“Poker?” Liam asks, already perking up.
Kai raises a brow. “Please. If we’re going to play, we’re going to play properly.”
Christian sighs. “I should’ve known.”
Kai ignores him. “Piquet. Maybe, Skat? Or Bridge, if we’re feeling democratic.”
I blink. “Those are real games?” I ask, at the same time Bea says, “Oh, yes!”
“Idiot,” Kai says plainly, his head tilting toward me.
“Sorry—what?”
Kai doesn’t even look up as he fiddles with the cards in his hands and does fancy tricks with them. “I only meant we should play the idiot.Durak, in Russian. That’s what it means. The fool left with cards when everyone else is out.”
Liam lets out a low whistle. “Mate, that’s cold.”
“It’s the name of the game,” Kai replies mildly.
My cheeks burn, but I say nothing.
“It’s always Russian games with you,” Liam mutters, stretching out on the floor like a cat. “What happened to good old Snap?”
“Snap,” Kai repeats, as if the word itself offends him. “You may as well suggest Go Fish.”
Will, from where he’s crouched by the fireplace, murmurs dryly, “He would if he could rig it.”
Christian doesn’t even look up from his notebook. “He probably already has.”
Lilia snorts into her tea.
Kai offers no denial. Just sets the deck down in the centre of the rug, fanned perfectly. “Durak it is. For the proletariat among us.”
“Oi,” Liam says, indignant.
Kai says nothing to that, already dealing the cards with an elegant flick of his wrist. Then, without being asked, he launches into an explanation of Durak which Lilia and I try to keep up with, though it’s harder than either of us wants to admit.
A few games in, Kai and Christian have won every round. Liam is fast asleep, snoring on the sofa, and Kym looks dangerously close to smothering him with a throw pillow.
It’s loud, it’s messy, and it shouldn’t make me feel as comfortable as it does. But by the time the light outside starts to fade, I even catch myself smiling.
Adeline
Two years ago
I walk beside Mason in a silence that would be awkward had I not been so used to it by now.
“So…” I try, my voice light. “I finally get to see what’s kept Dad so busy all this time.”
Mason says nothing. Not even a glance in my direction. He just keeps walking, hands jammed deep in his coat pockets, eyes fixed straight ahead.
I try again. “What’s it like there? The shop?”
“It’s nice,” he says flatly. Coldly. Like he’s speaking to a stranger.
I force a smile, trying not to let the sharpness of his tone sting too much. “Well, maybe I can come with you more after this and—”
“Just stop it,” he cuts in.
