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

From those times of sitting, waiting, painfully listening I've gleaned that the games are truly that... grueling physical and mental team events. If you don't pick your team ahead of time and pray you all make it through the interview process, you can enter as a single and be assigned to a team of other misfits. That team never lasts long, apparently.

So in the spirit of longevity, of surviving the games, I should probably play along and do my part as a team member. Gag me with a spoon. I'll have to actually get to know these Hybrids. Something rises from the pit of my stomach and grabs both my lungs squeezing the air out of me. Vulnerable fear? Something else?

Not Marcello. I think quickly. I won't get to know him no matter how much he tries. I won't go out of my way for him. Not when in the end he too has to die. I already hate that I even know his name. Putting a name down on those pages makes my job feel undoable and trudges up the weak Human feelings I'd rather avoid. How much more would it hurt to write down the name of someone I got to know? How much more would I dread bringing a pen to the page if I knew what sort of creature they truly were?

Marcello plays the part well, acts as though he isn't a wicked monster of strength and beastly form underneath his appealing facade. He'd even spun me the story of losing his first love. It's probably a lie. He wants me to feel sorry for him, to not think about his head on a spike as I carry it to Genovese along with the king and the prince's head. He's smart, I'll give him that. You can be smart and still be a fool. And Marcello Torres is a fucking fool.

"A small visit shouldn't hurt but we can’t stay too long because the celebration of the start of The Oasis Games is tomorrow evening and we wouldn't want to miss it." Marcello offers Juilliard his hand and hauls his friend up from the couch.

Sloane admits a squeal and Finnegan claps his hands together. She disappears behind the door and Finnegan waves his hand, beckoning us forward.

"Come, come," he urges.

I sigh and force my hands into my pockets. Marcello takes his place next to the door, holding it open for all of us to follow the Vampires into the next room. I'm the last to follow and I have to force myself to take each pitiful step. My teeth grind together and I keep my mouth closed. Almost immediately, my mouth falls back open.

The room we'd been standing in, the one with the ancient looking covered furniture and the dust layered over dust is nothing like the room we're entering now.

Bright green walls are covered with gold framed paintings. A large polished wooden table runs the length of the room with ten chairs seated around its edges, five on each side. The center of the table is decorated with a long white table runner dotted with tall gold candle holders and their lit white candles. Each seat is dressed with its own golden plate and silverware set.

Not. A. Single. Speck. Of. Dirt. In. The. Entire. Room. It's polished and pristine and very, very expensive looking.

I walk by the table and run my fingers over the silverware. What if I took it? What if I slip it into my pocket and pawn it off later? How much could I get for these fineries? The thief in me smiles wildly.

Chairs glide across the floor, a shining cement, as everyone pulls their seats away to sit down. I keep my distance from the Vampires to be certain they can't get any ideas about feeding from me, and so that I don't focus on the way Sloane smells like a bouquet I want to shove my face into. Even now as I remember the feeling that washed over me in her closeness, the smallest part of me, the weakest part, wants to curl into her lap.

It's almost a blessing from a Saint that I'm so mesmerized by the china. I remain standing and stroke a finger down the sharpened knife with lines carved into its handle. It had taken time for someone to make these, and skill. Above the dinner table, a chandelier lit with candles flickers and the light reflects in the gold. I want this. I think I need it, too.

"Nilsa, sit," Marcello whispers, pulling a chair out for me.

His words startle me and I blink rapidly as I look up. Out of habit, I push the knife up into my sleeve without looking and cock my head at Marcello.

"Don't expect a thank you," I say quietly back to him and lower into the seat.

His arm loops around the back of the chair as he lowers himself down to smile at me. Saints, his smile is beautiful. It lights up his face and compliments the startling silver glow in his eyes. "I might fall over dead the day you express gratitude or apologize. I'm more likely to die from shock than I am to die in the Games."

"In that case, let me thank you and save myself the trouble of killing you after this is all over," I pull my napkin from the table and shake it out to lay against my lap.

Marcello pulls out the seat next to me and sits on the edge, still angling toward me. He draws a finger over the top of my hand where it rests on the table. Juilliard, who sits on my other side, groans in annoyance. I stare down at his touch. Persistent. If Marcello is anything, he's persistent.

I hate that. But I kind of like that.

I like that my mortal