Vengeance (The Prince's Games Book 1) Rebecca Grey (first e reader txt) 📖

thin lips set into a tight frown, his eyes widening. He looks surprised. It's not like anything I had deduced isn't something that someone else who lives in The Bend couldn't figure out on their own accord. I have no particular training other than what I've learned about these creatures on my own or from Arron.

Marcello laughs. Juilliard only shifts his gaze to him, remaining propped upon the bed as his friend speaks. "I'm not trying to fool anyone. No reason to. Though I tricked you easily enough to stay alive."

That is my mistake. One I'll live with until it can be corrected. But I need Marcello to get through the Games. When the Games come to an end, so will his life. So will King Caspar's life. And the prince who has entered the Games anonymously. The reward will be so great.

I make my way back to my trunk, setting my boot up on its edge and leaning onto my knee. Even now as I examine him so plainly, I can't see any ailment that could be considered a handicap. Had the tip from Genovese himself been misplaced?

"What’s wrong with you?" I say plainly.

Juilliard snorts. "What isn't?"

"I haven't a clue what you mean." Marcello likes to play coy. Is that something they teach them in their proper Oasis schools?

"Where is your handicap? When I got the job that should have ended your life, if you weren't blessed by Luck himself, my tip was that the target had borrowed a lot of money and had a handicap. Immediately, I went for the Orc. He'd spent a great deal of money on that fitted piece for his leg. But you... you appear whole."

"I'm surprised you haven't sniffed it out with the way you seem to know everything else about me." Quietly, Marcello begins rolling up the sleeve on his left arm. With his right hand he digs his nails into his skin so hard I expect blood to swell in the crescent shapes they'll leave behind. There isn't any blood. Not a drop.

I shouldn't be shocked. Not really. I asked him where his handicap existed, so I know at least some part of him is fake. Fake body parts don't bleed.

A sound like bone being ground away pierces the air for just a second. He pulls the tan skin on his wrist up and the entirety of his left-hand falls into his right. It's still attached, of course, hanging by a few blue wires.

The smallest breath leaves my lips. Wires? Without the hand pressing against the nub of his wrist he still wiggles the fingers on his dangling left hand. It's a frightening sight. Not because he has the handicap, but because I've never seen electricity used in such a way. And that's what this is... is it not?

"What the fuck is that!?" I inch closer just so I can examine the piece. I'm only vaguely aware of how close I stand to Marcello, moreso distracted by this thing.

"It's not very ladylike for you to curse." Juilliard sniffles, pulling another cigarette from his pocket and lighting it up.

"Fuck off." I say at the same time Marcello responds with "I don't think Nilsa is very ladylike."

And a big 'fuck you' to Marcello too then.

I pinch at the skin and tap where bones in his loose hand should be. I'm greeted with a very metallic clanking from under my nails. The skin itself is so... smooth and soft. Just like his skin should be. Maybe this was why he doesn’t have scarring on his hand. It's fake. Could his other hand be fake as well?

"This is a robotic limb my step-father had fashioned for me when I lost my hand. Fine work, if I do say so myself."

"Can you feel this?" I tap against it loudly again. Hard enough that if he does have feeling, perhaps it would hurt, and that would serve him right.

"Can't feel a thing."

Anywhere I press my nails into the skin, it rebounds to its full and firm look again. The small marks don't remain, and it's almost frustrating. I like my marks to last.

"How does it work?" I lower myself so that my face is level with his forearm, trying to look inside the hand.

Smooth silver steel, or so I'm guessing I haven't a clue what type of material they'd use to fashion actual working body parts on someone, is curved to fit neatly into the end of his forearm. The wires run from under his skin, the real skin, and into the hand device. I do notice where his wrist ends is the only place on his body that does seem to have some callousness.

"How does it work? How does your hand move as if your mind can control it? Magic?" I curse myself the moment the word magic falls from my lips. The only known Immortals that have what we think of as magic are the few witches that exist in the world. And those are even fewer and farther between than Humans. Real magic is hard to come by.

Marcello connects his hand back to his wrist, carefully molding the skin back together like clay. There's an amused smile on his face, but he doesn't outright laugh. Perhaps he thinks it better of him not to, or else he might end up with a dagger to his throat.

"No magic. Though it's a complicated procedure, and I do not know enough about it to share. Even if I did, I have a feeling the technology is so foreign to you it'd just fly right over the top of your straw-colored locks."

I brush my fingers over the end of my ponytail. I'm more partial to describing the color as sandy blonde or even honey gold. Those things sound much more pleasant. Straw is brittle and dry. Is that how Marcello sees me?