Twisted Games (Twisted 2)

Rhys

Someone once saidhell was other people.

They were right.

Specifically, hell was watching other people swan around an ice rink, drinking hot chocolate and making googly eyes at each other like they were in the middle of a goddamn Hallmark movie.

It wasn’t even Christmas season, for fuck’s sake. It was worse.

It was Valentine’s Day.

A muscle flexed in my jaw as Bridget’s laughter floated over, joined by Steffan’s deeper laugh, and the urge to murder someone—someone male with blond hair and a name that began with S—intensified.

What was so fucking hilarious, anyway?

I couldn’t imagine anything being that funny, least of all something Steffan the Saint said.

Bridget and Steffan shouldn’t even be on a date right now. It was only four days after her birthday ball. Who the hell went on a date with someone they met four days ago? There should be background checks. Red tape. Twenty-four-seven surveillance to make sure Steffan wasn’t secretly a psycho killer or adulterer.

Princesses shouldn’t go on a date until there was at least a year’s worth of data to comb through, in my opinion. Five years, to be on the safe side.

Unfortunately, my opinion meant jack shit to the royal family, which was how I found myself at Athenberg’s biggest ice-skating rink, watching Bridget smile up at Steffan like he’d cured world hunger.

He said something that made her laugh again, and his grin widened. He brushed a stray strand of hair out of her face, and my hand twitched toward my gun. Maybe I would’ve pulled it, had reporters not packed the rink, snapping pictures of Bridget and Steffan, recording on their cameras, and live-tweeting the date like it was an Olympic event.

“They make such a cute couple,” the reporter next to me, a curvy brunette in a bright pink suit that hurt my eyes, cooed. “Don’t you think so?”

“No.”

She blinked, clearly surprised by my curt response. “Why not? Do you have something against his lordship?”

I could practically see her salivating at the prospect of a juicy story.

“I’m staff,” I said. “I have no opinions about my employer’s personal life.”

“Everyone has opinions.” The reporter smiled, reminding me of a shark circling in the water. “I’m Jas.” She held out her hand. I didn’t take it, but that didn’t deter her. “If you think of an opinion…or anything else…” A suggestive note crept into her voice. “Give me a call.”

She pulled a business card out of her purse and tucked it into my hand. I almost let it fall to the floor, but I wasn’t that much of an asshole, so I merely pocketed it without looking at it.

Jas’s cameraman said something to her in German, and she turned away to answer him.

Good. I couldn’t stand nosy people or small talk. Besides, I was busy—busy trying not to kill Steffan.

I’d run a background check on him before today’s date, and on paper, he was fucking perfect. The son of the Duke of Holstein, one of the most powerful men in Eldorra, he was an accomplished equestrian who spoke six languages fluently and graduated top of his class from Harvard and Oxford, where he studied political science and economics. He had a well-established record of philanthropy and his last relationship with an Eldorran heiress ended on amicable terms after two years. Based on my interactions with him so far, he seemed friendly and genuine.

I hated him.

Not because he grew up in a life of privilege, but because he could freely touch Bridget in public. He could take her ice skating, make her laugh, and brush her hair out of her eye, and no one would blink an eye.

Meanwhile, all I could do was stand there and watch, because women like Bridget weren’t meant for men like me.

“You’ll never amount to anything, you little piece of shit,” Mama slurred, her eyes mean and hateful as she glared at me. “Look atcha. Useless and scrawny. I should’ve gotten rid of you when I had the chance.”

I stayed quiet. The last time I talked back, she beat me so hard with her belt I’d bled through my shirt and couldn’t sleep on my back for weeks. I’d learned the best way to handle her bad moods was to hope she eventually forgot I was there. That usually happened after she was halfway through whatever bottle she was drinking.

“If it wasn’t for you, I’d be out of this stinkin’ town by now.”

Resentment poured off her in waves. Mama stood by the table, wearing her faded pink robe and chain-smoking a cigarette. Her cheeks were pale and sunken, and even though she was only in her late twenties, she could pass for her forties.

I tucked my hands beneath my arms and tried to shrink into myself while she continued to rant. It was Friday night. I hated Friday nights because it meant I had an entire weekend of just Mama and me.

“Waste of space…nothing like your father…are you listening to me, you piece of shit?”

I stared at the cracks in the floor until they blurred together. One day, I would get out of here. Somehow, some way.

“I said, are you listening to me?” Mama grabbed my shoulders and shook me so hard my teeth rattled. “Look at me when I’m talking to you, boy!” She backhanded me so hard I stumbled, the pain making my ears ring.

My body twisted, and I saw it coming, but I didn’t have time to brace myself before the corner of the dining table smashed into my head and everything went black.

I blinked, and the smell of old spaghetti sauce and vodka faded, replaced by that of fresh ice and Jas’s overpowering perfume.

Bridget and Steffan skated over, and the cameras went crazy.