Page 11 of A Kiss of Deception

The stew simmers gently, its aroma mingling with hers, creating a scent that's uniquely hers. I find myself reluctant to move away. Clearing my bowl is just an excuse to remain in her orbit. She glances up, her eyes meeting mine, and there's a knowing glint suggesting she sees through my ruse.

I'm drawn to the sway of her hips, each step a testament to the untamed sensuality she wears like a second skin. Her fingers stir the pot with a rhythm that echoes in my chest, a drumbeat my demonic heart unwittingly follows.

Every move she makes is a dance for me, though she seems blissfully unaware of its effect. The curve of her waist, the swell of her breasts, the cascade of her hair—it's as if she's spun from desire, a siren's call to any creature with a pulse.

She's young, untouched by time, and unaware of the power she wields over everyone—especially me. At her age, naivety is a shield, but not for Meetha. She's unlike any other.

She catches me watching, and for a moment, the world stands still. Her dark, fathomless eyes hold mine, a flicker of awareness surprising me. Could she be more astute than I presumed?

The moment shatters as Jarvil's heavy footsteps echo through the dwelling. Disappointment curls in my gut, an unwelcome serpentine twinge. I've faced countless enemies, yet none unsettle me like this crude human.

Meetha's gaze darts from mine to her father, her fiery defiance dimming as she dons her mask of a dutiful daughter, a transformation I recognize all too well.

"That took longer than usual," she murmurs, her voice low, a hint of derision lacing her words.

I smirk, the corners of my mouth turning up in rare amusement. Whatever this is, we're both players now, and I'm intent on savoring every moment.

"Milkor, you're with me tonight. We're gambling with the boys." Jarvil’s eagerness strikes me as quaint.

I raise an eyebrow, a silent query. Jarvil's eyes tighten, misinterpreting my pause as hesitance. "Is that an order?" I inquire, my tone a blend of depth and amusement.

He grunts, a crude affirmation. "You're in my employ now, elf. You go where I go."

I nod, my grace hiding my true self. "As you wish." An evening with Jarvil is distasteful, yet it furthers my goal. The ring binding me is a chain I plan to shatter, even if it means enduring a human diversion.

Meetha watches the exchange with wary eyes, flickering between her father and me.

We step out into the night; the cool air contrasts sharply with the stuffy confines of Jarvil's dwelling. The streets of Darkholm vibrate with sounds of nightlife—voices, clinking glasses, raucous laughter.

Jarvil strides ahead, his heavy footsteps echoing. I fall into step beside him, my elven grace stark against his lumbering gait. The Ring of the Deceiver glints on his finger, reflecting light from the magical lanterns.

"You'll see, Milkor. There's no thrill quite like it. The dice, the cards...it's in my blood."

I nod, feigning interest. "I'm sure it's...exhilarating."

As we weave through Darkholm's nighttime splendor, I observe the architecture—a patchwork of its tumultuous past. Squat dwarven stone buildings huddle next to wooden ones, while occasional elven arches punctuate the rugged human settlement.

We pass street performers, their music haunting. For a moment, I'm transported back to a time before my fall. I suppress the memory, focusing on the task at hand.

"There it is," Jarvil announces, pointing ahead. "The Rusty Dagger. Best gambling den in Darkholm, if you ask me."

The tavern is uninviting, its weathered facade speaking of neglect. A sign hangs above the door, depicting a dagger dripping with what I assume is blood.

"Charming," I mutter.

Jarvil pushes open the door, and noise and stench wash over us—sweat, spilled ale, and cheap tobacco.

The clatter of dice and hushed conversations fill the smoky room. Jarvil’s face splits into a grin. "Welcome to paradise, Milkor. Let's see if that elven luck of yours is good for something, eh?"

I nod, my eyes scanning the room, assessing threats and opportunities. The night is young, and the game is about to begin—in more ways than one.

We find an empty table, and Jarvil dives into the game. I stand beside him, arms crossed, a silent sentinel amidst the chaos. The humans are oblivious to the true nature of the creature among them, their eyes clouded by greed.

The clatterof dice hits the table like a hailstorm, sharp against the tavern's roar. Jarvil's eyes light up, his grin widening as the pile of coins grows.

"Seven!" the croupier calls, and Jarvil whoops in triumph.

I smirk, my gaze fixed on the ring on Jarvil's grubby finger. To the untrained eye, it's a gaudy trinket, but to me, it pulses with otherworldly energy. The Ring of the Deceiver lives up to its name with every roll.

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