I push up from my chair and walk into the kitchen. I feel her watching me, tracking my every move like a predator waitingto pounce—or maybe a thief watching the vault, wondering how many steps until it opens.
From the drawer beneath the wine fridge, I pull out a deck of playing cards. The box is matte black, worn at the corners. I toss it in my palm once before returning to her.
“Simple rules,” I say, placing the deck on the table near her thigh. “We each draw a card. Highest one wins.”
She raises a brow. “And if I win?”
“You can ask a question. Any question.”
Her eyes flick down to the deck, then up again, sharp and glinting with interest. “What do you get if you win?”
I take a slow sip of wine, letting the moment stretch until she shifts on the table—just enough to betray her anticipation.
“If I win,” I murmur, “you follow directions.”
As if on cue, the lights above dim to a soft golden glow. Romantic music hums to life beneath the quiet tension—slow jazz, sultry, threaded with the kind of bass that moves through your bones. In the living room, a fire roars to life in the inset fireplace, shadows flickering up the slate wall.
Eve laughs, the sound warm and indulgent. “Smooth.”
I shrug. “It’s on a timer.”
“Hm. I bet it is.”
“I like ambiance,” I say, expression unreadable. “Helps me relax.”
She toys with the corner of the deck but doesn’t touch it yet. “And when does this game end?”
My answer is as dark as my hair and twice as dangerous.
“When one of us refuses the other.”
Her eyes narrow—assessing, calculating—but the corner of her mouth tugs upward as she brings her glass to her lips. She takes a sip and nods.
“I’m in,” she says. “Let’s play.”
* “Very good, beautiful.”
* Me too, baby.
He picks up the deck of cards like it’s an old friend, sliding the box open with one hand and pulling the cards out in one practiced motion. There’s something effortlessly masculine about it—controlled and casual. Like everything he touches obeys him eventually.
Dante begins to shuffle. Slow. Measured.
The sound of cards slipping over each other is the only thing in the room besides the low jazz and the soft crackle of the fire.
“Any boundaries I should know about?” he asks, glancing up at me.
Cute.
I tilt my head, holding his gaze. “There are very few boundaries I have, Dante. And I’m confident you won’t come close to crossing them in your harmless little game.”
He grins.
The deck stills in his hands. He sets it between us on the table.
“Ladies first.”
I draw. Seven of hearts.
