“Raise,” he says.
A quick glance tells me he just put $1000 into the pot, and I have to force myself to stay still.That’s a lot of fucking money, and that means he’s either bluffing his ass off or has a hand he thinks can win.
He doesn’t.Nothing will beat my royal flush.But he’s welcome to try.
The rest of the men at the table variously check or fold, none of them calling or raising, and I tip my head at the man across from me, sharing a look with him that laughs at how chickenshit they all are.
None of them brave enough to match us, my look says.
None of them man enough to take you on, his look replies.
I lift one brow and give him a tiny smile, agreeing with him.
When it’s my turn again, I go all in, sliding all of my chips to the center of the table.When I look at him again, his eyes are so hot with lust he can barely contain himself, and I wonder for a moment whether he’s getting hard under the table at the thought of beating me.
I’m betting he gets even more turned on at the thought of me beating him...and him taking it out on me later.
I’ve known men like him.
They like to be beat, so they can blame the woman later, and make her pay.
And holy fuck do I like making men like that pay.I like it even more when I know that those men are part of an international sex trafficking ring that’s buying and selling helpless girls for purposes I’m trying very hard not to think about.
I want to dive over the table and slice this man’s tongue out of his head, then force him to watch as he bleeds to death from the mouth.
Instead, I’m going to play him to within an inch of his life and then make him tell me exactly who he is and what’s going on in this organization.
Death by blade or death by interrogation.At the end of the day, the outcome is the same.The second version just gets me more information.
Everyone else at the table has folded by this time and when his eyes go to the number of chips I just bet, he swears softly.
Which is when I hear the change in language.
I didn’t catch it before because we were only using one word at a time, and he was speaking English.But the moment he’s stressed by my bet, he reverts to something else, and I’ve been around long enough to recognize the harsh, guttural tones of a Slavic language.The letters that don’t come together the way they do in Latin languages.The thick, throaty way his tongue caresses the words.The way the sound of it runs up and down my spine, making me shiver with some unknown threat.
Russian.
I’d bet my entire life on it.
And if I didn’t already have chills racing across my skin, that would do it.Because I have eyes on another Russian, still standing with Samantha and smiling his toothy smile.For some reason, I thought he was the only one in here.But the man across from me is evidently of the same breed, flying completely under the radar, and that makes me wonder how many fucking Russians are in this room.
I jump from there to wondering how deep my father is with them, and what that could possibly mean.
And then my phone starts buzzing and nearly gives me a heart attack.
I slide it out of my bra and put it in my lap, refusing to look at the message right now, and watch as my new Russian friend calls my best.He doesn’t raise again.
Time to show our hands.Metaphorically speaking.
He lifts one brow in my direction and I give him the smallest of smiles.
“Guests first,” I murmur.
He doesn’t smile back, but flips his hand over on the table.Three aces and two threes.
“Full house,” I say quietly.I turn my eyes to him.“Quite powerful.”
I pause long enough to see him smirk, thinking he’s got me, and then I flip my own cards over.
