She shook her head. “That is not the point.”
He studied her, frustration tightening his jaw. “When?”
She hesitated. “Saturday night.”
Something shifted in his expression, the tension easing just slightly.
“If you are there…” She glanced away and drew in a steadying breath. “So be it.”
He let out a long exhale, closing his eyes briefly before meeting hers again. She had not given him what he wanted. Not exactly.
But she had given him enough.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Saturday Night, The Onyx Club
The Onyx Club was alight with the blaze of a thousand candles hanging from the golden chandeliers that graced the ceiling of the large space. It was a tempest of sound and sin, alive with laughter, filled with people indulging in their worst impulses. Drinking, gambling, seducing—giving in to the recklessness that Society claimed to abhor yet secretly craved.
Clare had long since learned to keep to the shadows. Even here, in a place where rules were made to be broken, she preferred not to be seen. Tonight was no exception.
She had done well at faro. More than well. Now, she turned her luck to the roulette table, playing the numbers Marsden had whispered to her once—the ones that his scheming cohorts had ensured would land more often than not on this particular table. A trick. A deception. But the world had deceived her first, hadn’t it?
If someone had told her eleven years ago that she would one day be sitting in a club like this, slipping past the edges of Societyto cheat at games of chance with plans to escape the country, she would have laughed in their face.
Now, she didn’t laugh.
She just kept playing.
And then—she felt him.
The air around her changed. It grew warmer, tighter, like the space itself recognized his presence before she had even turned her head.
She looked up.
Their eyes locked across the room.
Ash.
He wore black again. Of course he did. As if he needed to look any more dangerous, any more ruinous. Storm-gray eyes cutting through her, stripping her down to the place inside her that still burned for him.
Because she did burn for him.
She had tried to forget. Tried to pretend the memory of him—the way he had moved against her, inside her, the way he had murmured her name like it belonged only to him—did not take up so much space in her memory.
But it did.
And the way he looked at her now told her he knew it.
She was wearing red tonight. A foolish choice. Red was for women who wanted to be seen. She had spent years perfecting invisibility, and yet she had worn the one color that made her impossible to ignore.
The ball spun, the wheel clattered, the croupier called the number.
She won.
Again.
She schooled her features into feigned surprise, playing the role of a woman delighted by luck. But Ash’s gaze sharpened. He was perceptive, and now—he was wondering.
