Page 1 of Twisted Play (Cruel Games #1)

EVA

“Stop!” I threw myself at the men dragging my father across our living room, wrapping myself around a thick, tattooed arm, as if I had a shot in hell of slowing their progress. “Please, you have to stop.”

The sour smell of beer lingered on my father’s clothes, mixing with the sharp copper from his bloody nose—a familiar combination that brought back memories of nights spent cleaning up after his binges, of promises to do better.

“Eva,” my father rasped, every breath labored from his broken, bloody nose. “Don’t, please.”

“The fuck I won’t!” I snapped, digging in my heels. I’d spent too many years watching him destroy himself, cleaning up his messes—messes that were my fault —to watch him back down now. My father had given up everything to save me. Now, it was my turn to save him.

The man I clutched at shoved me backward, sending me flying onto the couch. His eyes met mine, terrifying and cold, dark pits slashing against his skin. “Stay out of this, little girl.” His voice was no less cruel for its quiet.

“What do you want?” I cried, although deep in my gut, I already knew. It always came back to my father’s gambling—gambling he’d only taken up to pay for my medical care.

My fault.

He snorted and looked at my father, held up by his shoulders between two enormous men. “Do you want to tell her, or shall I?”

My father hung his head, refusing to look at me.

“Dad, what’s going on?” My voice rose as panic shivered up my spine. My father’s gambling addiction had gotten him in trouble before—had gotten us in trouble before—but this was the first time the violence had entered our home.

“Eva, I’m so sorry,” my father whispered.

The man who’d spoken to me earlier laughed cruelly. “You’re sorry? You owe a million dollars to Jed Carter, and all you can say to your kid is that you’re sorry?”

“We don’t have time for this,” the second man snapped.

The first man, with the cruel eyes, looked me up and down, his gaze hot on my curves. “Maybe we can work out a deal.”

“When was the money due? Maybe…maybe I could help pay it?” As if food, rent, and transportation to and from Yorkfield University once the semester started didn’t leave me with no more than a couple of dollars to spend every month.

My savings were slight—I’d hoped to fix our water heater as the weather got colder.

The men laughed, their amusement malicious in the face of my desperation. “It was due six months ago.”

Six months ago was when—my hand flew to my face. Oh no. My surgery . Oh no .

A memory surfaced—Dad at the hospital beside my bed, his face slack with relief when the doctors said my replacement heart valve had taken. “I’d do anything for you, sunshine,” he’d said .

Fuck. Fuck! Realization hit me like a punch to the gut. “It was—he spent it on me,” I gasped.

“Then it sounds like you need to help your father pay it back.”

My mind skittered to an abrupt halt, and horror sliced through me, icy and bitter, before I cut it off at the root. Maybe later, I’d kick myself for my inability to form a coherent thought in the face of so much fucking debt, but for now, I had to wrap my head around how to fix this.

“No,” my father moaned. “No, please, leave her out of it. I had it! I was going to pay you back but—” He looked at me, his eyes softening. For a moment, I saw the man he used to be—proud and strong, before Mom’s betrayal and my medical bills broke him. “She got sick.”

Almost absentmindedly, the man on the left swung his fist into my father’s stomach. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Stop!” I shouted. “Let him go,” I continued in a calmer tone, worried we’d both pay for my sharpness.

The man on the right smiled, and a chill seeped into my bones. “We were always going to let him go. In one piece, though? That’s up to you.”

Up to me.

It was always up to me.

A lifetime of moments flashed through my head—no, that was unfair.

My father had given me everything after my mother left us.

He’d taught me how to ice skate, dried my tears when my first crush was unkind to me, coached me through my first period, and when my heart failed me for the second time in my life in the middle of the semester last fall, he’d cobbled together enough money for open heart surgery. Somehow.

He’d saved me.

And now, I had to save him .

“Okay,” I whispered, rubbing sweaty palms on my pajama pants. “Okay. Just let me think. I’ll find the money.”

The man on the left clenched his jaw as a vein ticked on his forehead. “There aren’t a lot of ways a girl like you can earn that kind of cash quickly.”

There was only one way a girl like me could earn that kind of cash quickly, but I couldn’t let my father die.

“No,” the man with cruel eyes said. “The boss doesn’t need a whore.”

Abruptly, he let go of my father, who fell to his knees on the ground, sobbing quietly as the two men looked me over.

“You’re a student?”

I nodded.

“Studying?”

“Kinesiology. I want to be a doctor.”

“Sports medicine?”

I nodded again, terrified. He looked me over, calculating, as if he could measure my worth with a mere glance, then slid his phone out of his pocket.

“What’s your phone number?”

Barely able to breathe over my panic, I rushed out the numbers. A second later, my phone chimed in my pocket.

“Meet me at the coordinates I sent you tomorrow morning at eight.”

“I have work?—”

“Do I look like I give a fuck?”

No. He didn’t. He was extending me mercy, and I had to seize it. “Tomorrow, eight,” I whispered.

The other man kicked my father in the ribs one last time. “Do I need to tell you what the consequences of fucking this up are?”

I shook my head, desperately trying to communicate my honesty, my trustworthiness, that I would not fuck this up. I couldn’t, not after everything my father had sacrificed.

“Good.”

The slam of the door echoed in the silence of the night, leaving me and my father alone in our house.

“Dad?”

“Eva,” he murmured from the floor where he quietly sobbed. “I’m so sorry.”

I blinked hard, willing the tears away from my eyes. “No, it’s not your fault,” I whispered. It was mine . I knelt beside him, checking his injuries with clinical detachment, even as my hands shook.

“It’ll be okay,” I whispered, more to myself than to him. “I’ll fix this. I’ll fix everything.”

I had to.

What did one wear to beg a billionaire to forgive a million-dollar debt?

I stood outside the gates of the suburban estate, mentally rehearsing for the encounter, as if finding the right words could salvage this disaster.

I smoothed my hands over my cheap navy suit—too snug around the ass and too tight to button the jacket over the chest, but my usual summer uniform of denim shorts and a t-shirt wouldn’t do.

Everything about my appearance had to be perfect today.

“Can I help you?” the guard asked, barely glancing up from a tablet where he watched a sports game.

I straightened my spine and lifted my chin. “I have an appointment,” I said, proud of how steady I kept my voice despite the terror churning in my gut. But when he asked who I was meeting, I faltered. Fuck. “You know what? I’ll call him.”

My hands shook so badly, I dropped my phone. No. I wouldn’t fall apart. I could handle this the same way I always handled everything.

I picked up my phone, wiped the gravel dust off the screen the best I could with the inside of my jacket, and dialed the number from last night.

“‘Alo?”

“It’s Eva Jackson,” I said, forcing my voice to stay professional despite my racing heart. “I believe you’re expecting me.”

The line went silent, and when I looked at my phone, my heart dropped to my feet. He’d hung up. My composure cracked, but before I could try again, the gate swung open.

“Stay on the driveway,” the guard said, his attention already back on the game.

Gravel crunched beneath my cheap flats, rocks digging into the thin soles with every step. Sweat poured down my face in the summer sun, and I winced at the picture I’d make when I arrived at the doorstep, face red, hair disheveled, a hot mess.

The house was huge—a mansion, a fucking lordly manor on the outskirts of Yorkfield.

I took a fortifying breath and then another before tugging on the hem of my jacket to straighten it. I pulled a tissue out of my bag and did my best to repair my face, glad I’d worn minimal makeup.

The door opened before I could knock, and the same cruel eyes from last night stared out at me, as terrifying now, in the light of day, as they had been sneering at us in our threadbare living room .

He opened the door and gestured for me to enter. “Jedediah Carter is waiting for you.”

Terror rolled down my spine. I thought—I didn’t know what I’d thought.

Maybe that I was meeting with this man and not a fucking billionaire legendary for his ruthlessness.

Jedediah Carter’s sports media empire chewed up athletes for breakfast then spit them out to leave them broken and unemployable.

His sports betting apps dominated the App Store, and every team I worked with suspected he was manipulating games to increase his profits.

Silently, I followed behind the enormous man with the cruel eyes, not quite succeeding at hiding my awe at the immense wealth displayed in the house.

Sports memorabilia lined the entrance hall—signed jerseys, hockey sticks, framed magazine covers featuring players I didn’t recognize.

A wall of Emmy awards glinted beside Stanley Cup photos.

My eyes narrowed. No photos of the Frozen Four? His son played for Yorkfield University, but there wasn’t a hint of Yorkfield U memorabilia.

Sweat dripped down my back, sending shivers over my flesh as it evaporated under the icy air conditioning, bringing me back to the present.

The man opened an ornate wooden door, revealing a starkly modern room dominated by a wall of screens, each displaying different content—sports, news broadcasts, and stock tickers.

“In you go,” he murmured.

I squared my shoulders, steeling myself, then stepped past him and into the room.