Page 32 of Feral Guardian
“I can’t,” I say with a laugh that bursts into an enormous belch.
I cover my mouth with the back of my hand, my cheeks flushing with heat. The others roar with good-natured laughter, pressuring me to try another drink, a different one. It’s an amber-colored liquor that smells very strong.
Alastair takes the glass from me, holding it in his right hand for a moment as he focuses intently on the ring on his index finger. His eyes narrow, and then he passes the glass back to me.
“I hope this is the fun you’re looking for,” he says in a way that sounds a little patronizing.
I take the cup from him with a sickly sweet smile. “Yes, it is. Thank you very much.”
“Let’s find somewhere to sit,” he says, and three of the closest men offer for me to join their tables.
“Who’s got cards?” I ask them.
“I do!” a man with pale skin and thinning blond hair says.
I lift my glass to him. “Lead the way, good sir!”
“It’s Duncan,” he replies, his blue eyes bright with excitement.
I’m seated at the head of the table with Alastair towering behind me like a sentry. Duncan begins explaining the rules of Shit Kickers. I ask about the history of the name and another man, Pierre, explains that the game came about to see who would get the nicest shoes for the week.
“You played for shoes?” I ask, the beet beer roiling in my stomach.
Duncan nods. “What do you play for?”
I shrug. “Fun, I suppose.”
“Where’s the fun if there’s no stakes?” Pierre asks as he slaps his friend on the shoulder.
I seesaw my head. It feels light and airy. “I like the company. The jokes.”
“Oh, we’ve got some jokes for you, little miss,” says the man beside Pierre—Lucas, perhaps? I think he introduced himself as Lucas. He grins at me, and Alastair’s hand falls to my shoulder in a tight, protective grip.
I glance up at him and my smile is salacious. “Perfect.”
Alastair looks as if he’s about to die. “Thirty more minutes,” he growls.
Just enough time to get all the best jokes.
We play a few practice rounds with no bets, and when I’m sure I’ve got it—I’ve got it, right?—we lay down the goods. I pull the small dagger I’d stolen from the headmistress and place it at the center of the table.
Duncan reaches for the dagger. “Where did you get this?”
“I stole it,” I say with a shrug and a grin. I’m feeling pretty good.
All eyes at the table land on me and Alastair’s hand clamps down harder.
Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.
“Look at me. What could I steal?” I ask. “I donothave dexterous fingers. It’s a family heirloom.”
The suspicion in the men’s gazes gradually fades.
“You’re willing to lose an heirloom?” Duncan asks as he inspects the knife.
It’s nice, but nothing I would write home about.
“Well, it’s notmyfamily’s heirloom, so what do I care?” I say as I shimmy my shoulders.
