I throw in a few chips. “Let’s make it interesting.”
He laughs. “Bold move for your first hand.”
“Guess we’ll see,” I say, voice even.
The first few rounds go fast. I fold twice, letting them think I’m hesitant and they’re winning. They eat it up. Artyom stands behind me, one hand in his pocket, the other resting casually onthe back of my chair, his thumb brushing against the fabric of my dress. I can feel the weight of his gaze as much as the warmth of his body behind me. It’s distracting.
The third hand starts. Watch guy raises, and I meet it. He’s too confident. His jaw ticks when he’s bluffing, and he doesn’t know I’ve already caught it. I match his bet, keeping my eyes on the cards, even though what I’m really watching are his fingers. Two taps on the table. Always the same.
“You sure you want to keep playing, sweetheart?” he asks. “Might be embarrassing when your luck runs out.”
I smile. “I don’t mind embarrassment.”
Boris snorts. “That’s one thing you two have in common then.”
The table laughs, rough and mean. I don’t. I lean forward instead, sliding my chips to the center, my tone soft but cutting as I smile. “You know, you talk a lot for someone about to lose.”
His grin falters just enough to make it worth it.
The turn card lands—king of hearts. His tell shows again, two small taps. My pulse steadies. He thinks he’s got it, but he’s about to be thrown off.
“I’m all in,” I say, pushing the rest of my chips forward.
The laughter stops. His eyebrows shoot up, then lower, suspicion flickering across his face. Artyom hasn’t moved an inch behind me.
“You serious?” Watch guy says.
“Deadly.”
He calls it, throws his cards down with a smug smile. Two queens. I flip mine—king and ace. The table erupts.
“Holy shit,” someone mutters.
“Beginner’s luck,” another says.
I gather the chips slowly, letting the silence stretch, feeling their stares on me. The air shifts. They’re not amused anymore. They’re trying to figure out if I got lucky or if they just got played.
Artyom’s hand moves again, his thumb tracing an absent line across my shoulder. The smallest gesture, but I can feel the approval in it.
“Guess she’s got more than luck,” Mikhail calls from the bar, grinning. “Don’t look so shocked, boys. You invited her.”
The dealer deals again. New cards, new tension. I win the next hand, small. The one after that, bigger. By the fourth, nobody’s laughing. The man with the watch avoids my eyes now. The onewith the neck scratch folds early, muttering something about bad timing.
“You’ve done this before,” one of them says, watching me like I’m something to figure out.
I shrug. “Beginner’s luck.”
Boris leans back, swirling his drink. “Or maybe you’ve had practice. Tell me, nurse, how does one learn to lie so well?”
The words hit sharp, but I don’t flinch. “Some of us are fair players. We don’t need to lie to win. I just pay attention.”
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it.
Artyom’s voice comes low, controlled. “That’s enough, Boris.”
I look back at him, the muscle in his jaw twitching once before going still.
Boris smirks. “Just a compliment, my friend. Not my fault she plays better than half your men.”
