Page 90 of Games Untold (The Inheritance Games #5)

Chapter 1

L ess than a month after officially becoming the world’s youngest billionaire, I woke up on December first to find my sister standing in the doorway to my bedroom, a black velvet Santa hat on her head and a cupcake in her hand.

“’Tis the season,” Libby greeted. The cupcake was piled high with cream-colored icing and topped with a miniature gingerbread house.

I peeled back the corner of my covers.

Libby took the unspoken invitation, climbed into my bed, and lifted the cupcake toward my mouth. “Gingerbread,” she told me. “With honey cream cheese frosting.”

I took a bite and moaned, then went in for a second nibble, carefully eating around the tiny gingerbread house, which appeared to have…

“A teeny-tiny gumdrop graveyard,” Libby confirmed, grinning. “Merry Christmas! And speaking of Christmas, someone—maybe multiple someones —decorated the House last night.”

House, capital H . “Why does that sound like a warning?” I said.

“The use of mistletoe is… spirited.” Libby was clearly aiming for diplomacy.

“Spirited?” I repeated.

“And creative. And… aggressive.”

I read between the lines. “Jameson and Nash booby-trapped this entire forty-thousand-square-foot mansion with mistletoe, didn’t they?”

“You say booby-trapped…” Right on cue, Jameson Hawthorne appeared in the doorway, his hair mussed. “I say Christmas at Hawthorne House is a contact sport.” He gave me all of two seconds to process that, and then he tossed something at me.

I caught it—a small silver orb. The moment I closed my hand around it, the ball’s metal shell began to shift and rotate, revealing a digital timer underneath.

That timer was counting down.

“Ummmm…” Libby looked up, somewhat alarmed. “What’s it counting down to?”

Jameson leaned against the doorframe. “Secret Santa. We’re drawing names today. Great Room. In…” He nodded toward the tiny clockwork marvel in my hand. “One hour, twelve minutes, and seventeen seconds.”

Jameson’s lips twisted into a familiar smile. That smile was trouble. The good kind.

“What’s the catch, Hawthorne?” I slipped out of bed and began to make my way toward him.

“It is possible,” Jameson allowed, “that Hawthorne Secret Santa has a few additional rules.”