Page 8 of His Twisted Game

Odd.

And now, my father was dead. The Feldman Farm was mine.

As the new leader, I had gotten rid of the archaic rituals my father held onto, like the Feldman Trial, in which sons competed for the leadership role, and the Feldman Offering, where we sacrificed our wives. Not because I didn’t enjoy a little murder, but because I had my own games to play. Twisted, personal games. Games that could break a person’s sense of self, a condition that was worse than death.

My fingers twitched around those old dice, begging to roll them again, my eyes scanning the ballroom. Finding the staircase, I walked up to the balcony, which had a view of the drop-off point. I tossed the dice between my hands as Fiona Ross’s old car rolled through the parking lot. She stepped out of the vehicle, her shiny brown hair bouncing, a fake smile on her face, not a real care in the world. A tingling warmth filled my head. It was time to play a new game.

Footsteps tapped on the floor behind me.

“She’s arrived,” one of my men said. “Should we watch her, sir?”

When it came to Fiona, I preferred to watch her myself.

“I’ll be down in a minute,” I said.

An even number, and she’d walk away. An odd number, and I’d lock her into my game tonight.

Even.

She pulled a jacket tighter around her body and I smirked to myself.

She was still free. For now.

CHAPTER 2

Fiona

I handed over my keys to the valet, wishing him a silent ‘good luck’ as I pulled the oversized coat closed around my ripped pink dress. At least I kept a backup in my purse. Plain black dresses meant you were ready for anything: a job interview or a random night out on the town. Or, yes, an anniversary party for your middle sister and her husband. You always had to have another plan when things went wrong.

I snuck into the ballroom, immediately spotting a discreet set of doors to the bathroom. Three stalls, the first one occupied. I went to the back one and grunted as I inched myself out of the mini dress, trying to stay balanced in my heels.

The other toilet flushed, then the faucet ran. I hopped on one leg to get into the black ruched dress but tripped, bumping into the wall.

“Ow,” I muttered.

“Fi?”

I stilled. Someone I knew actually heard me in here?

“Are you hiding again?” the woman asked.

I tensed. That voice. How was she already here?

“Bambi?” I asked.

“Guilty.”

“I thought you were at The Trap?”

“Got the night off.” She switched off the faucet, but neither of us moved. “Do you need any help in there?”

I sighed deeply. “Just having a wardrobe malfunction.”

“Let me help.”

I didn’t wantanyoneto see me like this, including someone who wanted tohelpme. I straightened the fabric. “I’m good,” I said.

“Let me see you.”