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  Then something else fell out, on a different kind of paper. The writing, too, was different. Inkier, hastier. The words they contained made her freeze with a different kind of fear.

  Behind you.

  The door behind her slammed closed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Breakthrough

  She knew who was behind her without turning around. Even so, she jumped, nearly knocking over the bedside lamp with the moth-eaten shade.

  Gavin.

  The flickering light made his angular features look even more menacing and a cold chill seemed to emanate from his body, though that could also be attributed to the draft from the door slamming shut so quickly.

  For a moment, neither of them moved, his posture threatening and hers defensively wary. She hated the way her heart seized when she looked up from the lamp she was steadying with a shaking hand and saw him smile, because it wasn't entirely due to fear. The villains were always ugly in books and movies. Necessarily so, it seemed. Because if they were attractive—if their looks matched their charm and their cunning—they wouldn't only be dangerous.

  They would be irresistible.

  She drew in an unsteady breath and took a step back, cursing herself for such thoughts. He matched her retreat with a step forward, letting his folded arms fall to his sides. His face was intent; this was part of the thrill, after all. Better to chase prey that was aware of its pursuit, because fear would make it run faster and fight harder.

  And he loves a good chase.

  (Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose)

  Everything had changed; nothing had changed.

  “What do you want now?” Val tried to sound defiant, hostile. It came out sounding like a wretched plea.

  His eyes shuttered. She watched his weight shift forward, as if he were considering closing the distance between them, and then back again as he relaxed into another one of his lackadaisical poses. But not slouching—never slouching. She had never caught him with his head down. His eyes were watchful, though, regarding her thoughtfully, the way one might look upon a painting, as if he might find some sort of elaborate symbolism there.

  The porcelain resisted beneath her trembling hand. She was still holding onto the lamp; it felt like the base might just snap in her hands. Val thought she might snap, too, if she was left with nothing solid to hold onto, left to deal with the figure from her nightmares…alone.

  “You needn't look at me like that. I'm not going to attack you.” Val went rigid and the smile became a sultry grin. “I might bite you a little, though.”

  Val opened her mouth to repeat her question, then immediately thought better of it. “Stay away from me,” she warned, stepping back. “D-don't come any closer.”

  “I don't see how I can resist. Not when you look at me with those fear-filled eyes.”

  She tightened her hand around the neck of the lamp and hurled it at him—it happened so quickly, she was barely aware of doing it, blinded as she was by the rage and fear that bubbled through her like champagne. He dropped to the floor, throwing up his arm to protect his face as the lamp shattered against the closed door, raining porcelain and glass against his back.

  In the small space between them, the crash sounded like thunder. Did one of the others hear it? She remembered the muffling effects of the wall. Probably not.

  He took off his white jacket and cravat, tossing both on the ground rather than merely brushing them off. His eyes were as sharp and hard as the gleaming pieces that surrounded him. Val took another step back automatically at that look. She had seen it once before—a cold, determined look incapable of mercy.

  “Well. To what do I owe such a violent reception?”

  Val jumped when her posterior come into contact with the edge of the bed. Trapped. She dug her hands into the comforter, bracing herself. “I—” She moistened her dry lips and his eyes followed the movement. Her heart thudded in her chest and her blood seemed to turn to heavy sludge in her veins. “I hate you,” she said. “I wish you were in jail. I wish you were—”

  “Dead?” He smiled thinly.

  “You've been spreading rumors about me. Lies. To your team.” She made herself look him in the eyes. They were even more intimidating in the light—pale, blueless gray, with motes of darker gray and gold caught in the iris. Beautiful eyes, she thought. Deadly eyes. Tigers had eyes like that. So did serpents. “To Jason,” she added, viciously. “That we—that is…you…”

  “Yes?” he said. Softly. Dangerously.

  Her heart gave another warning stutter. But she couldn't bring herself to say it. Because Val wasn't entirely sure what it was. All she knew was that Jason had somehow gotten the impression that she and GM had some kind of—well, physical—relationship.

  And it's not like I can refute it, either, because they'll ask for proof. I know they will. I can't give it without telling the truth—

  Because though the truth might set her free, it would imprison her friends in her stead.

  “Son of a bitch,” she hissed, her anger momentarily overcoming her fear. “You tricked me.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That's why you wanted me to keep the truth a secret. You knew someone would find out—” Val sneaked a look at his face. It betrayed no outrage or indignation, only mild amusement. “What did you say to him?”

  “You're acting hysterical, Val.”

  “What did you say to Jason?”

  “Just look at yourself.” He stepped closer to catch her by the chin, and their bodies brushed. “On the edge of the abyss, one push away from madness.” Val leaned away from him, bracing her weight against her arms to keep from falling back against the bed. GM smiled and leaned closer, until she was suspended at an uncomfortably obtuse angle above the mattress on shaking arms.

  “The only one here who's crazy is you.”

  “That means you're trapped with a madman, my dear. A psychopath.” He drew out the word. “Your friend saw the fatal flaw in that line of reasoning far more quickly than you.” At her expression, he said, “Mm-hmm. She's a clever girl, your Lisa. She suspects something is going on, though she isn't quite sure what. You're going to have to avoid her, if you wish for our little agreement to remain valid. And I am certain you wouldn't want her to see you in this position.” He pushed down, hard, using his weight to buckle her arms and knock her into a supine sprawl. “Who knows what wild conclusions she might leap to?”

  His fingers wrapped around her throat like a collar.

  “No, you had better hope that I am—” he drew in a breath “—the very flower of sanity. If only for your friend's sake. Don't you agree?”

  She couldn't breathe; she was forced to back up, to slacken his grip, sliding against his body and even more firmly into his embrace. His scent, his very presence—all of it was overwhelming. She had to close her eyes to keep from going into sensory overload, from her mind spinning off its axis and out of control. When she was able to look at him again, his face was inches from hers.

  “Don't you agree?”

  “No.”

  “No?” he repeated, tasting the word, and the defiance of it. “My, but you are determined to vilify me, aren't you? Well. That is a role I can play very well.”

  “Not a role,” Val gasped. She tried to twist away, but his hand was like a vise around her throat. “Real.”

  Gavin shook his head, letting his free hand trail down her face and she realized that her cheeks were wet with tears. “Don't play with things you don't understand. They might play back, perhaps far better than you.” He loosened his collar, then, undoing the buttons halfway as dexterously with one hand as many were with both. “So. Let's play.”

  And then he kissed her.

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  Charlie gripped the black knight until its base formed a reddish imprint in the palm of her hand and her fingers began to ache in dull protest. She paid them no mind. The ache inside was far worse, more bitter than sweet, and tinged with anger as she wat
ched the two fumble on the bed.

  Val had said herself that she wasn't interested in GM, that she already had a boyfriend, so just what the hell did she call this? Hypocritical little slut. She obviously just wanted him for herself.

  Not that Charlie could really blame her. Well, yes, she could—and did—but she understood the rationale behind it. Because he truly was something else. She stared at him unabashedly, at his half-buttoned shirt, at the tangled dark hair on his chest. Was he that hairy all over his body? He growled softly at Val, tightening his grip on her throat as he bit her lip.

  She could have stormed in, made a big scene, and humiliated Val to boot. That alone might have been worth it, seeing the expression on the bitch's face. She could have, but she didn't. It simply wasn't her style.

  Her parents were notoriously absentee during her childhood, so she spent the vast majority of it under the care of her grandfather—an avid sportsman whose one goal in life, it seemed, was to shoot an animal on every continent. Sometimes he would take her and her twin brother with him. Charlie had enjoyed these outings, though she had been loathe to go into her grandfather's study where he kept his trophies for fear that the animals would suddenly come to life, glass eyes sparkling with a terrible vengeance, and consume her whole.

  But if her grandfather had taught her one thing, it was that the most difficult things to achieve were often the most worthwhile. The fact that he had illustrated this lesson with a lecture about a particularly ferocious Siberian tiger he'd killed in the taiga made it no less pertinent a life lesson.

  In fact, if anything, it might make it even more relevant.

  A wan smile crossed her face as she pictured their host dropped into a cat-like crouch, crawling, on his knees. For her. The image was surprisingly easy to conjure up, and rather striking. With his dark, Roman looks and lean, muscular build, he resembled a jaguar. He was nice and tall, but didn't carry himself with the awkward slouch most boys of his sheer height adopted. Sure, he could pretend to be polite and gracious all he wanted, but nothing about him—not even his walk—denoted subservience.

  So why Val? Maybe this innocent act was just that—an act. Maybe he liked the idea of a reluctant schoolgirl. Charlie honestly couldn't see the attraction there, unless GM got off on intimidation—which, if the charming scene before her was any indication of his sexual proclivities, seemed to be the case. Really, GM? How predictable.

  GM glanced up at the door—she'd left it open—and their eyes met. She felt a thrill go through her at the sheer intensity of his expression. He broke the connection and kissed the other girl, long and hard, winding his free hand through her red hair. When we glanced up again, she could read the warning there. It pissed her off.

  But he was still glaring at her through those hooded eyes, and the thought of invoking his wrath sent a shiver down her spine of an entirely different nature. Fine, she thought, trying to convince herself that she really didn't care. Let him have the dumb slut, if that's what he wants.

  She would follow her grandfather's advice. She would wait. Charlie nearly felt cheerful when she walked away. She did not even notice the piece of paper that fluttered out of her pocket. The clue was “Queen.”

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  Like a fly that had suddenly found itself ensnared in a venomous spider's web, by the time Val detected the impending capture it was too late. She had forgotten how thorough—no, invasive—his kisses were. How, in a time that now seemed to be in another epoch, he had once kissed her so deeply that she could barely remember her own name, let alone stand.

  In the heartbeat he gave her to catch her breath, Val could make out the tartness of rose, the spiciness of sandalwood, and the musky, male scent that was inherently his. We've played this game before—and I lost.

  Val jolted into awareness when he began to unbutton her blouse. She cried out and shoved at his chest, driving a knee upward. He twisted his hips to avoid the blow and repositioned himself so her legs were being compressed by his muscular thighs. He ran his fingers lightly across her bared collarbone.

  “Don't worry. I only want to play with you a little.”

  Her belly corkscrewed traitorously. Not this again.

  She grabbed his throat, trying to hook her fingers around his necklace. He made a sharp noise as his air supply was abruptly closed off. He grabbed at her hands, collapsing against her in the process as his weight was no longer mediated by the bracing of his arms. Val wheezed as two-hundred-something pounds of Gavin squeezed out what precious little air remained in her lungs. She could feel every hitch of his body as he struggled to breathe.

  He'd been so overwhelming when she was fourteen. He still was. Perhaps even more so here, at this moment, because now she knew what kinds of games men and women played in the dark.

  But in spite of all that, he's still only human.

  She tightened her grip, knotting the metal links around her knuckles to cinch it all the more tightly around his neck.

  His eyes narrowed, and he tore her hands away from the chain with much more force than necessary. She yelped as one of her fingernails caught and ripped. “All right,” he rasped, “We can play rough.”

  He kissed her again, harder, yanking the sleeves of her sweater down her arms to pin her wrists behind her back, forcing her body into an unnatural arch that bowed against his. Even if intimidation had been his original intent, his motives were quickly shifting towards the sexual.

  Their teeth clicked together as he prized her mouth open wide enough to get his tongue inside before she could bite. She kept hers firmly pressed against the floor of her mouth. She felt him smile as he levered her tongue up with his, stroking the sensitive underside in a rough caress.

  Val strained, trying to work her arms free. The best way, of course, would be to wriggle back and forth using her own momentum to slide the sweater off her hands. It would also involve rubbing herself against him, as he undoubtedly knew. She pulled back, trying to get herself clear to bite him hard and choked in mingled horror and outrage when she felt his hand slide neatly into her unbuttoned blouse.

  “You're so warm. Hot almost.” His hands were quite a bit larger than James's, rough and unfamiliar against her skin. “And your heart is beating like a little bird's wings.”

  “Stop. Please, stop.”

  “I thought I wasn't doing anything to you,” he said, his voice rough. His fingers played across the tingling surface of her skin, silencing her retort. With a satisfied smile, he turned from her mouth to her neck. She shivered when he moved down her throat, sucking on her flesh hard enough to break the delicate blood vessels that lay just beneath the surface. He gave her a searing, provocative look and moved lower, holding the fabric of her shirt aside so he could replace his fingers with his mouth. Where his lips touched, her skin caught fire. “Isn't this what you wanted?”

  Nerve endings sizzled and her brain whited out. “James.”

  His teeth bit into her flesh rather punishingly at the sound of her boyfriend's name and the resultant sensation shot like an arrow into her breast. She jerked beneath him like a fish caught on a hook. “Yes. Has James ever touched you like this, Val?”

  She nodded. She would have nodded at anything if she thought it might make him let her go.

  In response, he lifted his head with the same stately grace as a tiger and kissed her on the mouth, letting his hips mold against hers until she could feel every inch of him through her jeans. He was breathing harder now, but it did nothing to mask the cold, cruel intentness in his eyes.

  “Liar,” he said softly.

  She would have screamed at him, if not for fear that someone—James, Oh God—might hear her. Val could hardly imagine a more incriminating situation, both of them half-dressed, on a bed, the room heavy with something too dark and twisted to be mere lust. Her hands were losing feeling, and buzzed with angry numbness that mimicked the panic in her blood.

  “How would you know?”

  “I know because you're a poor liar, an
d an only slightly better kisser. He clearly hasn't had you yet. And since he hasn't yet taught you how to satisfy his own pleasures, he has undoubtedly failed to even consider yours.”

  “Shut up.” Her voice was unrecognizable to her own ears. “You're wrong.”

  “I'm never wrong.” He pushed something solid into her hand and then got to his feet, giving her the space to free herself. The cold rushed in to take his place, and she fumbled to hold her blouse closed. “I'll be outside, waiting. Once you've composed yourself, meet me there.”

  Val looked down at her palm uncertainly. She was holding a white king.

  The clue was lives.

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  Lisa disentangled a spiderweb from her long blond hair with a shudder of disgust.

  “Here,” Blake offered, carefully removing the wispy thread. “It's just a web. There's no spider.”

  “Like that matters,” Lisa said sourly. “It's still sticky and creepy and disgusting.”

  Blake shrugged, allowing the web to fall to the ground. “For the spider, it's home.”

  It had been Lisa's idea to go upstairs. They had already cleaned the downstairs rooms of their chess pieces—the ones they could find, anyway—and Lisa wasn't about to let the menfolk make all the decisions. Plus, she was hoping to get a peek at GM's bedroom, if only to get some sort of glimpse into their mysterious host's personality. She was starting to rue her decision.

  “I'm going back downstairs,” James announced.

  “Why?” Lisa looked up from the door she was trying. “You afraid of the creepy-crawlies, too?”

  “Gonna look for Val,” he muttered. Lisa watched him go with a silent shake of her head.

  “That probably isn't a bad idea,” Blake remarked. “She's been gone an awfully long time.”

  Lisa slammed her shoulder against the door. “What is wrong with this thing?”

  “It's locked, Lisa,” Blake said, in a reasonable voice she didn't care for. “Let's try another.”