Page 96 of Heir

I refused to look at the shifter, even though I could feel his eyes burning on me. I increased the bet to three fifty. The man beside me had already folded, which meant it was cigar smoker’s turn. He raised the bet to four fifty. I knew he shifted his gaze my way, but I still refused to bite.

I hated this man, and he knew it. He was goading me. Trying to out play me and get in my head.

The cut-off folded as well.

This left just four of us in the game.

The shifter, the mustache man, the cigar smoker, and me.

Cane burned another card, then placed the fifth and final card face up in the river.

It was a king of spades.

Holy fucking shit.

I had two pair.

I didn’t react. Gemma and I had worked on killing any of my tells. I had none.

I never reacted when I had good cards or terrible cards.

The shifter went all in, smiling at me as he pushed all his chips into the middle.

Mustache man huffed in frustration and folded, throwing his cards down onto the table with a dramatic flair.

There was nothing I could do besides fold or match his bet, and as much as I didn’t want to go all-in and push all my money into the middle on two pairs, I had to.

Lastly, was the cigar smoker.

Like always, he waited the dramatic minute, glancing at his cards several times and swiveling his gaze between myself and the shifter. Finally, with a deep sigh, he pushed all his chips into the center as well.

The room was tense as fuck. Nobody spoke. Breaths were held. Assholes were clenched.

The shifter flipped his cards over first. A two of hearts and a jack of diamonds.

He had two pairs as well.

But my pairs were better.

“Two pair,” Cane announced. “Jacks and twos.” He smiled when he turned to me. “You’re up, Omaera.”

With my heart pummeling my ribcage, I flipped my cards over.

The crowd gasped.

“Two pair,” Cane said again. “Kings and nines.”

A very wolfish growl rumbled across the table from the shifter

“You’re up, Mr. Cavendish,” Cane said to the man who smelled like cigar smoke.

Mr. Cavendish, also known as Ricky C, a full-of-himself rounder with groupies, fancy cars and, from everything I’ve heard, a very small dick, flipped over his cards to reveal a three of spades and a jack of hearts. He also had two pairs. But they still weren’t as good as mine.

“Two pairs,” Cane announced. “Jacks and threes. The pot goes to Omaera with a winning hand of two pairs of kings and nines.”

Never wanting to showboat—too much—I smiled and leaned forward, scooping my chips toward me. It was a good and profitable game. This was exactly what I needed to get out of my head, out of my grief and confusion, and make some money as well. I could head home now to the chaos that awaited me.

As I was gathering my chips, the shifter leaned forward. “I’m sure Cane, Marty and Mr. Bello would love to hear how you’ve been cheating by persuasion and manipulation all these years.” His voice was low, growly and laden with threat.

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