Page 73 of They're Watching You

“No, I don’t—I thought we’d decided not to play by the society’s rules. So I’m just wondering why you felt inclined to take the ribbon for yourself.”

“Take it for myself,” he drones. “That’s what you think.”

“What am I supposed to think, Remington? Only one girl lives if we play their game. You took an advantage. What could that possibly mean other than if it comes down to it, you’re going to make sure you win?”

“I don’t know why I took it, Maren,” he says, throwing his hands up. “I guess in the back of my head, I thought maybe we could both figure out how to use it. I’m in thiswithyou. Don’t you see that?”

A knot of guilt forms in my throat. Back in the cottage, he was the only person in the world I could trust. The only person who felt safe. Why am I pushing him on this? Why am I trying to make an enemy of my only ally? “I’m sorry,” I say, nudging the ribbon back over to his side of the table. “I trust you. I’m just tired.”

“I don’t want it,” he grumbles.

“Take it.” I let my hand fall open on the table, the way Remington did the last time we were in here together. A new treaty. It lays empty, and that lump in my throat starts to grow, so I can barely even swallow. My fingers begin to curl forward, hope siphoning out of me.

But the warmth returns as his hand reaches mine, pressing my fingertips flat against the table. “I’m tired too. But we have a lot left to eat.” When he looks at me, a half-smile on his lips, I feel as weak as I did in the liquor closet the night of the dance.

Once the pizza and the entire bottle of champagne have been consumed, Remington and I thank the chef and thread through the dining hall, unsteadily. I catch Remington smiling at me as he holds open the door, and a wave of fear washes over me. “We can’t be…” I motion from myself to him. “Likethisfor tonight’s finale.”

“We won’t be,” he assures me, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “We’ll drink plenty of water and sleep it off.”

I step out into the early morning air, and the flower-lined walkway starts to spin. In the distance, the sun’s infant rays highlight the horizon. Evening lockdown will be over soon. My bed is so far away.

I shut my eyes, feeling my body rock until Remington steadies me.

“You’ll never make it back to your dorm,” Remington says, and I wonder if I accidentally spoke aloud, my mind muddled by the champagne. “Stay with me.”

“Out here?” I slur.

He shakes his head. “My dorm is much closer. No one’s up yet. We can sneak you into my room.”

“Don’t you have a roommate?”

“Not since the first society meeting. I had a particularlyirritatingroommate this year. You know Sam Walker?”

I nod, and Remington helps me up the path to his dormitory. Everyone knows Sam, better known as Walker the Talker.

“Well, when we were promoted to Minor Supreme, he suddenly”—Remington shrugs—“moved rooms.”

“Are you sure he didn’t get killed, Remington?”

He grins. “I’m sure. He got this notice that he needed to change rooms, and if I weren’t constantly out on society business, I would be enjoying a peaceful living situation for the first time in years.”

“I didn’t get anything except for that blackmail video after the first challenge,” I grumble.

“Well, you did attempt to defy the society, so…”

“Are you sure you can get me in there?”

“A few weeks ago, I would’ve said ‘not a chance,’ but we’re society now. Even if we get caught, it’ll be by some creepy security guard who’s been paid off. Might as well take advantage of it before we bring these bastards down.”

Sure enough, Remington’s dormitory lobby is empty when we make it through the doors. The clock on the wall reads 5:14 a.m. Remington leads us into the stairwell up to his floor, and after checking the hall, he ushers me into his room.

The inside looks basically the same as mine: a bunk bed, a desk pushed against the wall, and one window, through which sunlight now pours.

“Here.” Remington tugs his blanket off the bottom bunk and flings it out over the empty mattress on the top, along with his pillow. “Try to get some sleep. I’ll work on getting our phones charged—I’ve got an extra charger around here somewhere.”

“Thanks.” I begin to climb the ladder, but, dizzy from the alcohol, I swing out and tumble down onto Remington’s rug.

“Are you okay?” Remington whispers, helping me up.

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