Games Untold: An Inheritance Games Collection

by Jennifer Lynn Barnes

“Now would be a good time to tell me that you did not do a murder. Or five.” I study his swollen lips, his jaw, the cut on his cheekbone. Nash shrugs. “They saw the error of their ways pretty quick.”

“Is she okay?” I ask softly. “She’s warm.” Even when he’s tender, Nash is matter-of-fact. “She’s safe.” He lifts his gaze from the puppy to me. “She’s ours.” “Ours,” I repeat, “as in yours and your brothers’.”

For the first time pretty much ever, it occurs to me that Nash Hawthorne might actually need someone to take care of him. “I am not naming this dog,” I tell him. “But if I did, I’d call her Trouble.”

When his nails are dry, he lifts first my right wrist and then my left to his mouth, his lips brushing over my pulse, over the words I’ve tattooed there, reminders that I’m a survivor, that I can trust myself. And him. My hands make their way to his neck and jaw. He needs to shave, and I really hope he doesn’t. I hope. And I hope. And I hope.

Now there is no darkness, no nightmares. Now I wake up and roll into him. Even in sleep, Nash’s arm curls protectively around me.

There’s something about being held, something about letting myself be held, about the way my head fits under his chin and the warmth of his body against mine.

“Waffles or pancakes?” Nash asks me. “I’m cooking.” Nash is an excellent cook. “Both,” I tell him. “Correct answer.”

I sit up, just as Nash holds out his something. I smile. “A Magic 8 Ball.” I think about Cartago—and everything since. “You are very lucky that isn’t another cowboy hat.” I have it on good authority that I wear them well. “I am.” There it is again—a low, almost heady tone in his voice. “Lucky.”

The blue triangle clearly visible in the window bears four words. WILL YOU MARRY ME? I look up at Nash. “That question—it doesn’t have an expiration date.” He is, even now, so damn steady. “You don’t have to say a word, Libby Grambs. Today, tomorrow, five years from now—if and when you want to answer, all you have to do is give that ball a shake until whatever feels right to you comes up.” His hands find their way to mine.

“And if that answer is Ask Again Later or Very Doubtful or Yes, you just bring me that ball, knowing that everything is going to be just fine. We are.” My mouth is dry. “Nash…” He brings his lips to just almost touch mine, a silent reminder that I don’t have to say a word, that he has never and will never demand from me anything that I don’t want to give. I’ve spent my life tiptoeing around glass and walking through minefields, but Nash is steady. Nash is pale blue skies. Nash is grass and mud, wide-open spaces, worn leather. Nash is mine.

He kisses me until I believe him with every fiber of my being: Whatever my answer, everything is going to be fine. Whatever my answer, we are.

And that’s why I’m ready. That’s why I keep kissing him and shake the Magic 8 Ball. That’s why I pull back and keep shaking it, until the answer I want pops up. One word. Just one. YES.

“You’re crying.” Nash is on the other side of the bathroom door. I’m a silent crier. There’s no way he can actually know that there are tears streaming down my cheeks. And yet, he does.

“If you’ve got a name,” he tells me, “I’d take it.” He’s asking for the name of the person who made me cry.

“Hannah,” I say, and then I swallow. “For a girl, I was thinking Hannah.” I see the shift in his expression, and suddenly, there’s nothing steady or understated about what I see in his eyes, and I know— He’s dreaming, too. And it’s beautiful.

“It might not be positive,” I told him. “It probably isn’t. But—” “We look together,” he told me, taking my hands in his. “On three.” “One.” I start off the count. “Two.” He smiles, and then I do. “Three.”

I need more libby and nash

“I hate you,” Jameson grumbled. “And I loathe your face!” Xander replied happily. “You can’t be everywhere, Xan.” In other words: Jameson’s inadvisable plan had been thwarted for now. Xander was undaunted. “Or can I?” He wiggled his eyebrows dramatically and threw an arm around Jameson’s shoulders. “Now, be honest: Where did that tackle rate in my top three?”

“Don’t even think about it, Xan.” Nash didn’t turn around. He just kept staring at the sunrise in the distance. “I’m going to need you to move two inches to your left,” Xander told him.

“Go back inside, Xander.” Nash still didn’t so much as turn his head. “I have taken your suggestion under advisement, and after serious consideration, I—” “Wasn’t a suggestion, little brother.” Well, that was ominous! Xander, being Xander, was not deterred. “I have taken your order and implied promise of brotherly retribution under advisement,” he amended amiably. “And yet…”

Nash caught the paper booklet with one hand. “It’s a coupon book,” Xander said helpfully. Nash flipped through the book. “All of these just say TACKLE. All caps.” “You never know when you’re going to need one,” Xander told Nash. “I tackle with love, and those bad boys can be cashed in at your discretion.

Now, if you could move one inch to your right and take two steps away from the edge of the roof…” Nash was not persuaded. “Not happening.” “I really think you’ll feel better if you let me do it,” Xander argued. “I’m fine.” Nash’s voice was low and smooth. “Promise.”

“You and Alisa broke up. You’re not fine. You’re not even fine-adjacent.” “Heartbreak doesn’t kill Hawthornes.” Nash sounded certain of that. “And Lee-Lee and me...

“I know.” Xander understood. He did. They’d all seen this coming, but that didn’t make it any easier. “I know, Nash, and I really think you’ll feel better if you let me tackle you.” “Do not tackle me.” “You need a distraction.” “I need to get out of here. This place. This house.”

Despite himself, Nash almost grinned. “Try not to set anything on fire while I’m gone.” Nash had a bad habit of leaving—and a good habit of coming home. But something told Xander it might be a while before they saw each other again. A muscle in Xander’s chest tightened. “No promises—at least, none regarding fire.”

Nash made the considerable error of starting back toward the trap door they’d both used to climb out onto the roof. One step… two… Xander pounced. Wa-bam! Nash went down. On top of him, Xander pumped a fist into the air. “That one was on the house.”

“Fax me,” she whispered, then told herself that absolutely was not an invitation, but… but.… THE CEILING. The ceiling was nothing but books. Thousands of them, spines down, defying gravity, seemingly nothing holding them in place. “How are they…” Max couldn’t help herself. “Magnets,” Xander said cheerfully. “Mostly.”

“So where do you sleep?” she asked. Oh no. Oh no. That was not a good subject change. Yes, Max. Ask your extremely platonic and well-muscled friend here about his BED. “Sleep.” Xander nodded sagely. “Yes. I do the sleep.”

Lmao

Max had always pictured herself with someone dark and broody. A rogue assassin. A vampire of questionable morals. Someone with a checkered past and a heart in need of healing. But there Xander was, with his blankets and his plushies and an entire ceiling covered in books. Max sighed, and then she turned her head to look at him, which she knew was a mistake. “I believe I was a promised a fort.”

“You just need some additional scone-eating practice,” Xander assured her. “A refined scone-tasting palette does not develop overnight.” Max narrowed her eyes. “Scones are like muffins that got confused.” Xander gasped. This time, it was Max’s turn to grin.

“Romance novels?” Max questioned. “Which subgenre?” Up until that moment, Max had been doing a really good job of holding it together. But this? “What?” Xander said. “What did I say?” “You.” Max pointed at him. “Your opinion on romance novels depends on the subgenre!” Max stared at him and was reminded of why staring at Xander Hawthorne was not a good idea. “You, with the face! And the abs! And the blankets!” “I also have a cactus,” Xander reminded her. “Mr. Pointy,” Max said. And just like that, she knew: This was happening. “I should not do this. We should definitely not do this.” “Of course we shouldn’t,” Xander agreed.

Max swallowed. “This,” she said. “Us. Go or no go?” Her heart was brutalizing the inside of her rib cage. Go or no go, Xander Hawthorne? Across from her, Xander raised the stuffed narwhal into the air. “Go!” Max yelled, and just like that, the chase was on. Xander almost had her when she whirled around. “No go!” she said. Xander froze. Max arched a brow. And then, in blankets up to her knees, unable to resist for another second, she tackled him.

A good suit was like armor. Grayson was the type to dress for battle—not a wrinkle in sight, layers between him and the world.

“Avery.” Her name escaped Grayson’s lips the second she stepped into the room. Seeing her still did something to him. Perhaps it always would.

Avery asked, unable to bite back a smile that nearly broke her face. A face he knew better than he should have. Better than he had any right to.

Avery’s gaze landed on his. Grayson had spent a lifetime repressing emotions. Letting himself feel would take some getting used to. Especially when what he was feeling was this.

“You’ll let me do my best?” Avery queried skeptically, holding up the eyeliner with an arch of her brow. “With this?” Letting her touch him really wasn’t a good idea. It wasn’t a good idea at all. “Whatever penance is decreed,” Grayson murmured, “with that penance I will agree.”

“We have been informed that this phase of Atonement Night is for the brothers Hawthorne and only the brothers Hawthorne,” Avery replied. She lowered her voice. “They were afraid I would be too merciful.” Grayson allowed himself to look at her one more time. “You? Merciful?” She’d always been able to go toe-to-toe with him. “Somehow,” he continued, as he made his way to the door, “I doubt that.”

“The use of mistletoe is… spirited.” Libby was clearly aiming for diplomacy. “Spirited?” I repeated. “And creative. And… aggressive.” I read between the lines. “Jameson and Nash booby-trapped this entire forty-thousand-square-foot mansion with mistletoe, didn’t they?” “You say booby-trapped…” Right on cue, Jameson Hawthorne appeared in the doorway, his hair mussed. “I say Christmas at Hawthorne House is a contact sport.”

“Game ends Christmas morning,” Nash told Libby and me, but he had eyes only for her. “Perfect presents take time.”

Xander was the first person to draw a name from the cut-glass bowl. When he read the slip of paper, he smiled, but it was the kind of smile that gave away nothing—Xander’s version of a poker face.

Libby drew last. She read the name on her page, cocked her head to the side—and then a stream of red liquid hit her, right in the chest. She’d been shot. With festive, red liquid. “Hey!” Libby said. “You drew my name.” Grayson, squirt gun still in hand, arched a brow at her. “Did you not?” Libby scowled at him. “There is no way you could possibly know that!” “Am I wrong?” Grayson’s tone made it clear: He knew he wasn’t.

Nash came up behind Libby. “Three days, Lib,” he told her, wrapping his arms around her, cradling her body back against his. “And then you’re back in the game.”

“Bases must be built and marked with your name by sundown.” Jameson clearly wasn’t avoiding looking at me. He was relishing it. “Libby, you’ll need to construct your base, too. Given your sitting-duck status, you can’t actively fight off a would-be present-giver, so your base’s defenses are your best chance at staying in the game.” “I’ll show you sitting duck,” Libby retorted.

“The perfect gift?” I asked. Libby looked up at me with tears glistening in her eyes. “So damn perfect.”

Her ninth birthday, the only birthday she’d celebrated with my mom and me, had been the best day of her life. And there it was, immortalized in a frame. “Who?” I managed to ask. Who was Libby’s Secret Santa? Which of the Hawthorne brothers had managed to get ahold of this picture after all these years? Libby hugged the frame to her chest. “I have no idea.”

My money was on either Jameson or Grayson. Nash had seemed as surprised by the gift as Libby and I had been, and the execution didn’t feel like Xander to me. This had been the work of someone who noticed everything, someone who hadn’t stuck around to see Libby open the present.

“I’m also not going to provide any reports on the specific Hawthorne or Hawthornes who may or may not have been tailing you.” In other words, someone had been tailing me. Maybe multiple someones.

“Why, Heiress, I’m shocked.” I kept my gaze on the monitors but couldn’t help the way the edges of my lips crept upward, just hearing his voice. “No, you aren’t.” Jameson made no attempt to mask the sound of his footsteps as he paced slowly toward me. “No,” he admitted. “I’m not.”

“You aren’t my target,” Jameson confirmed. “Yet.” That had the air of a promise. “I’m very good at Secret Santa,” he told me. “If I take out enough targets…” Sooner or later, he’d get my name.

“You didn’t draw my name,” I said, shifting my weight forward, “and neither did Nash.” I paused, letting my eyes do my talking for me for just a moment. “Neither did Libby.” “If this is your attempt to distract me,” Jameson said, “it is one hundred percent working and will continue to work more or less indefinitely.”