VLAD (The V Games #1)(2)
I puff my chest in a small show of dominance. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
She bristles, and I bite back a smirk. What my sister doesn’t realize is she may carry our last name, but she’s another viper hungry for a golden egg. Duplicitous and out for herself. I love her, but I’m not stupid. She snuck around with my once best friend, Niko Vetrov, thinking she had the power to determine her own fate. She was born a Vasiliev, so the need for supremacy is in her blood. However, it won’t always be so. She will marry and her name will change. My sister doesn’t think she’s been caught vying for her boyfriend Niko’s older brother Veniamin’s attention. She wants the next in line—not the second. The more influential sibling. Despite almost destroying my and Niko’s friendship in the process. I’m irritated she’s made such a mess of things to get her way.
“Where’s Niko?” she questions, as if reading my mind, turning her tawny eyes my way. They gleam with satisfaction. Her gaze is desperate to find any signs of my weakness—a way in.
She’ll find none.
Father taught me well.
“Perhaps you should call him,” I say, a pleasant smile gracing my lips. “He’s your boyfriend, not mine.”
Her nostrils flare and she crosses her arms over her chest. She wants me to crack. To bite back at her and accuse her of the things we both know she’s done. My sister wants to feel in control, but these are my games.
I could tell her maybe she should check Viktor’s room since that’s where he longs to be—just to rile her up. But that would be childish. The way I play is much, much darker.
Niko’s affection for my brat isn’t subtle, even if he tries for it to be. That’s why his and Vika’s coupling came as such a shock. Her plans to use Niko to get to Ven are amateur and transparent to everyone—especially me.
She is na?ve, however, and has only thought one big move ahead.
And while she may think she’s won in the short run, I have every move mapped out until the day she dies. It’s part of my duty. Our father insists on it. She is a chess piece to be played when necessary, so we let her have her games for now. She will be marrying Niko. Vika made her bed, and now she will be forced to lie in it.
She doesn’t win the end game, though.
Her future is already written, and I’m holding the pen.
One week later…
These things are so boring and irritating. A time-sucking waste. My fingers itch to write in my diary—to scribble down all the frustrations simmering inside, just waiting for someone to shake me like a can of pop and watch the explosion of chaos. Instead, ink will display my thoughts written in urgent scrawls as soon as I get home and throw this dress back in my sister’s closet where it belongs. Why I must attend these things baffles me. Usually, I’m seen but not heard—ushered away in the shadow of my incredible sister, Diana.
Quite frankly, I’m happy to be there, if I can’t be anywhere else.
My brain is going numb, and I’m about to slip into a power nap if this guy keeps talking about how perfect Viktor is—was—and how sad and unjust his early death is…was.
Viktor was as driven and brutal as the rest of the Vasiliev family. His death came as a surprise, but sitting here pretending he died doing something heroic is a stretch.
I actually liked him. Not that he ever noticed me, but he did have this air about him. A hypnotic charm. And it’s a shame, at eighteen, he thought he had to prove his worth by entering such a vicious, degrading, sadistic game. What’s more shameful is his father allowed him to. Encouraged him to.
The Games are the backbone of all our family empires. It’s what keeps us at the top of the food chain. Feed the wealthy their desires and depravities, and they’ll keep your wallets fat and your influence far and wide.
My father is a sponsor, and unbeknownst to me, before Viktor’s passing, he was also hoping to acquire partnership via marriage. Not his, of course. That’s what daughters are bred for.
Bastard.
Slipping a flask from my inside jacket pocket and discreetly uncapping the lid, I bring the bottle to my lips and take a hearty swig. The burn ignites a warm path down my throat and settles in my stomach. An older lady seated beside me on the left eyes me, distaste crinkling her lips into a purse.
Screw you, lady.
This is the second funeral I’ve been forced to sit through this week. Viktor should have been a sure thing. The Vasilievs are the freaking Games for crying out loud. My father let them know how much faith he had in Viktor by dropping a large amount on him competing.
Now, that money’s gone. Someone had a hit on Viktor, that much is known, but who ordered it may never be uncovered. God help them if it ever does. It’s the rule that no retaliation can come from a death carried out within the arena, but our father, the cunning Leonid Volkov, doesn’t play by anyone’s rules but his own, and the Vasilievs sure as hell don’t either.
He’s beyond angry.
And when dear old dad is angry, he gets even. In a few months from now, I bet he’ll have a plan to settle the score. I cringe just thinking about what that may be.
The liquor pools in my stomach, urging me to eat something to soak it up.
Drinking is out of character for me, but the rebellious young woman inside me is screaming to be allowed to take over for a while.