Page 1 of The Gambler's Prize
Chapter 1
Grimes
I’m the only sober one in the whole casino, except for the staff. It’s sweaty as shit in here. The air is thick and cloying with the scent of spilled, over-sugared alcohol and too many people’s smoky breaths. Windows are pushed wide open, but night air can’t compete with the heat in here. I shut my eyes, claustrophobia closing in. For a moment I almost hear phantomshouts and arguments from down the corridor. I almost expect to hear my cell door clank shut. The turn of the key.
Someone jostles my arm. My eyes snap open, and I’m back in the present. I take a few breaths as the casino rematerializes before my eyes. Musicians on a raised stage preside over a swaying, grinding crowd on the dance floor. Glasses clink. There’s raucous laughter, the swoosh of the roulette wheel. Wails of despair as someone is ruined. Shrieks of triumph as someone wins enough to live in luxury for the rest of their life. Those come a lot less often. My hood muffles the noise as I pass silently through the crowd. A half-naked young man puts a pretty hand on my arm, asking if I want to buy him some chips. I shake him off, ignoring his annoyed pout. So many distractions, no time to think. That’s why the house always wins. That, and the fact that most of the games are rigged. Except tonight. Tonight, I win.
I’m not stupid enough to play against the house. I have one man in my sights: Lord Florian Southland. My prize. He sits at anafitable, watching the dealer from behind a glass of something sweet and strong and expensive. He’s very pretty. Long shining dark hair, tied back with velvet. Deep, bright blue eyes, like a cloudless sky. Pretty, lightweight muscles. He’s been poured into those butter-soft breeches that cling to him like a second skin. His white shirt is buttoned low, exposing his chest almost to the belly. His skin is light. He’s Rhennian, like me, but he must have some Vennan blood to be so pale. That physique he’s so eager to show off is in good shape, but his athleticism comes from rich-boy pastimes like fencing lessons and horseback riding. Not the bone-deep power of years of backbreaking labor. Not like me. I could break him like a twig.
He takes an umbrella from his drink and spears a cherry, popping it into his mouth. Through the whole orchestrated move, which I’m sure he’s practiced in front of a mirror, heholds eye contact with another man. The man looks across the smooth green playing surface with wide, hopeful eyes, like all his birthdays have come at once. I can see why. Lord Florian really isverypretty. His eyes are innocent-looking, even as he flaunts himself. But he’s no innocent. He has plans for tonight. Plans I’ll be absolutely delighted to ruin.
I slide into a spare seat at theafitable, waiting for the other gamblers’ tacit permission to join the game. The dealer won’t deal me in until they all nod. I’ve gotten used to hiding my thoughts over the last few years, but I avoid eye contact with Lord Florian. Just in case he’s unusually perceptive.
I wonder why he came to this city at all. My investigating tells me that he’s lived here for the last six months. Galbrava is a frontier town built on goldmining and not much else. The people are rough, the liquor kicks like a mule, and the laws are rudimentary. There are none of the fine restaurants, coffee houses, theaters, dance halls and gentlemen’s clubs that Florian loved to frequent back in Rhennes. Still, Galbrava is just within the Rhennian empire. The King and Queen tolerate the city’s many flaws because of the steady stream of gold that runs from this desert city all the way back to Rhennes.
Maybe that’s why little Lord Florian lives here. Perhaps he likes to dance with danger. He’s one of the few aristocrats here at the casino tonight. Most of the customers are from humbler origins, but there are always a few wild, rich young men who like to play tourist. Play with fire, and go home safe. But Lord Florian Southland won’t be going back to his boarding house tonight.
He’ll be coming home with me.
Chapter 2
Florian
The giant new man isintense. He’s giving off moody vibes like it’s going out of fashion. Heat shivers over my skin as his dark eyes linger on me. I’ve never felt so mentally undressed in my life. He can’t stop looking at me. Especially at my lips. He likes my lips. I’ve forgotten all about the boring man I was flirting with before. Sorry, love, I’ve had to upgrade. It’s nearing the end of the night, and I never go home alone. I’ve had half thepeople in this room. But I’ve never even seen the giant hooded man before.
If he wants me, he only has to say so. But he hasn’t said a word to me yet. Giving me the silent treatment while raking me over with those pitiless eyes. Trying to make me curious, hungry for him. It’s working. But I have my pride. I refuse to speak first or ask who he is. Florian Southland doesn’t beg for attention… Damn. Shouldn’t have let my mind wander tobegging. I imagine sliding to my knees in front of him as that cloak slips down his body, exposing him. And completely forget my next play.Afiis a game of memory. The trick is to remember where the facedown cards are, even as they rapidly move positions around the table with each play. Even half drunk, I’m amazing atafi, if I do say so myself. But not when my head is mentally trapped between the hooded man’s thick thighs.
“Want to place a bet?” he says.
He’s finally talking to me. His voice sounds delicious, deep and dark and gravelly, like fine whiskey but with a hint of honey. He has a Rhennian accent, like me. It kindles something deep within me. Deeper than lust. It makes me homesick.
“What are the stakes?” I ask.
“You,” he says.
Well, fuck. The silent act wasn’t hiding shyness.
“Deal,” I say, before my brain can object.
The table whoops, their interest in theafigame renewed. I hold out a hand to the hooded man. His grip is strong, not overly polite. In fact, I’d call it rude. Back in Rhennes we might call him a brute. He’d never be welcome at my club. Which is half of his appeal, if I’m honest. His dark eyes regard me with a hint of a taunt as his hand dwarfs mine. Fire flickers up my spine. The man I was flirting with before shoots me a sour look. I feel bad for him, but not bad enough to transfer my affections back to him. The giant Rhennian is just too tempting. I take anothersip of my cocktail, unable to look away. His eyes are volcanic. Alcohol buzzes through my system, making everything louder and brighter but my thoughts slower. I give in to the sensation. I don’t need to focus on the game anymore. Win or lose, I’ll be going home with him tonight.
“What’s your name?” I ask him.
“Grimes.”
He doesn’t ask my name.
“I’m Florian,” I say.
He’s focusing on his cards and doesn’t even bother to answer. Talk about putting me in my place. I guess I’ll have tomakehim pay attention. I place a hand on his knee, which is the width of my palm with fingers outstretched. He looks at me like it’s a toss-up between letting me inch higher, or breaking my arm. His leg muscles are like solid rock. Is he clenching right now? I bet he isn’t even clenching. He doesn’t react to my touch. Is he going to keep up this indifferent act all night? Make me jump and beg and contort myself to impress him?
I might be into that.
The dealer clears his throat, getting impatient.
“Sorry, continue,” I say, waving my drink at him.
We play on. But I can’t keep my head in the game. Grimes’ dominating presence at my elbow steals all my focus. I swiftly drop from top of the table to the bottom of the leaderboard. The dealer smirks to himself.
