Page 221 of Deviant

“I thought that was the whole point of being in New York,” I say, throwing his words back at him.

“True. But another thing you should know about this city is that nothing stays lost for long.”

“Good to know.” I force my smile to widen. “Well, I’m beat. I need some shut eye.”

“Just tell the receptionist who you are. The reservations are under your name.”

I nod and wave goodbye as I let the doorman lead me inside the fancy hotel.

Any other day I would have been awestruck at my new lavish surroundings.

But not today.

Not when it means that I still have eyes on me.

“I believe you have a reservation for me under the game Rowen Hawthorne,” I say at the front desk.

“Let me check,” the receptionist replies as she types my name into her computer. “Ah, here it is. We have you down for the presidential suite,” she informs, all smiles.

“Of course, you do,” I say through gritted teeth.

First, the games’ organizers threaten to tear me down, limb from limb, and then they spoil me with all this decadence.

But I’m not fooled.

Not after Henry warned me how they like to keep tabs on their winners. If the limo ride here and the fancy room is to lower my guard and lull me into a false sense of safety and security, then they failed in their mission.

The receptionist hands me the key card to my room and is about to call one of the bellboys to help me with my luggage when I let her know that there is no need for that.

“I only have this backpack and I’m perfectly able to take it up on my own. Thank you anyway.”

“Of course, Miss Hawthorne. But if you need anything, please feel free to reach out to the front desk so we can help you.”

I thank her for her kindness, though I know it’s her job to offer such help, and make my way to the elevator, who also has someone inside to push a button for me.

The elevator operator takes us up to the very last floor, the sound of the bell dinging unsettling me and making me almost jump out of my own skin.

“Are you alright, Miss?” the man asks, wondering why I got so startled.

“Yes. Quite alright. Thank you,” I lie, since I won’t be able to explain to him how I can’t hear any type of ringing sound without memories of the watches we used inThe Scourgepopping in my head.

I step out of the elevator and into the presidential suite, where opulence and decadence collide in a lavish display that whispers both luxury and excess. This exquisite suite boasts stunning panoramic views of Central Park, a private living space, and lavish furnishings that redefine indulgence.

And all bought and paid for with the blood of my friends.

And my Elias.

There is no way I’m staying in this hotel for another second, or even in this city, for that matter. I don’t want to be anywhere where the puppet masters behindThe Scourgeknow where to find me.

With my backpack in hand, I walk out the door, happy to see that the elevator is somewhere on a lower floor. I look for another exit and find the emergency stairwell, rushing down the stairs and opening the door on each floor, until I find what I’m looking for. On the third floor, breathless and weary, I finally find an unattended housekeeper’s trolley. I rush through the corridor scanning it in a hurry for the housekeeper, breathing out a sigh of relief when I see two come out of a room.

“Hi there,” I ask, sweating and breathing hard.

“Hello?” the housekeeper’s reply sounds more like a question than a greeting.

“Is there anything you need, Miss?” the other housekeeper asks, while the first one steps behind her friend, looking at me suspiciously.

“Yes. What I need is help.”

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