tricks of time ― grayson hawthorne [the inheritance games]

008. SLUMBER PARTY

Jameson groans, burying his face in his hands.

"God, Grayson, how many times do we have to tell you? There's nothing what we can do now but deal with it. We understand you were the heir apparent and shit, but you have to suck it up and deal with it! What's done is done," he exclaims.

He shifted, fidgeting and picking the skin off his fingers. He crossed his arms. "I'm trying to protect you," Grayson said lowly.

Jameson smirks at his reply. "I think we both know," Jameson replied, "that the only person you've ever protected is yourself. You've never protected your family, and you know it. So don't give me that bullshit."

Grayson went completely, deathly still. It was like he had been hurt, for the first time. The air was cold, empty, tight, and I didn't know what to say. I felt so out of place, just standing there without value while something deeper was going on.

Nash cleared it up. Or, to the best of his ability.

"Jameson" Nash stood, pulling the him to his feet. "Why don't we leave Grayson and Leah alone for a bit?" That was either Nash's attempt to prevent a line from being crossed or an indication that one already had been. The door shuts, and we're left alone. I stare deeply into his eyes, and so does he. It's quiet for what feels like an eternity.

"I should go," I said quietly as I peered at him.

Grayson looked different. He didn't look hard and strong like he always did, rather...almost toned down. He gaze was focused hard on the floor. He didn't say anything for a while, then looked back up at me. "Where...where are you going?" He said stiffly.

I shrugged. "I don't know yet. I'll just...I'll see you in a few hours, I guess."

And I left the heir apparent alone to drown in his shame.

___

No matter how many things there were to do in this house, I didn't know what to do. I was lost. How many libraries did this place have? That was what I focused on as I walked away from Grayson's room.

I reached the main staircase and hesitated. If I went back to my wing now, if I tried to sleep, all I would do was replay my conversation with Grayson, again and again. I glanced back over my shoulder to see if there was anyone in sight, and there was. Xander.

My head of security had told me I was safe here. He seemed to believe it. But still, he trailed me—invisible until he wanted to be seen.

"Turning in for the night?" Xander asked me. "No," I said.

He nodded, jogging up to me. "Here. I want to show you something."
___

Xander had dragged me all the way to the kitchen, and I furrowed my brows.

"Xander?"

He looked at me.

"Why are we in a room filled with scones?"

Xander shoved a whole scone into his mouth without giving me an answer. "The first scone is what I dub the 'practice scone. '" He handed one to me, swallowed, and resumed his lecture. "You don't have any type of scone-eating expertise until the third— nay, fourth— scone."

"Scone eating expertise," I repeated, deadpanned with amusement.

You have a skeptical nature," Xander noted. "While it will serve you well in these halls, there is one universal truth in the human experience: a well honed scone-eating palette does not emerge overnight." I noticed Oren out of the corner of my eye and wondered how long he had been trailing us. "How come we're standing here... discussing scones?" Oren had insisted that the Hawthorne brothers weren't a physical threat, but still! "Aren't you meant to hate me? Make my life as miserable as possible?" I ask him curiously.