My hands are shaking. My whole body shakes. I’m an earthquake in the form of a young woman. “Fine, then I’ll play myself. I’ll be my own wager.”
“So that you can count cards?” he asks softly. “That isn’t allowed.”
“How will you know?” I say, my throat dry.
“We don’t have to know,” he says. “That’s what you don’t seem to understand. We only have to think you’re counting cards, and that’s enough to break your knees.”
I flinch. “Then I won’t count them.”
“You won’t be able to stop yourself. You and I both know that.”
He’s right about that. I won’t be able to stop any more than I can stop breathing or existing or wanting this man I shouldn’t. “Then I really can’t play.”
“Oh, I didn’t say that. We’ll definitely play. Not in the big game, though. We’ll have a private one, you and I.” Walking over to a small circular table with two chairs, he pulls something from his pocket. A deck of cards, the box unopened. It lands on the gleaming wood surface. “Strip poker.”
Shock renders me speechless. “What?”
“Strip,” he says, pausing enough to make me flush. “Poker. You’ve heard of it, haven’t you?”
Of course I’ve heard of it.
The boys are always asking the girls to play at parties. It’s not really a game. Not a real wager. The only goal is to get undressed. To find an empty room upstairs and have sex.
“No,” I say.
He nods. “That’s perfectly fine. If you don’t want to play, you don’t have to.”
My heart stops. “Wait.”
“Yes?” he asks, all distant politeness.
“I want to play. But not strip poker. Something else.” I’m desperate, knowing I’m already beaten. “Blackjack. Rummy. Anything.”
He smiles, but it’s not sweet. It’s a cold smile, beautiful in its sparseness. “Take it or leave it, baby.”
All of this is wrong. We should be downstairs. I should be on the sidelines, helping Daddy move to the next round. Damon should be running the show like a ringmaster, casually debonair. Controlling the whole room with a calculated smile.
Then again there’s something hard and right about this moment. The two of us alone, the same way we began. There’s no lake near us, only the shared nightmare of water. No trees around us except the walls of the Den.
“I’ll take it.”
“Have a seat,” he says, pulling out a chair.
It feels ominous, that invitation.
I sit in the wooden chair with its leather cushion anyway. Nowhere near as heavenly as the one downstairs, but just as lush, just as expensive. The sequins on my dress pull against the leather as I scoot into place.
“Now,” he says, taking his seat opposite me. “For the bet. What shall we wager? Something large. You were concerned about size, I recall.”
A flush heats my cheeks. “That’s why I’m doing this. So I don’t have to worry about Daddy gambling again. So I don’t have to be afraid.”
He hesitates for one sweet moment, as if he might bring us to a stop. Then he continues on as if he never stopped, unpackaging the fresh deck, shuffling them quickly.
With a small flourish he sets the deck down. “Cut it.”
I pick a random spot and cut the deck in half. He folds it over.
“I accept your terms,” he says softly. “If you win you get freedom from worry. From fear. No one will ever be able to use you against your will again.”
Does that mean money? How much money? I’m almost afraid to ask, because the truth is no amount of money will make me stop being afraid. No amount of money will stop the nightmares. It’s not money that will save me—it’s power.
“What would you win?” I ask, not sure this question is any better.
“Your father,” he says, surprising me. “He stays with me. He disappears.”
My mouth drops open. “What?”
“Don’t look so surprised. You should even be glad. Either way you’re free of him, of the gambling and the lies. The weakness. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
In this moment what I want is…him. Whether he’s the wild boy or the perfectly handsome Damon Scott, he’s always been kind to me. Playful and brooding, his touch in turns coaxing and commanding. He only turned cruel once he tortured his father.
Once he became his father, which was all Jonathan Scott wanted.
“What would you want with Daddy?” I say, my voice trembling.
“Does it matter what I do with him? He didn’t ask questions when he used you as his bet into the game. I suppose he didn’t need to ask questions.” Dark eyes run over my body, as if he can see through the sequins and the thin black fabric. As if he sees my heart beating rapid-fire under my ribs. “It’s fairly obvious what we would do with you.”
I understand then what this is. A test of my will.
He has to put something on the line, something I would hate to lose. And I almost stop. Because who am I to bet my father’s life? Then again, who was he to bet mine? If I do this, I’ll become just as bad as him. Maybe that’s the point.
Making me turn into my father the way he turned into his.
“Fine,” I say.
“Three rounds,” he says, dealing the cards.
My first hand starts weak—nothing with a queen high. With new cards I end up with a king, which his three of a kind queens easily beats. He wins the first round.
Staring at him, I swallow. That means I have to strip. I have to take off a piece of clothing. With shaking hands I remove a red bangle Jessica loaned me from my wrist.
He laughs softly. “Does that count?”
“Doesn’t it?” I ask, arching my eyebrow, daring him to argue.
I win the second round with two pairs, relief pouring over me.
His eyes glint. “What should I remove?”
I shrug, expecting him to take off his watch. His shoes. There are so many innocuous things he could remove on such a finely dressed man. The only thing missing from him is his jacket, which he removed when we entered the room.
Standing, he reaches for the button at his collar. Oh God, he’s going to remove his shirt. My skin suddenly feels prickly and too tight. The tendons in his hands move subtly as he undoes each button, revealing a sliver of golden skin and a hint of dark hair.
When the buttons are finished he pulls the hem from his pants, letting the two halves of white linen hang open. His masculine figure takes my breath away. Power, exactly the way I dreamed about.
Then his hands move to his wrists, where he works at the cufflinks.
They drop onto the table in front of me. Curious because they aren’t sterling silver or even gold. They’re this deep copper color, blackened at the edges.
Realization washes over me, as potent and clear as an ocean wave.
It’s a penny. A real penny that has been attached to a bracket, melded to make this cufflink that he wears on his body. I pick one up and find it warm.
My gaze rises to meet his. “Where is this from?”
I already know the answer, but it still makes me shiver to hear him say, “They’re two of the breadcrumbs you left me. So I never forget.”