Games Untold (The Inheritance Games #5)

Then

Then

Y ou can never have too many cupcakes,” I announce—for my own benefit—as I pull my sixth dozen for the day out of the oven.

I am not avoiding Nash Hawthorne.

Really. Truly. I am not—

And here he is. The moment he steps foot in the kitchen, I try to act normal, like Cartago never happened. “Choose your poison,” I tell the cowboy. “You’re probably going to want a napkin.”

There is a slight chance that I may have been going overboard on the frosting.

“Lib.”

One word—my name, shortened in that very Nash Hawthorne way. But it’s enough for me to know: Something is wrong.

“What is it?” I start across the kitchen toward him. He’s wearing yet another T-shirt that’s seen better days. This one is a deep, mossy green.

Every muscle in his body is taut.

“It’s Avery.” Two words—just two, but they have me coming to a complete and utter halt. Nash Hawthorne could walk through fire without batting an eye. If an earthquake hit, and the ground beneath him cracked, he’d just shift his weight and wait for the aftershock to pass. But right now, there is nothing casual about Nash Hawthorne.

“What about Avery?” I barely get the words out.

“I need you to breathe for me.” Nash closes what little space remains between us in a single breath. His arms wrap around me.

He’s got me.

“I am breathing,” I lie.

“Breathe, Lib.” He pulls me against him. My head on his chest, I breathe in Nash Hawthorne.

“What happened?” I whisper. His T-shirt is soft against my cheek.

“First thing you need to know is that she’s alive.” Nash’s voice isn’t any gentler than usual, and I am so damn grateful for that. He keeps one arm curved around me, and the other makes its way to the back of my head. “Second thing you need to know is that there was a bomb.”

What? No. “What kind of bomb?” The instant I force out the question, the self-protective part of my brain clicks on. “Like a metaphorical bomb? A little, totally legal, firework-style not-really-a-bomb bomb?”

I see Nash’s chest rise and fall, and I realize that the only reason I am breathing is because my chest is rising and falling in unison with his.

“Tell me Avery made a movie that did really bad at the box office.” I’m practically begging now.

His hands come to the side of my face, his thumbs cupping my jaw, his fingers curving back around my neck.

This is bad. This is very bad.

“Her plane exploded.” His chest rises and falls. Mine rises and falls. I’m still breathing. I’m still just barely breathing. “The jet was on the ground at the time,” Nash continues quietly. “Avery wasn’t in it, but she was close enough to get caught in the blast.”

“No.” I will not let this be true.

“Libby—”

“Absolutely, positively not .” I wrench my head from his hands—or at least, I try to, but he won’t let me go.

“Ask me if she’s going to be okay.”

My mouth is so dry, it feels like my tongue might crack. “Is she going to be okay?”

“She’s trouble.” Nash leans his forehead down to touch mine. “We’re gonna have to keep an eye on that one, Lib. You and me.”

My heart feels like it’s tearing in two, but I won’t let it. “We’re going to take care of her,” I say, because that’s what we do, Nash and me. We take care of people.

“Damn right we are,” the cowboy says. “And she is going to be just fine.”

I hear what he isn’t saying: “She has to be.” She might not be, but she has to be —and Nash Hawthorne and I are damn well going to make it so.