Page 35 of Wicked Games (Silvercrest U #1)

FELIX

I check my phone to see if Eden texted me back for what feels like the thousandth time. I also look at the time and mentally curse when I see only two minutes have passed since the last time I checked.

It’s almost eleven, and the party has been in full swing for nearly two hours. I’ve spent the entire time trying to calm the fuck down, but I can’t.

I’ve texted Eden a half dozen times, but she’s either busy at home or not allowed to use her phone because my texts haven’t even been read.

I’ve also tried listening to podcasts, putting on some music, reading, and watching videos on my computer. Each of those activities lasted a few minutes before I shut them down because I’m too restless to sit still, let alone focus on anything.

A loud thud just outside the room catches my attention. I jump off my bed, hurry over to the heavy wooden door, and press my ear against it.

I can make out voices, but not what they’re saying or even what gender the speakers are.

Is that one of the guys on the floor bringing someone to their room?

I thought the whole point of the party was to do all that stuff out in the open.

The masks, the strict dress code, the stripping away of any sort of discernible features, it’s all to create a sense of anonymity and uniformity that makes people more willing to do things they’d normally hide because no one will know who they are.

That’s all bullshit because covering half your face and not being recognizable only works in movies or operas. Plus, with the guest list being so selective, it wouldn’t be hard to figure out who’s who if you tried.

Would Killian bring someone to his room if I weren’t here? Or does he prefer to do everything out in the open and let whoever wants to watch? I’d bet money he’s more of an out in the open type. Unless it’s me. Then everything has to be kept on the DL.

The scent of overly floral perfume fills my nose, and I back away from the door as I’m assaulted by a crush of mental pictures of Killian and some faceless chick doing all the things one would do at a drug-fueled sex party.

Something in my chest twists, and my stomach goes sour as I fight off the images. It doesn’t even feel like I’m jealous anymore. It’s darker than that, uglier, and so strong it’s like a punch to the gut as more of those damn mental pictures invade my thoughts.

I spent most of today wandering around campus and trying to get my head in order while the twinge in my ass reminded me of exactly what went down this morning.

I don’t regret fucking him, and I’m not embarrassed by how I acted or anything I might have said.

After everything we’ve done together, begging him to fuck me is no worse than willingly getting on my knees for him or coming all over myself because he choked me out and used his growly voice to boss me around.

It’s the same as how I don’t bother hiding that I like wearing his cum.

He knows I’m into it, and it’s not like I’m the only one.

I knew fucking him would be different from the other times I’ve had sex, but I had no idea it would affect me this much.

I don’t have a ton of experience, but every other time has been lukewarm at best. They were fine and I got off, but I didn’t spend hours or days anticipating it like I do with him.

I didn’t think about any of my previous bed partners after we were done, and never once felt the urge to hook up with them again.

They were a means to an end, exactly what Killian should have been.

I thought finally having sex with him would cure me of my obsession, but it’s made it so much worse. I don’t just want him; it’s like I need him, and I’m going crazy even thinking about him with anyone else.

I glance toward my bed and chew my lip. Should I do it?

Another thump outside my room spurs me into action, and I stalk over to my closet and yank the doors open.

Sitting on the shelf where I put them earlier is a white tee, a pair of white sweatpants, and a blank white mask I lifted from one of the art studios this afternoon.

Before I can talk myself out of this, I yank off my clothes and put on the white outfit. When I’m dressed in my party clothes, I slip on the mask and use the full-length mirror on the inside of my closet door to check myself out.

The mask is one of those blank ones that covers my entire face. The only openings on it are the small eyeholes, and the molded features blend seamlessly into the rest of the mask’s surface and make the entire thing look inhuman and creepy as fuck.

Perfect. No one will be able to tell who I am, and I shouldn’t have to worry about anyone trying to talk to me or start anything since my mouth is covered.

Satisfied with my look, I pull the mask off and close my closet doors.

Now I just have to get out of the damn room.

One thing I’ve kept under wraps from pretty much everyone is that one of my hobbies when I was in boarding school was cracking and picking locks. I’m not a pro or anything, but I can usually figure them out if I have enough time.

It doesn’t take me long to dig my picks out of my dresser, and I bring the small pouch over to the door.

The lock is a tough one, and it takes four different pick combos before I find the right one. It’s another ten minutes before I hear the satisfying click of the pins falling into place and I can finally pop the lock.

Not giving myself a chance to second-guess what I’m doing, I put my picks away and slip on my mask.

When I step out of my room, the hall is dark, only illuminated by the wall sconces and the ridiculous chandeliers, and they’re only half as bright as usual. The effect is eerie, like I stepped through a time machine and came out somewhere in a nineteenth-century Gothic mansion.

I don’t see or hear anyone in the hall, but I’m hyperaware of my surroundings. I stick close to the walls and shadows and creep toward the stairwell at the end of the hall.

My plan is to do a quick sweep of the house and see if I can find Killian, then I’ll come back to the room and pretend I never left. I just want to see what he’s up to. I have to know if he’s with someone else right now.

I don’t understand it, but I feel possessive of him. I don’t want him to look at anyone else like he looks at me, and I don’t want him to touch anyone else. Not while we’re doing whatever the fuck this is. I don’t want to share him, and that’s a big fucking problem.

I’m not supposed to feel anything for him.

Especially since he sure as fuck feels nothing for me.

I don’t know if I imprinted on him because he’s helping me find whoever is trying to kill me and I somehow developed a hero crush on him.

Or maybe all of this is because he’s the only person who’s ever made me feel anything.

Either way, I need to get over whatever this is so I can go back to the way things are supposed to be and stop caring about what he does and who he does it with.

The stairs are just as dark as the hallway, and I carefully make my way down to the main floor.

I don’t know too much about how the party works, but I overheard some other members talking about it in the dining hall earlier.

According to them, the entire building, outside of the basement, will be open for people to roam around and find places to do whatever they’re going to get up to, but the main floor is where the bulk of the party and action is supposed to take place.

I have no clue if the cameras are still on, but considering everyone who attends has to sign an NDA and hand over all of their personal belongings to be locked up, I’m assuming they’ve probably been turned off.

It should be easy enough to do a quick check of the rooms without getting caught. I just have to make sure no one notices me and stay as invisible as possible.

When I reach the main floor, I crack the door open and peek out through the thin strip of space. The stairs open up into a small hallway, and it takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the change in light.

Just like the upstairs hall and the stairs, the chandeliers and wall sconces are lit, but instead of glowing soft white, they’re flickering purple.

Unlike upstairs, a few of the recessed lights in the ceiling are also glowing dark purple.

It has the same effect as a black light, only it dulls anything white instead of lighting it up.

There’s music playing, and from what I can tell, it’s a remixed classical song. The heavy bass and synthesizers make it hard to be sure, but it sounds like Vivaldi.

Thankfully there’s no one in my immediate area, and I slip out of the stairwell and carefully close the door behind me. A niggle of unease tickles my consciousness, but I ignore it.

One quick look, and I’ll go back to my room.

Steeling my resolve and still sticking close to the walls, I do my best to look like I belong and stride down the hall and into the closest room, which is usually set up as a games room. I keep close to the door and try to look casual as I scan the area for any sign of Killian.

Almost all the couches in the house can be converted into beds. Some are hideaways, but most have platforms built into them that can be pulled out and extend the cushions to either double or queen-sized beds. The ones in this room have been converted, and all three are occupied.

One has a literal puppy pile going on, with about six people rubbing up on each other and rolling around on it. Another has two couples going at it, and the third is occupied by a threesome of girls who are having some enthusiastic fun while a couple of guys enjoy the show.

Everyone is still wearing their masks, but that doesn’t matter. I don’t need to see their faces to find my stepbrother. Killian has a tattoo on the back of his left calf. It’s the only ink he has, and the design was custom, so it’s easy to see from a distance.