Page 9 of Twisted Little Game

“I could break your wrist in a snap,” I tell him. “Are you aware of that?”

“I am.”

Hazel, I think finally, when the flashing light briefly holds bright enough for me to get a better look at his eyes.

That’s what his eye color is.

Green, flecked with gold.

And I’m momentarily distracted, enough that I don’t notice when Tate reaches back with his other arm.

His fist hits the side of my head in a cheap shot.

Searing pain blooms outward from my temple, radiating through my skull.

Fuck.

You got me, goddamnit.

My vision goes red, then white, then dims to the light of the party again. When my grip on Tate falters, just for a moment, he slips from my grasp.

He drops the shard of bloody glass to the floor before he turns and runs off through the crowd.

2

Tate

Holy fucking fuck, I actually did it.

The six-five slab of Russian muscle broke, just for a moment, and I got away.

I swore I was about to die.

The death threats I’ve been getting don’t actually seem believable, but when I looked up into that motherfucker’s face, I knew he could kill me if he wanted to.

He’s not my stalker, though… I don’t think.

Did seem pretty interested in me, though.

I push my way through the party, holding my bloody hand against my chest. It hurts so bad. Like a bitch, still stinging every time I move it. I get a few sideways looks, but the deeper I get into the crowd, students are too busy dancing, drinking, and making out to notice me making my way through.

Blood doesn’t show against my black tank top, either.

Lucky me.

When I reach the kitchen, I grab a wad of paper towels and wrap them around my palm, pressing them tight against the gashes on my hand.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter under my breath, my words inaudible in the reverberating music.

My vision darts across the available bottles of liquor.

I grab a random handle from the long rows of bottles laid out on the countertop, pour some brown liquid into a red plastic cup, and take it like a big shot.

Some sort of sweetened whiskey hits my tongue. A little gross, but it does the job.

I take another gulp, looking up at the giant wooden beams that line the tall ceilings in the kitchen. Even in here, this place looks like a Victorian mansion from a goddamn movie.

It’s gorgeous.