The Hawthorne Legacy (The Inheritance Games #2)(57)

“Snake,” she wheezed. “There’s a snake in your—”

Eli pulled me back into the bedroom. I heard him making a call, and less than two minutes later, my room was flooded with guards.

“What the elf!” Max demanded. “Did she say snake?”

“Rattlesnake.” Oren took Max and me aside. “Dead—no actual danger.”

I met his eyes and said what he wasn’t saying. “Just a threat.”





Someone wanted me scared. Who—and why? Deep down, some part of me knew the answer. An hour later, I went back to Toby’s wing. Max went with me—and so did Oren.

The entire wing had been bricked up again.

I turned back to Oren. “The Laughlins did this.” I wasn’t sure if I was talking about the wall—or the snake. They don’t want me asking questions about Toby.

“The threat level has been assessed,” Oren told me. “It will continue to be assessed, and we will respond accordingly.”

“Avery?”

I turned and saw Grayson making his way down the hall toward us. He always seemed so in control, so certain that the world would bend to his will. If he wanted me safe, I would be safe.

“I take it you heard about the snake,” I said wryly.

“I did.” Grayson arched an eyebrow at Oren. “I trust it’s being handled.”

Oren did not dignify that comment with a response.

“I also talked to Jameson.” Grayson’s tone gave away nothing. I saw myself with Jameson at school, in Toby’s wing, in the hot tub, and I had to look away from Grayson’s piercing silver eyes. “I understand we’re in a waiting pattern.”

It took me a moment to realize that when he said he’d talked to Jameson, he meant about the numbers—about Cartago. Not us.

“I thought perhaps,” Grayson said evenly, “you could use a distraction.”

“What kind of distraction?” Max asked, her tone just innocent enough to make me think the question wasn’t innocent at all.

“A friendly one,” I told her sternly. That’s all Grayson and I were. Friends.

He straightened his suit jacket and smiled. “Either of you ladies up for a game?”





CHAPTER 57


The game room at Hawthorne House sent Max into a state of nearly apoplectic joy. The room was lines with shelves, the shelves filled with hundreds—maybe even thousands—of board games from around the world.

We started with Settlers of Catan. Grayson decimated us. We worked our way through four other games, none of which I’d even heard of before. As we were debating our next selection, Jameson strolled into the room.

“How about an old Hawthorne standard?” he suggested wickedly. “Strip bowling.”

“What the shelf is strip bowling?” Max demanded, then she looked at me, eyes sparkling.

Don’t you dare, I told her silently.

“Never mind!” Max grinned. “Avery and I are in.”





Strip bowling was exactly what it sounded like, in that it involved both bowling and, if you were unsuccessful, stripping.

“The goal is to knock over the least pins,” Jameson explained. “But you have to be careful, because any time your ball ends up in the gutter, you lose an article of clothing.”

I could feel heat rising in my cheeks. My entire body felt warm—too warm. This was a horrible idea.

“This is a horrible idea,” Grayson said. For a second or two, he and Jameson engaged in a silent standoff.

“Then why are you here?” Jameson volleyed back, waltzing over to pick out a dark green bowling ball with the Hawthorne crest on it. “No one is forcing you to play.”

Grayson didn’t move, and neither did I.

“So theoretically,” Max said, “I want to knock over either zero pins or only one—whichever I can manage without putting the ball in the gutter?”

When Jameson answered, his green eyes locked on to mine. “Theoretically.”





It became quickly apparent that excelling at strip bowling required precision and a high tolerance for risk. The first time Jameson cut things too close and his ball landed in the gutter, he took off a shoe.

Then another shoe.

A sock.

Another sock.

His shirt.

I tried not to look at the scar that ran the length of his torso, tried not to picture myself touching his chest. Instead, I focused on taking my turn. I was losing—badly. I’d even bowled a strike once, so determined was I to stay out of the gutter.

This time I cut things a little closer. When I knocked a single pin down, a breath left my chest. Grayson went next and lost his suit jacket. Max made it all the way down to her polka-dotted bra. Then it was Jameson’s turn again, and the ball hung to the edge of the lane until the very end—then toppled into the gutter.

I tried—and failed—to look away as Jameson’s fingers reached for the waistband of his jeans.

“Help me, Cheez-Its,” Max murmured beside me.

Without warning, the door to the room burst inward, and Xander barreled into the bowling alley, then skidded to a halt. He was breathing hard enough to make me wonder how long he’d been running.