Page 63 of The Games We Play

“Kill or be killed,” I say with a shrug and regret it as I wince. She glances at my blood-soaked shirt and pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Mallard!” The doc, an older gentleman and someone I might dare to call a friend if I wasn’t worried about him being used against me weaves through the crowd. He gives me a sympathetic look and guides me out of the room. I follow him down a long hallway and into a secluded office, far away from the excitement.

“Let’s see it,” Doc says with a British accent. He’s been around longer than me and the creases around his eyes and mouth show he’s seen more than anyone should in this lifetime. I don’t know what keeps him here; when I asked once, he simply asked what else he should be doing. I thought it was odd at the time, but the longer you’re in this life, the more I realize you can’t get out. It seeps into your bone marrow and is the very essence of your being.

It becomes who you are at your core, and the only way out is death.

I wince as the shirt peels away from the clotting wound. With a gentle tug, Doc gets it off completely and drops it into the incinerator bin.

“Clean through and through,” Doc mutters, and I nod. “Did you get him?”

“Sierra?” I ask.

He nods.

“Nobody inside would’ve survived the blast.” I turn my head away as he threads his needle and starts the first stitch.

He makes an agreeing sound in his throat.

“What’s the chatter, Doc? I need to know what November is planning and what I’m walking into.”

“It’s the annual auction.” He glances at me over the rim of his glasses perched on the end of his nose, and my jaw tenses. The annual auction isn’t full of antiques or high-valued items. What these people auction is something not just anyone can come by.

“He’s going to take her there. She’s going to—” The words get caught in my throat.

Doc doesn’t miss a stitch at my admission. “Her?” he asks.

My hands curl into fists, and my muscles tense.

“I’ve messed up, Doc,” I say with an empty chuckle. “Oh, I fucked up. She’s sunk her claw so deep into me—she’s all I can see. And I brought her into this. How did this happen?” He tugs on the stitch, and I wince.

“Does this have anything to do with the medication you brought me several months ago? Yourhobbythat you’ve taken on in your free time? The reason we haven’t had any poker games lately?”

He ties off the stitch on the front of my chest and moves to the one on my back.

“I had it all planned out. And eye for an eye. Take something like he took from me. Use her to draw out Darius and finish this once and for all.” I smile at the image of Puppet, bloody and hovering over me, carving her knife through my chest. “The winds shifted, and now she’s my fixation. I can’t shake her, and knowing she’s with him right now and will be his prize this weekend—”

I slam my fist onto the table, and Doc steps back as everything rattles across the top.

“You bust those open, and I won’t sew you up again,” he warns, but I know he’s just trying to take the edge off. “What are you going to do?”

“What November tells me to,” I say nonchalantly and stand. Doc hands me a clean shirt, and I’m careful to put my left arm in first.

“And if your girl is part of that plan?” Doc arches a gray brow, and I slip my head through the fabric.

A hunger stirs deep in my core. The beast that demands to be fed is itching for blood.

“Tell me what you know,” I demand, and Doc nods, walking behind his medical desk and pulling out a drawer. He waves an arm for me to sit beside him in one of the metal chairs.

After pulling a bottle of whiskey and two glasses out, he joins me and pours us both a drink.

“I’ve been in this business a long time,” he says with a sigh. “Never had the stomach to work as a surgeon. I couldn’t handle the look on the family’s faces when you told them you did all you could.” He takes a swig and hisses between his teeth. “You all enjoy taunting death. It’s like you challenge him every day to catch you. Nobody mourns your death, and for the most part, I don’t even know the sorry bastard’s name as he dies on my table.”

I nod and stare at the floor while he talks. He’s right. We aren’t scared to die because, for us, living is so much harder and dangerous.

“I also hear things…rumors and secrets because I blend in with the background. I’m just a quiet doctor who is here to put you all back together with string and staples. Nobody worries about what they say in front of me.” He nudges my foot with his toe, and I look up.

“What are you getting at, old man?” I throw back the contents of my drink and set it on his table. “How is this helping me?”

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