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

She nods, fiddling with the fabric behind me. I reach for the knob as she starts to speak again. "I've heard that Humans heal rather slowly. When will the marks be healed?"

I shrug as the dress loosens and starts to slip down my shoulders. With a gentle nudge, our door swings shut. "I don't know. It'll be scabbed over by tomorrow and the scab will fall off maybe a day or so after that."

"Will the scab hurt?"

Hedda's questions are persistent. Not to mention so utterly basic you'd think she'd have the slightest clue as to what the answer will be, but every time I respond she only acts more surprised. She badgers me with her inquiries. What happens when the scab falls off? If I cut your finger off will it grow back? Would your finger scab too? What about if I cut off a limb? Begrudgingly, I answer until I slip under the covers of my bed. My head throbs and my vision feels unfocused. Even as she continues to whisper questions, I pull the covers up over my head and think about what’s to come in the morning.

All the teams gather in the same room where we'd partied together last night. The atmosphere is much different now, though. Everyone huddles with their team, sending curious and cutting glances at anyone that dares make eye contact. The large balloons, banners, and glistening decor that had once lit up the entire ballroom have all been taken down. The room is now bare.

Any tables we could sit at while we wait have also been removed, forcing us all to stand as the announcer, dressed today in a vivid orange shirt and matching pair of trousers, speaks quietly to some sort of staff member in the corner. I watch him more than I watch anyone else. Every time he opens his mouth I'm certain it'll be to tell us all to fight to our deaths. Fists only, of course.

Buried in the chest, I was able to find myself some fitted pants made from a material I've never worn before. Black breathable fabric, with an easy stretch, forms to my muscular legs, tucked into the top of a new pair of boots. Even the maroon shirt I'd found allows plenty of airflow while still covering all of my skin. I pat the painfully empty belt along my waist, wishing for the comfort of my daggers.

"You'll get them back," Marcello says softly. "You can't have them for this event, but they'll count them as your one item for the entire Games, and they'll be in our camp when we get there."

"One item?" I arch a brow.

"We can each bring one item into the Games. Not for the first event, but for all the ones after."

"And what did you all bring?" I look to the group, pulling their attention from other corners of the room back to me. With every breath the room smells salty. As nerves and excitement rise, every team sweats in anticipation. Including my own.

There is a sheen across Marcello's forehead. He folds his arms over his broad chest, making the leather over his body squeak. He blinks slowly before he responds. "Rope."

"You're going to kill someone with rope?" I snort. "What are you going to do? Set a trap and hope they hang themselves in it? Saints. What about you?" I point to the rest of the group.

Hedda answers first. "My gun. Obviously."

"Axe," Sloane grins.

"Bow and arrow set." Finnegan leans into his wife. Neither of them are in the excessively formal attire I’ve seen them in thus far. No, they've traded the luxurious outfits for brown colored pants and skin tight black tops. Sloane's long blonde hair is pulled back in a smooth tight ponytail that dangles from the top of her head. Together they look just as dangerous as the stories Marcello told. They look at me when they talk, but not really. Their eyes are everywhere, bouncing from face to face and door to door.

I shift to look at Juilliard who watches the announcer without a word. "What about you? Bring a life preserver in case we need to swim?"

Juilliard looks to me, but doesn't answer. He mocks Marcello's pose and crosses his arms. Tension cords in his jaw as he stubbornly watches me back.

"Are you not talking to me now? Is this supposed to be a punishment or something?" I say under my breath. In the back of my mind I'm reminded of the dose of embarrassment last night had given me. I push it down and force myself not to think about it.

"You spit on me." He scowls.

"You didn't believe me when I said that I didn't ask to get my blood sucked from my body. And you threatened to punch me!"

"As if you wouldn't have hit me back." Juilliard rolls his eyes.

"Stop," Marcello groans, drawing the word out.

It's too late for his warning though. Other teams have turned at the sound of our bickering and are watching, as if we're about to be their prey. With a wave of his hand, Marcello ignores their lingering stares.

"We keep Nilsa close." Marcello lowers his voice, making our team step and lean in a little closer. "When that wall lifts and the Games begin, not only are the other teams looking for an easy target, but after your," he narrows his gaze on me, "little spat with the king, I don't doubt that he has found a way to make this particularly hard on you. On all of us. We all go into this together alive. We all come out together alive. Deal?"

"You don't need to babysit me." My mouth falls open. I'm astonished that he is even suggesting it.

"Shut up for once, Nilsa." Marcello sighs.