Page 89 of Wicked Games

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 ofthe 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 Killianshouldhave 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 satisfyingclickof 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 allof this is because he’s the only person who’s ever made me feel anything.

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