The King (Games We Play Book 2)

by Liz Meldon

  His finger on her chin startled her into momentarily forgetting her queasiness. Stunned, Delia let him tilt her head to one side, then the other, holding it there when he saw the marks Claude had left on her neck. His eyes narrowed before he stepped back and tutted at her.

  “Bad form, Miss Roberts. Bad form.”

  Delia watched him stroll to his desk, then return to his creaky chair. Behind him, the other four men remained unmoved, mere silent observers. Kain was the only one not looking at her, finding his hands more interesting instead. Her eyes watered again, the bile steadily creeping up her throat. She had trusted him implicitly with this secret, this thing that burned her from the inside out, that made her feel like she was a walking, talking bundle of misjudgement and idiocy. She had trusted him because he was a better hunter than her. She thought he would know how to save her.

  Instead, he had ratted her out to the men who, had the circumstances been different, could have sent her away, destroyed her career—or killed her for treason.

  “From the top, Miss Roberts,” Wentworth prompted. Delia looked back to him quickly, struggling to find her voice. “Spare no detail, starting from the night of the masquerade—the one we prohibited hunters from attending. Do you remember that? Or does following orders come difficult for you?”

  “No, sir,” she muttered, holding his gaze, a small part of her challenging him to bring up any other situation in the past—just one—where she hadn’t followed orders. He couldn’t have, of course; Delia may not have found her shifts stimulating, but she did what she was supposed to do every time.

  And while she wanted nothing more than to be given a special assignment by the High Council—she’d had dreams about this moment—the thought of spilling every intimate moment she had shared with Claude made her want to run, to bolt for the door and not look back.

  Instead, she talked, her face perpetually flushed, even after she got to the end of her tale—from the moment she met Claude Grimm right up until last night. She felt violated. Like they were cutting her open and examining her insides. Like they were seeing her naked. By the end of it, she was shaking.

  “Oh, Miss Roberts…” Wentworth leaned back in his chair and sighed, hands threaded together and resting on his chest. “Technically it is no longer a crime for a hunter to befriend a vamp, but you know you’ve broken a series of unsaid rules. Vamps are to be monitored and contained, not indulged in.”

  “Yes, sir.” Even her voice shook. She just wanted them to stop staring at her, these men robed in black cloaks, each one dripping with judgement.

  “In light of that, the only reason I am suspending your punishment is because you can be of use to the League,” the older man continued, head tilted to the side slightly. “Now’s the time to prove yourself, Delia. You will continue to see him with the intention of gathering information. We will require reports, of which we will provide the topic. Am I making myself clear?”

  With more than a little difficulty, Delia nodded. The grin Wentworth gave made her stomach turn.

  “Good. Now, get out your phone and call him. I want to hear you accept his invitation to dinner.”

  “Right now?” she asked, then pressed her lips together when his gaze hardened. “I mean, yes. Of course, sir.”

  With trembling hands she dug out her phone, and her fingers moved stiffly as she searched her contacts for his name. When Delia found it, all she did was stare. A pointed clearing of Wentworth’s throat made her press her thumb down hard on the screen.

  Claude answered on the third ring, and she closed her eyes as he said her name, wishing she could have left a voicemail instead.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked. It sounded like he was smiling. “Did you just wake up?”

  Delia turned, unable to do this with all these men staring at her, and headed for the corner of the room by the door. Standing there, she wasn’t sure she could do this—period—even if she knew she had to.

  “Uh, no, I’ve been up for a while,” she said, fidgeting with her jacket’s zipper. “Listen, I don’t have a lot of time, but, uh, I wanted to take you up on your dinner date.”

  There was a brief pause. “Really?”

  “Yeah.” She forced a laugh. “I mean, after last night, yeah, I think it’s worth… exploring.”

  “Well, this is unexpected.”

  “Is it?”

  “A little.”

  “Look, I wanted to apologize too for, you know, shouting at you. I was pretty drunk.” She pressed a hand to her forehead, feeling herself grow hot again as the men behind her shifted about.

  Claude chuckled. “Of that I was very aware.”

  “So, yeah, right,” she babbled. “If you want to do the date, uh, thing, I’m off…” Delia looked back to the High Council members with raised eyebrows. Wentworth lifted the huge calendar on his desk and pointed to a square. She sighed shakily. “Tomorrow. Do you want to… uh… meet up or something?”

  So cringeworthy.

  “I’ll pick you up at eight,” he told her, “and I promise to drive something better than the soccer mom van.”

  “Okay, cool,” Delia said quickly, knowing she should have laughed at the joke. “I’ll see you then.”

  She hung up before he could say something that would keep her on the phone.

  “Good,” Wentworth said when Delia faced him again. “You’ll get an email shortly, detailing topics of discussion we’re most interested in. I expect the first report as soon as the date is over, be it that night or the following morning.”

  Both she and Kain were dismissed shortly after, and Delia flew out of the office the second the door unlocked. She blitzed by Candace Sweetman, hurried out of the reception area, and barely made it to the nearest women’s washroom—in which she heaved the rest of her limited stomach contents into the sink, unable to make it to the toilet in time.

  When it was finally over, she washed her face and mouth, then used a paper towel to clean up the mess as best she could. In the mirror, her eyes were red from crying and her skin was a blotchy mess. She had imagined accepting a date from Claude a few times before, but she’d never imagined looking like this afterward. She had never imagined feeling like this afterward, like she was the biggest slimeball in the world—a bigger rat than Hugh. Drawing in a shaky breath, she took a quick sip of water from the tap, then stumbled for the door, ready to make use of the League cafeteria for once.

  She stopped, however, when she spied Kain waiting for her outside the bathroom, leaning against the wall across from the door. A white hot bolt of rage shot through her at the sight of him, and without a word she stalked off down the hall.

  “Dels,” he called, long legs letting him catch up with ease. “Dels, I’m sorry. I had to. You seemed like you were actually getting attached to this guy, and I didn’t want something to happen.”

  She kept going, jaw clenched and hands in fists. When he grabbed her arm, she finally whirled around and shoved at his chest, eyes flashing with anger.

  “No.” Her voice echoed through the empty hallway. “No, Kain, we are not friends right now. Don’t touch me.”

  “Dels—”

  “Fuck you,” she seethed, pushing at him again. He let her, arms at his side. “Fuck. You. You weren’t worried about me!”

  “I was.” He caught up again when she marched away. “I really was. I knew they wouldn’t banish you… Lots of hunters in lots of Leagues make use of vamp contacts. It’s frowned upon these days, but they scare new hunters into thinking it’s some huge crime because not everyone knows how to handle—”

  “Stop. Following. Me,” she growled.

  “You always say you want to do more for the League.” They both stopped at the elevator doors, Delia stabbing the up button repeatedly as he spoke. “You say you can do more, and this is your chance, Dels. This is your opportunity to show them you’re better than the shit gigs they give you.”

  “You think I wanted the High Council to know he bit me?” She looked at him, eyes
swimming with tears. This time she let them fall, if only to make him feel like an even bigger asshole than he already was. “You think I wanted to stand there and tell them about the sex I had with Claude Grimm? You think I wanted to do that? That I want the High Council to consider me because I can smile and flirt and probably fuck information out of someone?”

  “Dels, no one said you had to—”

  “Fuck you,” she hissed, her voice trembling. The elevator bell dinged to announce its arrival. “I trusted you, Kain, with this huge, life-changing secret, and you went and tattled like we’re in fifth grade or something. Like it was no big deal.”

  He opened and closed his mouth a few times as the elevator doors slid apart. Delia stepped in, arms wrapped around herself, and pressed the button for the cafeteria floor. Just as the doors started to close, Kain stopped them.

  “I thought you might be scared,” he insisted. “I wanted to help.”

  “Were you pissed because I sucker-punched you last night?” She pushed at the close door button, but Kain threw his back into one side when the doors started to slide shut again, forcing them back. “Is this payback for something I did? Something I said?”

  “Delia, no. I thought you were in over your head.”

  She gave a strangled laugh. “Well, thank you for making it ten times worse.” She swiped the backs of her hands over her cheeks, collecting the fallen tears. “Now move. I need food or I’m literally going to pass out.”

  “Fine,” he said, moving inward.

  “If you get in this elevator, they will have to scrape your carcass off the floor,” she snapped. Their eyes met and Delia glared until he stepped back, until the doors finally shut him out entirely.

  Until she was finally alone for a good thirty seconds, the elevator traveling smoothly from one floor to another. And when she stepped out, she had dried her tears and forced a half-smile, heading for the cafeteria amidst countless other hunters like nothing had happened.

  Like she wasn’t being forced to spy on the man she was hopelessly smitten with.

  Like she hadn’t been assigned to play the whore.

  CHAPTER 11: We’re Bad at This

  For the first time since she’d moved into her building, the elevators decided to work efficiently. Normally a ride from Delia’s floor to the lobby felt like it took a good ten years or so, what with the pausing at just about every floor along the way for other tenants, then the occasional heart-stopping moment when it would arrive at the requested floor but the doors wouldn’t immediately open.

  But tonight Delia was down in record time. The universe had a stupid sense of humor. A part of her thought of staying in the musty box and hitching a ride back up to her floor like she’d forgotten something, but the judgemental looks from the people waiting in the lobby forced her out. Besides, she had no reason to go back—purse, wallet, keys, phone, and first-date anxiety were all accounted for.

  Taking a deep breath, she headed for the two sets of double doors that separated her from the vamp waiting outside, all the while knowing that once she stepped out, there was no going back.

  As Delia made her way out of her apartment building, Claude spread his arms out, gesturing to the car at the curb. His grin was almost smug, and her eyes swept over him appreciatively as she approached. Dashing as ever, of course, in a pair of pressed dress pants and a crisp grey button-up and a dinner jacket. Her wandering gaze paused at his hair, noting that it looked like it had recently been trimmed. Normally there was a pulse-pounding moment when they met up again after a few days apart, a surge of excitement that threatened to take her breath away, which always made her smile. Tonight, she was too wrapped up in her head, and in this new sleazy assignment, to feel any of the usual emotions.

  “See?” he said, patting the roof of a sleek little red sports car, head cocked to the side. “I told you I’d bring something better than the soccer mom van for our date.”

  She stopped in front of him and nodded. “Yup.” Her lips pursed momentarily as she took in the car. “You brought the rich douchebag sports car instead.”

  “Hey.” He opened the door for her, a hand out to help her into the ridiculously low vehicle. “Having a Mercedes is more common these days than it once was. I think you’ll need to give it a new name.”

  Once she was in, which took more effort than she cared to admit in her dinner date outfit—heels were a mistake, even if they were chunky wedges—she arched an eyebrow at him and shrugged. “Doubt it.”

  Smirking, Claude shut the door gently before making his way around to the driver’s side. Delia shifted on the hard leather beneath her, hoping she didn’t look as nervous as she felt.

  She hadn’t given him a reason yet to suspect that she hadn’t been the one to arrange their first date. Across the street, a hunter whose name escaped her was watching from a bench. One of the rare older guys, he appeared to be reading a paper, his head of thick grey and white hair morphing him into background noise to passing pedestrians.

  The first day of October had come and gone. With the leaves finally starting to turn, the sun seemed to be setting earlier and earlier. The season of the vamp was upon them, with more darkness than light on its way. It was almost sunset by the time she buckled herself into Claude’s car.

  “You look nice this evening,” he noted, turning the keys. The car purred to life as Delia shot him a hesitant grin. She knew next to nothing about cars aside from their stereotypes, and never before had she been a passenger in one so high-end. As much as she wanted to poke fun at the rich douchebag angle she’d introduced, Delia couldn’t deny as they pulled away from her building that it was a comfortable way to ride.

  “I-I actually went shopping this morning,” she said, her cheeks a dull pink when she realized what she’d admitted to—the truth. Delia had gone shopping, dragging Ali with her, pretending to shop for a date night with a guy outside the League. Ali had been thrilled at the prospect, but it took a lot of pointed throat clearing to get the vivacious blonde to stop talking about wedding planning. Still, Delia appreciated the company—and Ali’s support. Delia wasn’t one for pointless shopping, but considering that the bulk of her wardrobe consisted of sweatpants, yoga pants, old jeans, and tshirts with faded food stains, an outing to the local mall had been a must.

  “Did you?”

  “I mean, not because of you,” Delia said, crossing her legs and tugging her skirt down to her knee. “I needed to update things anyway. This was… one of the outfits.”

  “Well, it’s lovely.”

  She licked her lips and looked away as a blush touched her cheeks. “Thank you.”

  In her peripherals, Claude was smiling. She wished he wasn’t. It only added to the blossoming bubble guilt eating at her insides.

  Just as Wentworth had told her, an email had been waiting in her inbox yesterday afternoon when she returned from HQ. At least the topic of conversation that the High Council was interested in was broad. The email had been sent directly from Wentworth himself, instructing Delia to discuss clan dynamics across the years. While he gave no reason as to why she needed to dig up said intel, Delia assumed it was to gauge whether any other clans had stepped out of line like the Donovans were doing now. If she could get that out of Claude, something she had serious doubts about, then perhaps they could learn how the clans had dealt with dissenters in the past.

  But that was dinner talk. For the moment, Delia focused on appearing engaged and present, despite the fact that her mouth was painfully dry and yesterday’s hangover had stayed well into today, leaving her a little nauseous and tired.

  “Delia?” The way he said her name suggested it wasn’t the first time he’d said it, and she straightened up, realizing she’d been lost in her mounting anxieties.

  “Hmm?”

  The car idled at a stop light. “Is everything okay?”

  “Why?” she asked, hoping to sound nonchalant. Claude shifted gears as the light changed, whipping through downtown Harriswood with the ease of a dr
iver who has traveled the streets many, many times before.

  “You seem a little quiet,” he remarked. “Nervous?”

  “You wish,” Delia fired back, though she couldn’t quite match his easy smile.

  As always, Claude Grimm had hit the nail right on the head. Of course she was nervous. Even if she had conceded to date him on her own, Delia would have been a little apprehensive. Hunters didn’t date vamps. They used them—they used each other. Kain’s words about older, more experienced hunters having vamp contacts had made her think that perhaps this wasn’t so strange a request of the High Council—but then thought better of it. It was a strange request, an insulting request, actually. It was the opportunity she’d been waiting for, but this was never the situation she’d imagined.

  While the car ride seemed to take forever, in reality they were driving for less than ten minutes before Claude pulled up to the valet parking section in front of the Beltmore Hotel, sister hotel to the Banesview. While the latter was located on the outskirts of Harriswood, the Beltmore hosted the business elite downtown.

  With a hand on her lower back, Claude guided her up the pristine white steps and into the building, nodding and smiling and addressing the staff like he had known them for years.

  “I’ve made reservations at Prewett’s,” he told her as they strolled through the sprawling lobby. White and gold décor glared back at her, the light fixtures so intricately designed that even they could probably deduce that she didn’t belong there.

  The austere and gold-plated stylings carried on into Prewett’s, the hotel’s five-star restaurant, located on the second floor. Claude had reserved them a table next to a window that overlooked a beautiful balcony. While the balcony was empty now, it must have been a treat to sit out there during the warmer months and enjoy the night views of downtown Harriswood. For such a small city, the core boasted several stunning towers with their own unique architectural touches. It was a gorgeous place to live—for those who took the time to actually appreciate it.

  Prewett’s was almost full by the time she and Claude took their seats, and after her survey of the other patrons, Delia’s new outfit felt too simple. She had chosen a maroon skirt, the fabric thin and flowy, down to her knees. Her cream-coloured blouse still had the pressed lines in it from the boutique’s gentle care, and she had tucked it into the high waistline of her skirt. Black tights and chunky wedge heels finished off the outfit. In her apartment, it had looked great. Compared to the women at Prewett’s, she was a dumpy peasant.