My finger slowly brushed the trigger.
She knew the rules of the game.
Twenty-Four
Blair
I kept wakingup somewhere new.
My bed. Cold concrete. A random room with an IV in my arm.
And now,here.
The moment I looked around, I knew exactly where I was.
Enzo’s room.
A soft glow from the lamp on the desk against the back wall lit the space, and a kaleidoscopic beam of gray spilled across the opposite wall from the stained-glass windows.
Above me, dark depictions of Greek gods covered the ceiling. I’d missed that detail the last time I was here.
When I pushed myself up for a better look at the books stacked on his desk, a sharp tug stopped me. I looked down at the handcuff locked around my wrist. The metal bit into my skin when I pulled against it.
My arm fell limp in defeat. I shifted my hips and slid back against the headboard until I was propped upright.
Hardly comfortable, I read the spines of the books while I tried to learn more about Enzo.
The Castle of Otranto, The Fall of the House of Usher, Crime and Punishment,andMacbeth.
All very fitting for him.
My heart rate slowed as I pictured Enzo in this bed, lost in the pages of one of those books. The thought lingered, then twisted into a vision of both of us here, side by side, buried in separate stories.
I shook my head.
Stop it, Blair.
Whatever they’d drugged me with during Initiation had to still be in my system. It was the only explanation for such a stupid thought when the man had literally held a gun to my head the night before.
The click of a door broke my thoughts.
Enzo emerged through a doorway, hair dripping with water, chest bare, a white towel slung low around his waist.
My eyes betrayed me, lifting straight to his chest before tracing the hard lines of his muscles.
Why does he have to look like the Greek gods on that ceiling?
I snapped out of my daze, my attention shifting to the other door, the one that offered escape from him.
Surely, he wouldn’t chase me down wearing only a towel, right?
“Morning, Blair,” he greeted, his voice deep and calm.
My mind flashed back to last night.
The game. The revolver pressed to my temple. Me waiting to die. His finger grazing the trigger but never pulling it.
When he’d cornered me in that booth, my heart had been ready to burst from my chest. I’d silently prayed and braced for death, but after several seconds passed without the gun firing, I’d opened my eyes.
