Page 7 of Wicked Games

“Talking to a therapist didn’t help when my parents split up when I was five. It didn’t help when my mom made me go after I watched my nanny die when I was ten, and it’s not going to help now.” I hook my thumb at Killian’s side of the room. “Especially with him around. The last thing I need is to show him any sort of weakness.”

“Do you really think he’d be a dick about what happened?” She glances between his empty bed and me. “I mean, I know he’s an asshole and everything, but is hethatkind of asshole?”

“No clue,” I say honestly. “But I’ve learned it’s better to not underestimate him.”

“Yeah, better safe than sorry and all that.” She chews on her lip.

I can tell she has more she wants to say, but she thankfully doesn’t. I have nothing against therapy, but talking about all the shit that’s happened in my life is even less effective than compartmentalizing it and pretending it never happened, so it’s a hard pass from me.

“Exactly.” I zip up my duffle bag and toss it onto the floor next to my suitcase. It’s almost comical how little I own, considering I have the means to buy whatever I want.

It’s one of the few ways that Killian and I are similar, and since he’s as much of a minimalist as I am, the place doesn’t look like the storeroom at Bergdorf’s exploded like so many people’s rooms do.

I can’t live in a messy space, and thankfully neither can my stepbrother.

“All done?”

I nod. I still have some things I want to organize, but I can do that later.

“Want to hit the dining hall at Belmont with me?” she asks. “It’s hot pot night.”

“Heck yeah.” I toss her a grin. The dining hall in her dorm is one of the best on campus, and she knows I’ll never say no to their hot pot night.

She grins back. “Men are so easy to manipulate. You just have to dangle food or fucking in front of them.”

“The promise of fucking doesn’t work on me. You know that better than anyone,” I say with a snicker. “But food will.”

“Shut up!” Pulling the silk hair scrunchie off her wrist, she playfully throws it at me. “That was one time. And stop laughing. It wasn’tthatfunny.”

I pick up the scrunchie and toss it back at her. “It was damn funny.”

She rolls her eyes and slips the scrunchie back on her wrist. “You know I never would have done that if I wasn’t drunk off my ass.”

I roll my lips inward to stop my grin. Eden and I met our first week of freshman year, and we ended up at the same party a few days later. She got sloppy drunk, and I took her back to her dorm to sleep it off. Only instead of letting me put her to bed, she decided it would be a good idea to try and seduce me by doing an interpretive dance that her drunken self must have thought was sexy.

I managed to not bust a gut laughing and eventually got her into bed, but it’s still one of the funniest things that’s ever happened to me, and as her best friend, it’s my duty to make sure she never forgets it.

“Thank fuck I was with you and not some skeezebag who would’ve actually fucked me when I was too drunk to even use words.”

My smile falls. “Yeah, I’m glad it was me too.”

“So, hot pot?” she asks, changing the subject.

“Yeah, just let me change into something that won’t get my ass turned away at the door.”

Eden leans back on her hands as I go to my dresser to pull out a pair of slacks and a button-up.

Every dining hall on campus has its own rules and dress code. Belmont is one of the stricter ones, and anyone who brings a guest who doesn’t adhere to the rules gets an infraction on their record.

Thankfully Hamilton House is relatively lax when it comes to the dining hall, and members can wear pretty much whatever they want when there isn’t a special event or a house dinner going on. Guests don’t have the same freedom, and there’s a laundry list of rules they have to follow, including a dress code that rivals the one at Belmont.

As far as I know, I’m the only non-member who’s ever lived here, so I have no idea what rules apply to me or if I’m even allowed to bring a guest.

“Are you going to stare at me while I change?” I shoot her a teasing look and pull off my hoodie.

“You know it.” She gives me an exaggerated once-over. “I gotta get my kicks somewhere since everyone here hates me and thinks I’m a freak. And not even the good kind of freak.”

“Hello, Pot, my name is Kettle.” I toss my t-shirt at her.

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