Page 47 of Married to the Bratva

The next hand doesn’t go as well for me. I lose, which means the shoes have to go. I huff a little, slipping them off one by one and letting them thud onto the carpet.

“Better,” he says, leaning forward slightly as if this is all going according to his plan.

“You sound suspiciously smug for someone who has no shirt on,” I shoot back, narrowing my eyes.

He taps his cards against the table, the motion infuriatingly slow. “Give it time.”

The next hand is where things get interesting. I glance at my cards—a flush. My best hand yet. My gaze flicks to his face, searching for any clue as to what he might be holding. But as usual, he’s impossible to read, his expression smooth and unyielding.

“So,” I say, drumming my fingers against the table. “What’s the raise this time? Socks? Tighty whities? Or are you going to fold and admit defeat like a gentleman?”

His lips twitch, just enough to make me nervous. “You’re awfully cocky for someone about to lose her top.”

I laugh, even though my heart is pounding. “We’ll see about that.”

We lay our cards down at the same time. His straight beats my flush by a single rank.

“Damn it!” I groan, slumping back in my chair.

His grin is slow and deliberate, and the way he looks at me sends heat rushing to my cheeks. “Top,” he says, his voice low and smooth. “Off.”

“Fine.” I tug at my top, shooting him a glare. “Don’t enjoy this too much.”

His smile deepens, and I swear there’s something wolfish in his gaze as I slide it off my shoulders.

“Too late,” he murmurs.

I throw it at him, and he catches it easily, tossing it onto the growing pile. “You’re infuriating, you know that?” I say, crossing my arms.

He leans forward, his elbows resting on the table, his dark eyes locked on mine. “And yet you’re still playing.”

There’s a challenge in his tone, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. “Deal the cards,” I manage, my voice shakier than I’d like.

His smirk widens. “As you wish.”

“Your poker face is terrible,” he says, watching me over his cards. “I can read you like a book.”

I smirk, throwing down my cards. “Full house. Read that.”

I’ve soon shed my socks, sitting in jeans and a camisole. Maxim, meanwhile, has lost his shoes and his belt.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him.

“You’re still in the game, aren’t you?” he replies, his voice low and amused.

“Barely,” I mutter, studying my cards.

I make a bold bet on the next hand, and when he calls it, I realize I’ve lost. Again. I toss my jeans onto the chair behind me, glaring at him as I sit back down. “Happy now?”

He doesn’t answer right away, his gaze lingering just a little too long before he picks up the deck. “Let’s call it even,” he says, surprising me.

“What, no gloating?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Only when it’s deserved,” he replies, his smirk softening into something closer to genuine amusement. “You played well. Better than I expected.”

I gather the cards, shuffling them as the tension shifts into something less combative. “You’re not so bad at this whole relaxing thing,” I say, watching him.

“Don’t get used to it,” he replies, getting to his feet. But there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—something more human.

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