Page 70 of They're Watching You

“Of course not, Maren. You and Remington will decide what happens to your friends.”

“But I can’t compete against him,” I slur. “I think I’m in love with him.” My voice sounds distant, like it’s coming from inside the headmistress’s broom closet.

Paul smiles over me, pushing a strand of reddish-brown hair off his forehead. “Yes, that has been pretty apparent since the liquor closet.”

“You saw that?” Hot embarrassment crawls up my neck.

“Everyone saw that, Maren. It was cruel of Annabelle to play with him, knowing how you felt. The Gamemaster isn’t like her, though. The Gamemaster doesn’t want to use your feelings for Remington against you.” Paul is weird. Why is he speaking about himself in third person? “The Gamemaster values you and wants to reward you for your display of prowess, which is why you’ve been granted a reprieve until tonight. You’re going to walk out of here right now.”

“Really? I thought locking me up and doing whatever you wanted was more your style.” In reality, this—making sure the game stays on his terms, not allowing us to back him into a corner—is exactly his style.

Paul laughs, like we’re old friends. “You and Remington will rest today. Your classes will be taken care of. And tonight, you’ll see Polly and Jane.”

“Alive?”

He chuckles again. “Yes, alive.”

“And I have your word?” I ask, finally remembering that I haven’t seen Remington; I’ve only taken Paul’s word that he’s still sleeping. I pull myself up by a couch cushion.

“You have my word. Once Remington wakes up, you can both go back to your dorms and recover. You’ve been through quite the ordeal.”

“No thanks to you,” I snap, leaving him to peek at Remington, who still lies passed out on the floor. I move to cover him with the quilt, my fingertips lingering on his chest, feeling the rise and fall. I lean closer, his breath reassuring against my skin. Lifting his head, I tuck a pillow beneath it and wander over to the hallway. “What about Gavin?” I ask before I can help it.

“Already in his dormitory bed.”

That weasel probably made more promises to get himself released. “Where are the others?”

Paul reclines against the couch, folding his arms back behind his head. “The headmistress is sleeping. Annabelle is staying somewhere safe.”

My mouth muscles twitch in satisfaction. I hope he meanssafe from me. The society is obsessed with being gods, but if they fear me—if Remington and I are failing to behave according to their whims—the power is shifting.

People make mistakes when they’re scared. And a mistake is what I need.

“What’s tonight’s game?” I ask, forcing a nonchalance into my voice. Maybe if I can deliver an “old friends” routine to match his, he’ll spill some secrets.

“The Gamemaster is still formulating it.”

“Sticking with the third person thing, huh?”

Paul only rests his chin on a knuckle, and suddenly, the bizarre drugged-up sensation falls away, replaced by a vivid, sobering fear. Do I have it wrong? Is he simply another minion following orders?

“Do you hate me for what I did at the ball?” I ask, not exactly sure why I’m asking. Despite everything, I must blame myself for the way I led him on.

“Of course not. Your skill in battle was one of the reasons you were selected. We were proud of you.”

“Proud, but going to let me have that linchpin no matter what I did.”

Paul’s head tilts in thought. “One thing about all of this,” he says, and I’m not sure whatall of thismeans, because he’s motioning around the headmistress’s living room. Maybe he means the fact that while we had Annabelle and the headmistress contained, somehow, those two still managed to get a message out to the society. “While we know the big picture—while we will intervene if things run off course—there is so much left to be determined on a smaller scale.” I scan the room again, scan Paul’s clothes for one of those pin cameras. “So…did I know you were meant to have the linchpin? Yes. Did I know you’d attempt to get it fromme? Not at all. And when you asked me to dance, part of me did hope you really just wanted to dance.” His cheeks flush the way they did at the ball when I asked about his last name.

I glance up, half-expecting the molding on the ceiling to shift and form the two eyes from the fresco in the catacombs. Somewhere in this room, the society must have metaphorical eyes on us.

A low groan sounds back behind the couch, and I pad over to kneel beside Remington. “Hey, shh,” I say. “Don’t move too fast. Take it easy.”

“Maren?” he mumbles, his voice hoarse with sleep.

“Yeah.” I take his hand, and, leaning down, place a kiss on his cheek.

At this, his eyelids flutter open, eyes shining as they struggle against the light. “What happened to me?”

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