Page 12 of A Kiss of Deception

Jarvil leans back, scooping up his winnings. "Seems like Lady Luck's fancies me tonight," he chuckles, glancing my way. "Eh, Milkor? You're my good luck charm."

I grunt in response. If only he knew the true source of his 'luck.'

A burly man across the table slams his fist down, rattling glasses. "No one's that lucky," he slurs, pointing at Jarvil. "You're cheating."

The accusation hangs thick in the smoky air. I tense, ready to intervene. The last thing I need is for Jarvil to lose the ring in a brawl.

But Jarvil's laughter booms, defusing the tension. "Me? Cheat? I'm offended, friend." He gestures toward me. "It's all thanks to my elven servant here. He's got a knack for numbers."

The man's bloodshot eyes swivel to me, suspicion etched in his face. "Is that so?"

I nod, maintaining my stoic facade. Let them think what they will. I’m not here to make friends. I'm here for the ring, and nothing else matters.

"Another round!" Jarvil declares, scooping up the dice.

As he shakes them in his fist, I observe the subtle glow from the ring. To my demonic senses, it’s as clear as day. The magic pulses in rhythm with Jarvil’s heartbeat, influencing the fall of the dice.

The dice tumble, coming to rest with a tantalizing rattle. "Nine!" the croupier announces, and another cheer erupts from Jarvil.

More coins change hands, sliding toward my temporary master. It's almost too easy. Why does he bother with such petty deceptions when the ring's power could grant him so much more?

Humans have always been predictable in their greed, clinging to the familiar even when greater power waits. It's what makes them easy to manipulate.

"Your luck can't hold forever," growls another player, eyes narrowed.

Jarvil merely grins, the ring glinting as he reaches for the dice. "Care to bet on that?"

As the game continues, I find my thoughts drifting. How long must I endure this charade? How many more nights of petty gambling before I can claim the ring?

The dice roll again, snapping me back to attention. Patience, I remind myself. The time will come. For now, I must play my part—the silent, stoic servant to a man unaware of the true power he holds.

"Milkor," Jarvil's voice cuts through my reverie. "Fetch us another round. This calls for a celebration!"

I nod, moving toward the bar. My eyes never leave the ring. Soon, I promise myself. Soon, its power will be mine, and this tedious game will end.

The tavern'sclamor fades as my thoughts drift, unbidden, to Jarvil's daughter, Meetha. Her image from earlier invades my mind, unsettling me. Usually, humans spark as much interest for me as mayflies do for their fleeting lives, but Meetha stirs a curiosity that challenges my indifference.

I can't shake the image of her—defiance in her dark eyes, the grace of her movements. It's not just her beauty but something deeper, a spark of potential that sets her apart from others.

This fascination unsettles me. I’m a demon, yet I find myself perturbed by a mere human girl. It’s not lust as I’ve known it before; it’s a curiosity, a pull toward something I don’t understand, and that gnaws at me.

Jarvil's hearty laugh jolts me from my contemplation. I need air, space to clear my head. Rising from the table, the wooden legs scraping against the dirt floor, I lean in to whisper to Jarvil, "I'll be back. Nature calls."

He nods, too caught up in his game to pay me much mind. As I weave through the crowd, heat presses in on all sides, and I yearn for the cool solitude outside.

Once outside, I slip into the shadows, away from prying eyes. The alley behind the tavern reeks of refuse and rain. I lean against the rough wooden wall, my breath shallow as I try to make sense of these alien feelings.

This interest in a human is disturbing—unprecedented and inconvenient. I need to focus on my mission and can't afford to be distracted by a girl, no matter how intriguing.

With eyes shut, I attempt to dismiss Meetha from my thoughts, but her fiery gaze and knowing smirk haunt me. It’s not desire, but deep curiosity—an inexplicable draw to something I’ve never known.

Imagining her standing before me, her defiance melting into desire, I can almost feel her body against mine, her lips against my skin. The thought ignites my long-suppressed urges.

My breath hitches as I stroke myself, imagining it’s her hand on me. The thought of her innocence drives me over the edge. I spill into the darkness, feeling a release and a surrender to the desires that plague me. Is this obsession a symptom of my cursed state, yearning for something pure amid darkness?

I take deep breaths, forcing my thoughts back to the task at hand. The ring, the gambling—these matter, not some inexplicable draw to a human who will be dust in an instant.

Casting one last look at the starless heavens, I pull myself together and head back to the tavern. To the game and the ring, for now. This pull toward Meetha must not derail my schemes. I am a demon; I do not fall prey to the transient charm of human existence.

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