At least Byron seems familiar with the game. He motions for me to come along. “That works.”
The room he leads me into was probably the main bedroom in the original house, expansive enough to hold four smaller cards tables and a large wooden one that looks ready for a poker tournament. Each has a deck of cards waiting on its polished surface. I’m guessing professional dealers staff the room when there are enough eager players.
Byron sits at one of the smaller tables and starts sorting through the cards while I pull out my chair. He shuffles the reduced deck and deals out the correct layout with practiced efficiency.
“You pick trump,” he says, in what he’d think of as a gesture of fairness.
My palm prickles with his close proximity. Tuning the sensation out as well as I can, I look at the four cards in my hand and the four visible on top of their hidden counterparts in the row in front of me.
It’ll be better if I lose. Better to bore him than to present an interesting challenge. Byron is the type to be intrigued rather than offended by someone else’s skill.
I’ve got a ten of hearts showing and the jack of diamonds in my hand, but that’s it, and Byron’s got the queen of hearts turned up. Looking at our other cards, I should be safe with that.
“Hearts.”
Byron plays a tight game with no real conversation, using his visible cards as often as possible so he can flip the ones underneath and taking the first three tricks without hesitation.
Ihaveto take the nine of hearts he plays, and I turn up the king underneath. Which then means I have to take his queen. Two more turns, and the ace and jack I’ve unearthed are staring up at me.
As I hesitate, Byron watches me from across the table. A small furrow has formed in his brow, since he’s no doubt confused about why I picked hearts without knowing I had three of the top four cards.
“You don’t need to be afraid of me,” he says, his steady baritone startling in the quiet of the room.
My face flushes without consulting the rest of me about my reaction. I manage not to swallow my tongue. “I know.”
I submit to my inevitable victory with all the confidence I can summon. When I meet Byron’s gaze, the gleam in his dark eyes looks more interested than bothered, just as I feared. “Good game.”
I shrug. “Beginner’s luck.”
“You’re a beginner?”
I did suggest the game. My mind scrambles. “I mean, I’ve only played a few times. It just seemed… appropriate.”
One of Byron’s eyebrows ticks upward again. He shifts in his seat, leaning toward me—and then catching himself.
A chill shivers down my back. He’s looking at me like Cole did for just a moment the other day when I talked back to him, like I never saw any of my matches look at me before we sparkedour bond in my own reality. Like I’m a gift he might want to unwrap.
And he doesn’t even know I’m anything but waitstaff.
The prickles jab deeper into my palm, forceful enough that I have to squeeze my fingers against them. My gut has started churning.
It’s the bond. That’s the only explanation. The one I formed in my own reality fractured when I was torn from the men I matched with, but fate knows I’m still Elodie Devine and that I’ve already found my mates. It’s dragging us back together, compelling not just me toward them but them toward me for reasons they can’t possibly understand.
Is that why Salvatore has started harassing me with obnoxious flirtation rather than all the other sorts of banter he could use? Why Cole can’t seem to stop himself from questioning my commitment at every opportunity?
How much stronger will the effect get if I keep finding myself in close quarters with these men who aren’t really mine?
Panic skitters through my pulse. I find myself pushing back my chair. “I should see if I’m needed downstairs. I hope you enjoyed the game.”
“I did,” Byron says dryly.
He doesn’t follow me, but his words do, all the way back to the lower hall.
Nineteen
Elodie
Other Elodie was truly terrible at keeping track of her jewelry.
