Games Untold: An Inheritance Games Collection

by Jennifer Lynn Barnes

I’m not worried. Nash Hawthorne is not the type of person you worry about. He’s the type who comes home bleeding at two in the morning with a puppy in his shirt.

He sits up and reaches for the nightstand, and all I can think is that he’s perfect. This is perfect. We are. I might not be, but we are.

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.”

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.

Xander barely heard the string of corrections his billionaire grandfather offered his brothers. He was too busy being sneaky. Sneaky. Sneaky. Sneaky. Grayson went low. Nash absorbed the hit. Jameson twisted and threw his weight forward. Nash sidestepped. Grayson surged and— Wa-pow! Xander used his head! Grayson fell backward. Xander landed on his chest, then bounced. “That was fun! Can we do it again? And again? And again?” “Definitely,” Jameson told him with a wicked little smile. “No,” Grayson said, removing the bouncing toddler from his chest. The old man really did smile this time. “Let that be a lesson to you, boys,” he told the older three. “Never take your eyes off the sloth.”

Blade against blade! Brother against brother! What was a laid-back Sunday morning card game without the occasional sword fight?

“I want you both to know,” Xander announced five minutes later, as he climbed on top of the antique card table, preparing to hurl himself off it, “that I tackle with love!” He aimed the warning at Jameson—then flying-tackled Grayson.

“Sleep.” Xander nodded sagely. “Yes. I do the sleep.”

Xander gave a helpless little shrug. “What are your thoughts on blanket forts?” Max’s reply was immediate: “Right up there with book bouquets.”

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 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.

Espionage. Risk.” Xander’s voice echoed dramatically through the Great Room. “Defensive maneuvers. Competition.” Xander was enjoying this moment way too much. “This,” he boomed, “is Secret Santa!”

“Ain’t no weapon like a Christmas-themed weapon,” Xander said.

“The best gifts,” Nash said, glancing at Libby, a low, deep hum in his voice, “are the ones you don’t even know you want.” The edges of his mouth crinkled with a subtle smile. “Maybe you don’t even know it exists, but the moment you see it…” “Perfection,” Xander finished with a chef’s kiss.

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

Rainbow tinsel was a good look for Grayson Hawthorne. Surprise was a good look for Jameson. Victory was an incredible look for me.

Christmas Eve. I was Grayson’s target. He was mine. Since all his brothers had a wish to see him dethroned from Secret Santa supremacy, I had no shortage of allies. But he was Grayson Hawthorne.

“Merry Christmas, Grayson,” I said. I was on the verge of proposing a tie, but I didn’t get the chance. “Avery?” Grayson took a step toward me, and his lips curved into one of those very Grayson Hawthorne smiles, subtle but true. “You win.”

“So this is what five hundred tons of ice looks like,” Jameson mused as all four of them walked toward the base of the towering frozen wall. Xander assessed the situation. The higher you went up the wall of ice, the more treacherous the climb became. Excellent! Xander was pleased. “The ice is a metaphor,” he said sagely. Nash cocked a brow. “A metaphor for what?” “Either your heart or your ass,” Xander replied immediately. “It’s hard to say which.” Nash snorted. “My heart ain’t ice, Xan.” That was why they were here, why Nash had used his yearly 911, why the four of them were celebrating with one epic night. Nash Hawthorne had fallen in love. He’d let someone in. He’d proposed. To Xander, that seemed as breathtakingly magnificent as the massive wall of ice in front of them. “You do realize,” Grayson told Nash archly, “that you have just implied that your ass is ice?”

London, England The same nightclub Twelve minutes later The situation was thus: Nash on the dance floor. Cowboy hat? Check. Leather pants? Check. Ass? Shaking.

Did the four of them have to pounce the moment he came out the door? Strictly speaking, no. Did they have to overpower him, duct-tape him, blindfold him, and hoist him into the air? Also no. But did they? Certainly!

“I can’t believe you’re getting married.” The words were out of Xander’s mouth before he’d even thought them. “Wild horses couldn’t stop me.” Nash’s gaze landed on the table, which held a single champagne bottle and four elaborate goblets. “Black champagne,” Grayson said, crossing the room to remove it from the ice, “in Libby’s honor.”

Swallowing, Grayson closed his fingers around the stem on one of the goblets. “To Nash,” he said quietly. Jameson brushed past Xander and claimed one of the goblets. He held it slightly aloft, his gaze landing on Nash’s. Xander felt a shift in the air, like the winds of change. In this moment, Nash and Libby—it was real. And tonight wasn’t just adrenaline-fueled fun and leather pants and forcing Nash to dance. It was a rite of passage. The end of an era and the start of another.