Chapter 3

Xander was the first person to draw a name from the cut-glass bowl. When he read the slip of paper, he smiled, but it was the kind of smile that gave away nothing—Xander’s version of a poker face.

Jameson drew next, then Nash, then Grayson, then me.

I looked down at the paper I’d just drawn. Nash. I didn’t look toward him. I didn’t look toward anyone. I just folded the paper in half and then in half again and then into a little triangle and tucked it into the front pocket of my jeans.

I’d have to make sure none of them tried to get ahold of it. In a game like this one, information was power.

Libby drew last. She read the name on her page, cocked her head to the side—and then a stream of red liquid hit her, right in the chest.

She’d been shot. With festive, red liquid.

“Hey!” Libby said.

“You drew my name.” Grayson, squirt gun still in hand, arched a brow at her. “Did you not?”

Libby scowled at him. “There is no way you could possibly know that!”

“Am I wrong?” Grayson’s tone made it clear: He knew he wasn’t. Without waiting for a reply, he tucked the gun back into the inside pocket of his suit.

Nash came up behind Libby. “Three days, Lib,” he told her, wrapping his arms around her, cradling her body back against his. “And then you’re back in the game.”

Libby drew Grayson’s name. I have Nash. My brain immediately started sorting through what that meant for everyone else. I looked around the room, studying the Hawthornes.

One of them had drawn my name.

“What happens if you shoot someone and it turns out that you’re not their target?” I asked.

“Penalty.” Grayson answered in one word.

Libby frowned. “What kind of penalty?”

“Trust me, darlin’…” Nash deployed a slow smile, the kind that might have looked lazy to someone who didn’t know him. “You don’t want to find out.”

That was concerning coming from Nash, who was prone to understatements.

“Bases must be built and marked with your name by sundown.” Jameson clearly wasn’t avoiding looking at me. He was relishing it. “Libby, you’ll need to construct your base, too. Given your sitting-duck status, you can’t actively fight off a would-be present-giver, so your base’s defenses are your best chance at staying in the game.”

“I’ll show you sitting duck,” Libby retorted.

I started making my own mental to-do list. Build a base. Hide it well. Spy on the others. Figure out who has who.

And as if that wasn’t a tall enough order, I also had to try to come up with a perfect present for Nash.