The whiskey is smooth—expensive, aged, probably worth more than my monthly food budget at the academy. It burns pleasantly on the way down, warming my chest from the inside.
Kai's eyebrow climbs higher.
"Your charm isn't going to work on me," he says, voice flat. "You're still my enemy."
I set the glass down.
Meet his eyes.
"I know."
A wink.
Then I lean over the table, line up my shot, and break.
The crack of the cue ball hitting the triangle is sharp, satisfying. The colored balls scatter in a cascade of controlled chaos—and six of them drop into pockets. Corner, side, corner, side, corner, corner.
One-two-three-four-five-six.
Even number.
Safe.
I straighten, unable to suppress the smirk.
Kai's expression has shifted.
He's staring at the table—at the devastation I just wreaked with a single shot—and there's something almost like respect flickering in his dark gold eyes.
Or annoyance.
Hard to tell with him.
"Your turn," I say sweetly.
The game continues.
We move around the table in a strange dance—circling each other, taking shots, watching each other with the wary attention of two predators who haven't yet decided if they're allies or prey. I steal more sips of his whiskey. He doesn't comment on it.
The balls drop one by one.
Stripes and solids, a visual representation of the chaos I've brought into his carefully ordered existence. I'm better than him—not by much, but enough to matter. Every shot I make is precise, calculated, the result of years spent mastering control over my body and everything it touches.
The eight ball goes in last.
My shot.
Clean and perfect, exactly where I aimed.
Game over.
I straighten, setting the cue against the table, and for the first time since I entered this room, I let myself smile.
Not the manic grin I use as armor.
Not the sharp, threatening expression I deploy when I want people to back off.
Just... relief.
