Chapter 1
The low hum of the city below fades into insignificance as I survey the scene before me. It’s not just about the game; it never is with us. Each man here carries his own obsession, his own darkness. And I, Remy Harding, am the puppet master, pulling the strings, but for tonight, I’m swimming with the sharks. My friends.
The polished surface of the poker table installed in the middle of my living room gleams under the ambient lighting, casting long shadows across the faces of the men seated around it.
Colton leans back in his chair, a wolfish grin spreading across his face. He flicks a chip in Rex’s direction, the red disc skittering across the green felt. “So, Rex,” he drawls, “heard you’re settling down with the beautiful Laurel. Never thought I’d see the day.”
Rex’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. Not yet.
“Our resident art collector finally found a piece he can’t resist,” I chime in, unable to resist twisting the knife. “Tell us, Rex, is Laurel going in a glass case like the rest of your treasures?”
A ripple of laughter sweeps around the table. Rex’s knuckles turn white as he grips his cards tighter.
“Careful, Remy,” Colton chuckles, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “He might need your services as a fixer to clean up the mess if she tries to escape.”
“I don’t need fixers,” Rex growls, his voice low and dangerous. “And Laurel isn’t forced into anything. She’s with me willingly.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Colton retorts, tossing back his drink. “Way I hear it, you’ve got her on quite the leash.”
The tension ratchets up another notch. I can feel it thrumming through my veins, a heady mix of adrenaline and power.
“Sounds like someone’s jealous,” Rex sneers, finally breaking his silence. “How’s the revolving door of conquests treating you, Colton? Still getting off on being watched?”
Colton’s smile doesn’t falter, but I catch the flash of something darker in his eyes. “At least I’m honest about what I want. Unlike some of us who pretend they’ve changed.”
I lean back in my chair, savoring the tension building around the table. Rex’s composure is admirable, but I can see the cracks forming. His fingers tap against the polished wood, a tell I’ve learned to recognize over our years of acquaintance.
“Laurel isn’t a possession,” Rex states, his voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of irritation. I catch the slight tightening around his eyes, the barely perceptible clench of his jaw. Oh, how he struggles to maintain that iron control.
“She’s with me because she chooses to be,” he continues, his gaze sweeping across the table, daring anyone to challenge him.
I can’t help but smirk. The man doth protest too much, methinks. But before I can interject, Declan beats me to it.
“Isn’t she?” Declan’s voice drips with amusement as he leans forward, green eyes glinting. “You’ve called her perfect enough times, like one of your precious paintings. But perfection’s boring, isn’t it? Where’s the fun in that?”
I watch Rex’s reaction carefully. His fingers still their tapping, and for a moment, I think he might lose that legendary control. But he surprises me, letting out a low chuckle that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“You misunderstand, Declan,” Rex replies, his tone measured. “Perfection isn’t about being flawless. It’s about being perfectly suited to each other. Laurel challenges me in ways none of you could comprehend.”
Luka, who’s been quietly observing until now, leans forward. His long hair falls across his face, partially obscuring those piercing blue eyes. “Or maybe perfection is just the beginning for you, Rex,” he suggests softly, his words carrying a weight that silences the table.
I can’t help but admire Luka’s insight. He may be the quietest among us, but his observations are always razor-sharp. Rex’s eyes narrow slightly, and I can see him reassessing Luka, perhaps wondering what else the reclusive artist has picked up on.
“Gentlemen,” I interject, my voice smooth as silk. “Let’s not forget why we’re here. The game waits for no man… or woman.”
A chorus of chuckles follows my statement, the tension easing slightly.
“Speaking of the game,” one of the other players pipes up, “are we playing poker or therapy?”
“Why not both?” Colton quips, his charm effortlessly sliding back into place. “We could make it interesting. Winner gets to psychoanalyze the loser.”
“As if any of us need more fucked up advice,” Rex mutters, but there’s a hint of amusement in his tone now.
I lean forward, my elbows resting on the table. “Careful what you wish for, Colton. Some of us might have more to hide than others.”
With practiced ease, I change the subject slightly, but not before throwing one last jab Rex’s way. “Still, it’s impressive, isn’t it? Finding someone who fits your… particular needs.” I say it casually, but the weight behind it is clear. The other men—especially Tristan Bowman, the manipulative psychiatrist—perk up, sensing there’s more to be uncovered here.
Tristan, ever the one to probe deeper into the psyche, leans forward, his blue eyes gleaming with curiosity and a hint of malice. “You’ve managed to find someone who matches your obsessions perfectly,” he says, his voice smooth and cutting. “That’s rare, Rex.”
