Page 23 of Wicked Games

There’s a sharp rap on my door.

“Yeah?” I call and wince as my own voice hurts my head. “It’s open.”

I almost do a double take when the door swings open and William steps inside wearing a latex French maid costume complete with over-the-knee heeled boots, a little white lace cap, and a tiny skirt with a slit up the side.

I’m so distracted by his outfit it takes a second for me to notice the tray clutched in his hands.

“Yeah?” I ask when I find my voice.

“Killian sent me,” he says, his voice monotone and his expression as icy as the Arctic.

I can only stare as he hobbles into the room, pausing near the coffee table. He’s wearing chunky heels, but they’re at least three inches, and he’s obviously not used to them. “Do you want this here or over there?”

“What’s that?” I ask, still completely taken aback by his outfit.

Is this a punishment for something? It has to be, right? Why else would he be wearing it?

“Food,” he says like I’m a simpleton.

“Food?” I ask, basically proving his assumptions.

“Yeah.” He looks between the coffee table and my bed. “Do you want it here, or over there?” he repeats.

“Here,” I say, still not fully registering what’s happening.

He wobbles over, and the creaking of the latex costume grows louder the closer he gets.

“Killian sent you?” I ask as he sets the tray on my bedside table.

He nods.

I glance at it. On it is a silver thermos, a brown paper bag full of something, two large bottles of water, and a plate stacked with buttered toast.

“Do you need anything else? He told me to get you whatever you need.”

I blink at him. What the hell is going on? Is this part of Killian’s whole “I protect what’s mine” thing? Or is this just some weird stepbrother obligation, and he’s only doing this to make sure he doesn’t get in trouble for letting me starve to death?

“Do you?” he asks, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Need anything,” he clarifies when I don’t immediately answer.

“No,” I say automatically.

He pulls a phone out of the pocket in his frilly white apron and hands it to me.

“What’s this? And don’t say a phone. I mean, why are you giving it to me?”

He shrugs. “No clue. Killian told me to give it to you, so I’m giving it to you.”

Absently, I run my thumb over the smooth surface of the screen.

“You good?” he asks.

I nod.

Without another word, he leaves the room, ankles buckling as he teeters on the heels.

When he’s gone, I look between the phone and the tray of food, my muddled brain swimming with questions.

I’m obviously not going to get any answers now, so I put the phone down and scoot closer to my bedside table. The smell of the buttered toast doesn’t make my stomach roil, and it’s only then I realize how thirsty I am.

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