Page 12 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

She looks so damn... human. Real.

“You’re distracting my staff,” I say flatly.

“He was teaching me how to make pumpkin pie! You didn’t have to treat him like that,” she retorts, crossing her arms. “I was bored in my room, and it’s not like you’ve given me much else to do. I thought this would be a nice change.”

Her dark eyes bore into mine, challenging me in a way few would dare. A part of me wants to explain myself, but the larger, reserved part—the part that knows what’s at stake tonight—closes the door on that impulse. Why does it bother me that she was spending time with someone else?

“If you’re so bored,” I hear myself saying, “come to the poker game tonight.”

Her eyes widen, surprise softening her features. For a moment, she just stares at me, like she’s waiting for me to take it back. Then, slowly, her lips curve into a smile—bright, genuine. It’s the kind of smile that cuts through the layers I keep wrapped around myself.

“Really?” she asks, her voice lighter now, almost hopeful.

I regret the words the second they leave my mouth. Inviting her is reckless, but the sight of that smile is enough to ground me. It’s a rare thing, and before I know it, I’ve committed to seeing it again.

“Yes,” I say gruffly, the word rougher than I intend. “Be ready in an hour.”

I turn before I can see the full effect of her reaction. If I stay, I’ll do something stupid, like let her see how much she’s getting under my skin. Tonight, I need focus. I need control.

As I enter the dining hall, it glows with opulence, every detail carefully curated for the evening. The polished mahogany poker table, bathed in the warm light of crystal chandeliers, commands attention. Decanters of fine whiskey and wine rest within arm’s reach, while the glimmer of candlelight dances off intricately etched crystal glasses. The room exudes wealth and power, but beneath its grandeur lies a predatory edge—a lion’s den cloaked in velvet and gold.

I stand at the head of the table, surveying the setup with a critical eye. The stakes tonight go far beyond the chips we’ll toss across the felt. Hugo Bianchi, acting boss of the rival syndicate, isn’t a man to be underestimated. He’s cunning, sharp, and unpredictable—a man who thrives on exploiting the weaknesses of others. Winning him over tonight could tip the scales in my favor. Having him on my side would mean better chances of victory over Delgado’s.

Every move I make tonight must be planned, precise. There’s no room for distractions.

And then she walks in.

I sense her presence before I see her, the sharp click of her heels cutting through the quiet and drawing my attention. My gaze shifts, pulled by an invisible gravity, and the moment my eyes find her, the breath catches in my chest, frozen by the sight before me.

Isabella.

She’s changed from the casual ease of the kitchen into an outfit designed to ruin my focus. A sleek black dress clings to her curves like a second skin, the fabric smooth and shimmering under the golden light. The hem skims mid-thigh, leaving her legs bare and endless, while the neckline plunges low enough to show off just enough cleavage to drive a man insane. Her hair is tied in a low bun with strands framing her face with an effortless beauty.

She’s a vision—and a liability.

My chest swells, heat coiling low in my stomach as anger rises to the surface. What the hell was she thinking wearing that?

I cross the room in quick, measured strides, my voice low enough to keep others from overhearing. “Where did you get that dress?”

She meets my gaze head-on, her dark eyes glinting with mischief. There’s a challenge in her expression that both irritates and intrigues me. “It was in the closet,” she says simply, her voice even. “Why? Do I not look good?”

That’s the damn problem. She looks too good—too distracting, too tempting, too much. I force my gaze upward when it dips to the curve of her collarbone.

“You’ll draw attention,” I say, the words clipped.

She steps closer, and the subtle shift in proximity sets my pulse hammering. Her chin tilts up in defiance, her smirk playful and maddening. “I thought that was the point of bringing me here. Or am I wrong?”

Her tone is light, teasing. I part my lips to respond—to tell her just how wrong she is—but before I can, the doors behind me swing open, pulling my attention away.

Hugo Bianchi.

The man walks in like he owns the place, his entourage trailing behind him. His white suit is sharp, his smile sharper, and his gaze is immediately drawn to Isabella. It lingers, sliding over her like a predator sizing up prey, and my fists curl at my sides.

“Dominic,” Hugo says, his voice smooth and unctuous as he extends a hand. “A pleasure, as always.”

With a calm, measured motion, I reach for the decanter on the side table but pause, glancing at Hugo. “What’s your preference? Whiskey?”

He leans back slightly, considering the choices before giving a casual shrug. “Whiskey. I’ll need all the courage I can get if I’m playing against you.” His smirk deepens as he adds, “Besides, whiskey suits a high-stakes game like this.”

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