Page 15 of Wicked Games

Felix might be annoying as fuck and way too arrogant for someone whose mother is a notorious social climber, but he wouldn’t put Eden at risk of being kicked out like that.

That doesn’t mean he’s not fucking her; it just means he’s not doing it at night when he’s supposed to be sleeping inmyroom.

I shake my head at that weird thought and tear my eyes from his perfectly made bed. How long have I been staring at it? Maybe I’m drunker than I thought if I’m glaring at a piece of furniture and tripping over myself trying to figure out where my stepbrother is spending his nights.

Angrily, I stomp over toward the bathroom in only my boxer briefs.

“Jesus Christ,” I exclaim, almost tripping over Felix’s leg as I step into the dark bathroom.

Snapping on the light, I instinctively look around for any signs of danger.

Felix groans and covers his face. He’s lying on the floor in the fetal position, his arms over his head and his knees pulled up near his chest.

“What the fuck?” I shake my head, my fight instincts fading, along with some of my buzz, at the sight of my stepbrother on the floor.

His voice is muffled by his arms and laced with pain when he answers. “Killian?”

“What the fuck happened?” I turn off the light and kneel next to him. I don’t see any blood, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t hurt.

He uncovers his face and blinks at me in confusion.

Jesus, he’s in rough shape. His skin is chalky white, his lips are almost colorless, and his eyes are red-rimmed. He looks drunk, but the dark bruise on his forehead tells me that whatever is going on isn’t from drinking.

“I hit my head,” he mumbles. “Almost drowned.”

“What?”

If there’s one thing Felix can do better than anyone I’ve ever met, it’s swim. I’ll never admit it, but he’s poetry in motion when he’s in the water, graceful and confident and so preciseand perfect his strokes look like he’s in an instructional video teaching Olympians how to level up their skills.

Someone like that doesn’t accidentally hit their head and almost drown.

“In the pool.” He grimaces. “I swim when I can’t sleep.”

The scent of chlorine hits me, and that’s when I notice his clothes are haphazardly pulled on, like he got dressed in the dark.

That makes my hackles rise. Did this happen here in the house, or was he at another of the school’s many pools?

“In the basement?” I ask, absently running my hands over his chest and arms to check for injuries.

He nods but doesn’t otherwise move as I smooth my palms over his stomach and hips, then thread them under his lean body to check his back. When I’m satisfied his upper body is fine other than the bump on his head, I slide my hands over his ass, then check his legs one at a time.

“Did you black out?” I ask.

“I’m not sure. Maybe for a second.”

That’s not a good sign. He could have a concussion.

“Did you puke?”

“Does hacking up half the fucking pool count?” He groans and presses his palms against his eyes.

“Did you puke?” I repeat, trying to assess if his head injury or almost drowning is the bigger concern right now.

“No.”

“Can you get up?”

“I…I don’t think so. I barely got myself in here.”

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