Page 13 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

“Good choice,” I reply, pouring two glasses. The amber liquid gleams in the dim light as I hand him one. He takes it without hesitation, raising it slightly in a mock toast. I then pour a glass of wine and hand it to Isabella—she could use a drink to loosen up a little.

“To courage,” he says with a hint of humor before taking a sip.

“Only the best for meetings like these,” I respond coolly, swirling my own glass before taking a measured sip. The warmth of the liquor spreads through me.

“Let’s begin,” Hugo says curtly, gesturing toward the table.

He moves to his seat, still watching Isabella as he does, and I follow, every muscle in my body tight with restraint. The poker game hasn’t started yet, but the real game—the one I can’t afford to lose—has already begun.

The poker game is a dance of calculated risks and subtle power plays, but tonight, my focus is fractured. I shift in my seat, arranging my cards into a perfect fan, but my attention keeps slipping—to her.

She’s perched just out of reach, her legs crossed and the glass of wine cradled in her hand. The way her dress clings to her curves is maddening, and I hate myself for noticing how the low-cut neckline draws the eye. I told her she’d draw attention, and I was right. Hell, even I can’t keep my eyes off her for too long, and I’m supposed to be the one in control here.

My grip tightens on the edges of my cards as Hugo deals the next hand. His gaze doesn’t stay on the game for long. Instead, it slides to Isabella, lingering just a second too long, and my blood simmers at the sight.

“Your guest is quite the sight tonight, Castellano,” Hugo comments, his voice slick with amusement.

I glance up, my expression carefully neutral, though the edges of my temper are sharp enough to cut. “She’s none of your concern.”

Hugo, of course, doesn’t care. His smile widens, and I know he’s enjoying this—pushing, testing. It’s his way of getting under my skin, and damn it, it’s working.

“You’re a quiet one, aren’t you?” he says, addressing Isabella directly.

Her head jerks up, caught off guard by the sudden attention. She straightens in her chair, her fingers tightening on the glass, but to her credit, she doesn’t waver. She offers a polite, if reserved, smile. “I prefer to observe.”

“Ah,” Hugo says, leaning back in his chair like a smug bastard. “But someone as beautiful as you shouldn’t sit on the sidelines.” His tone drips with uncomfortable intimacy. “Tell me, do you play poker? Perhaps you’d like to join the next round.”

I grit my teeth. I don’t like the way his gaze crawls over her like she’s an object to be claimed. I don’t like how she shifts under his attention, clearly uneasy.

“I don’t think so,” Isabella says after a moment, her smile faltering. “I’d probably lose all my chips in minutes.”

Hugo’s grin spreads wider. “I’d gladly stake you, sweetheart. Anything for such fine company.”

The snap of my cards against the table rattles the room. “She’s not interested, Bianchi.”

Hugo’s grin doesn’t falter, but there’s an edge of mockery in the way he raises his hands. “Relax, Castellano. I’m only being friendly.”

Friendly? He’s pushing boundaries, testing limits he has no business approaching.

Isabella glances at me, her brows knitting in concern—or confusion, maybe. Either way, I’ve had enough. I meet her gaze briefly before looking away, forcing my attention back to thecards in my hand. But my concentration is shot. The cards might as well be blank, and every noise—chips clinking, the shuffle of the deck, Hugo’s smug laughter—feels muted.

I can’t focus. Not with her here, not with him watching her. My pulse thrums in my ears, and frustration coils tighter in my chest with every second that passes.

Hugo, of course, picks up on my distraction like the vulture he is.

“Distracted tonight, Castellano?” His voice carries that lazy arrogance he wears like a second skin. He stacks his winnings, one chip at a time, dragging it out just to get under my skin. “Three hands lost in a row. That’s not like you.”

I force my grip to relax on the whiskey glass I haven’t touched. I’m not giving him the satisfaction of a reaction.

Hugo leans back in his chair, smirking. “Must be hard to concentrate with a woman like that under your roof.”

There it is—the jab I’ve been waiting for. Anger rushes through my veins, but I keep my expression blank. “Your hand,” I say, motioning toward the dealer.

He chuckles, pleased with himself, and turns his attention back to the game. But Hugo doesn’t need much encouragement to keep talking. He thrives on needling people, on poking at their sore spots until he gets a reaction.

“She’s… something, isn’t she?” he muses, studying his cards like he isn’t watching me out of the corner of his eye. “If she were mine, I’d keep her close. Beautiful things have a way of slipping through one’s fingers.”

My gaze snaps to his, cold and sharp. “Careful, Bianchi. You’re close to overstaying your welcome.”

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