifts dangerously, and it's the worst thing about me, I think. When the mood strikes me as it so often does, I'll say whatever I can to hurt them. Whatever I need to push them away before they get too close. It's the worst defense I have, and harsh words are already forming on the back of my lips.

"Why would I ever want to be with you? I don't want to end up like your last girlfriend while you were too busy living so far up your father's ass you couldn't even save her. Loving you is a death sentence," I say through clenched teeth.

Marcello's features turn dark. The silver in his eyes burns to a stark white. He doesn't move, every muscle still as a statue. Juilliard, on the other hand, props himself up on his elbows.

"Nilsa, get out." Juilliard commands. There's something powerful in his voice. Loyalty to his friend? And despite my need for defiance, his tone doesn't leave room for any argument.

Every move I make is stiff, almost mechanical. I turn for the exit, too ashamed to give either one of them another glance. My heart still beats, but I'm not breathing. Not until I'm well outside of the tent and making my way far from the two of them.

Instantly I regret saying anything. I should have left the dead in their grave instead of resurrecting them. If Marcello had brought up one of the many times that I failed Arron, I probably would have blacked out and only come to when his blood was splattered against the walls.

Why? Why did I have to say that?

Because he was too close. Because Marcello is too close. I want to let down all my walls for him. I want to let him get to know the real me. I find myself wanting to get to know the real him. It's his charm, it has to be.

Wrapping my arms around my abdomen, I stop beside one of our purple tents. My body crumples, doubling over as I retch loudly again and again. I'm sick with the warring feelings of hating and loving, wanting and refusing, and needing but still denying myself. Burning air stings my throat, but nothing ever comes up.

"What's wrong with you?" A deep voice interrupts me.

I whirl around to stand toe to toe with the dark-haired Elf, Jefferson. My attention travels up then down his towering figure. Mud is caked against his clothes. Dirt is streaked across his pointed cheekbones. Seeing him this muddled makes me wonder how his team ended up climbing out of that hole.

Using my sleeve, I wipe at the spit I'm sure is glistening my lips. "Nothing. I'm fine." I tilt my head. "No hard feelings about today?"

He laughs. "Actually, that's why I'm here. Where is