Page 11 of Wicked Games (Silvercrest U #1)

FELIX

It feels like my brain is trying to pound its way out of my skull as I drag my ass across my room and face-plant on my bed.

I’ve spent most of the day buried under the covers and trying to shut out the world, but there’s only so long someone can ignore their full bladder before they risk making a mess in their sheets.

And after everything that’s gone down in the last twenty-four hours, I refuse to piss my bed like a toddler.

I don’t remember a lot of what happened last night, not after I got to the pool, at least, but the one part that’s crystal clear is when Killian found me lying on the floor of the bathroom.

I really wish my temporary amnesia covered that part of the night because my interaction with my stepbrother is confusing me as much as the fact that someone tried to kill me.

He was so…nice, and the protectiveness he showed is fucking with me way more than I want to admit.

Killian doesn’t like me, and I don’t like him, but instead of leaving me to languish on the floor, he helped me. And he took care of me in his own Killian way.

I had no clue what to do with that. He could have just dragged my ass to my bed and left me to fend for myself, but he didn’t.

He asked what happened, actually listened instead of brushing me off as a liar, and he believed me.

Then there’s the whole thing where he checked my head injury and told me I was his.

I didn’t choose this, and I don’t want you here, but you are. That means you’re mine, and I always defend what’s mine .

Did he mean that, or was it the booze and whatever else I could smell on him last night talking? He went to a party at King House, and they’re notorious for their illicit party favors. He definitely had more in his system than just liquor last night.

Or maybe I’m remembering things wrong and that entire conversation was some sort of concussion dream. Maybe he only got me back to bed and there was no talking or checking injuries or assurances that he believed me and he’d find who tried to hurt me because I matter.

But I don’t matter, not really. He said an attack on me is an attack on him, not that he gives a shit that someone tried to off me. He’s only insulted because my mom married into his family, and the Hawthorne men are obsessed with protecting their inner circles.

He doesn’t give a shit about me or my well-being. He’s just pissed someone fucked with something he considers his.

Groaning, I roll onto my back and stare up at the ornately carved ceiling and ridiculous chandelier hanging over my bed.

I have no idea what time it is, but my rumbling stomach tells me it’s at least the afternoon. I should try to eat something, but I barely made it to the bathroom without passing out. There’s no way I can make it to the dining hall.

And even if I could, I doubt I’d be able to keep anything down right now. I’m hungry, but I also feel like I’m going to puke if I move too fast or try to do more than lay on my back like an invalid.

There’s a sharp rap on my door.

“Yeah?” I call and wince as my own voice hurts my head. “It’s open.”

I almost do a double take when the door swings open and William steps inside wearing a latex French maid costume complete with over-the-knee heeled boots, a little white lace cap, and a tiny skirt with a slit up the side.

I’m so distracted by his outfit it takes a second for me to notice the tray clutched in his hands.

“Yeah?” I ask when I find my voice.

“Killian sent me,” he says, his voice monotone and his expression as icy as the Arctic.

I can only stare as he hobbles into the room, pausing near the coffee table. He’s wearing chunky heels, but they’re at least three inches, and he’s obviously not used to them. “Do you want this here or over there?”

“What’s that?” I ask, still completely taken aback by his outfit.

Is this a punishment for something? It has to be, right? Why else would he be wearing it?

“Food,” he says like I’m a simpleton.

“Food?” I ask, basically proving his assumptions.

“Yeah.” He looks between the coffee table and my bed. “Do you want it here, or over there?” he repeats.

“Here,” I say, still not fully registering what’s happening.

He wobbles over, and the creaking of the latex costume grows louder the closer he gets.

“Killian sent you?” I ask as he sets the tray on my bedside table.

He nods.

I glance at it. On it is a silver thermos, a brown paper bag full of something, two large bottles of water, and a plate stacked with buttered toast.

“Do you need anything else? He told me to get you whatever you need.”

I blink at him. What the hell is going on? Is this part of Killian’s whole “I protect what’s mine” thing? Or is this just some weird stepbrother obligation, and he’s only doing this to make sure he doesn’t get in trouble for letting me starve to death?

“Do you?” he asks, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Need anything,” he clarifies when I don’t immediately answer.

“No,” I say automatically.

He pulls a phone out of the pocket in his frilly white apron and hands it to me.

“What’s this? And don’t say a phone. I mean, why are you giving it to me?”

He shrugs. “No clue. Killian told me to give it to you, so I’m giving it to you.”

Absently, I run my thumb over the smooth surface of the screen.

“You good?” he asks.

I nod.

Without another word, he leaves the room, ankles buckling as he teeters on the heels.

When he’s gone, I look between the phone and the tray of food, my muddled brain swimming with questions.

I’m obviously not going to get any answers now, so I put the phone down and scoot closer to my bedside table. The smell of the buttered toast doesn’t make my stomach roil, and it’s only then I realize how thirsty I am.

Carefully, I pick up the tray. The waters and thermos wobble precariously, but I manage to set it on my lap without spilling anything.

After uncapping one of the waters, I lift the bottle to my lips and take a tentative sip. It’s cool, but not cold, and the relief is instant as it slides down my throat, soothing the ache still lingering from last night.

When I’ve had a few more sips, I cap the water to make sure I don’t make a mess in my bed and pick up a slice of warm toast. I take a cautious bite, prepared to spit it out if my stomach revolts.

It doesn’t, and I take another bite as I peek into the bag. Inside is an assortment of snacks, including a granola bar, a few different brands of protein bars, an apple, a bag of mixed nuts, and a wrapped pastry.

Curiously, I pull the pastry out. It’s a date square from the dining hall.

I stare at it, not quite sure what to think.

The date squares are the only desserts I eat here, but that’s a me thing, not a measure of the cooking talents of the house chefs.

I’ve never been big on sweets, and I hate the taste of chocolate, but date squares are one of the few desserts I’ve enjoyed since I was a kid.

Shaking my head, I put it back in the bag. It’s a coincidence. The squares are a staple at the dining hall and one of the only desserts they make that’s portable. It’s only in the bag because it’s easy, not because anyone knows they’re my favorite.

The last thing I check is the thermos, and instead of the coffee I’m expecting, I find soup. Or at least broth.

I pour a little into the silver cup of the thermos and take a sip. The broth is thin and plain looking, but it’s warm and savory, and a burst of salt and spices fills my senses along with a sense of comfort as the warm liquid helps coat my sore throat.

It’s bone broth.

Does Killian know I like to drink bone broth instead of coffee in the mornings? Or is this another coincidence and whoever made the tray added it because soup is a normal thing to give someone who’s sick or injured?

Rolling my eyes at myself, I take another sip of the broth. It’s not like Killian put this tray together or had any hand in it other than telling William to bring it to me. Nothing on the tray means anything, and I need to stop looking for things that aren’t there.

I’m just finishing up the toast when the door swings open and Killian walks in.

“You’re still alive,” he comments and sweeps his eyes over me like he’s checking to make sure I’m still in one piece.

“For now, I am. Thanks.” I point at the tray.

He shrugs. “What happened to your bag?”

“My bag?”

“Last night. You had your bag when you went to the pool, but not when you left.”

“I don’t know. It was gone when I finally got the lights on.”

“But they left your clothes?”

I nod. “They weren’t in the bag, so maybe that’s why?”

“Could be. What was in it?” He comes to stand next to my bed.

“Not a lot. My phone, a spare towel, my earbuds, and a notebook,” I say, mentally rummaging through the bag.

“Not your ID or your keys?”

I shake my head. “They were in my shorts.”

He hums thoughtfully.

“Do you think that’s why they took my bag?” I ask. “Because they were after my ID?”

“It makes sense. If they had your ID and phone, then you would have been stuck in the pool until someone noticed you were missing and went looking for you. Did you see them go toward the chairs before the lights went off?”

I shake my head. “I didn’t see much of anything. I was too busy trying not to drown.”

He nods, looking big and intimidating as he looms over me.

Usually that would get my hackles up, but right now it’s comforting to not be alone.

“Did you see anything on the cameras?” I ask, not liking the warmth spreading out from my belly.

He shakes his head. “We got hacked.”

“Hacked?”

He nods grimly. “And whoever did it is on campus.”

“They are?” I ask, my voice higher than usual.

I have no idea why, but knowing there’s a hacker skilled enough to fuck with the Rebels’ system walking around campus is just as terrifying as knowing someone tried to kill me.