Page 52 of Savage Princess

I’m able to do more with my hair, thanks to the products and the curling iron in the bathroom. It falls around my face in heavy, silky Hollywood waves. I draw on a thin cat eye, dusting champagne shadow over my lids and adding a deep berry lip. It makes my dark features stand out, and as much as I’ve never thought I was as pretty as my sister, I must admit that it’s a look that suits me.

Levin clears his throat in the doorway, and I turn to face him. He’s wearing a well-fitted suit, the jacket and the top button of his shirt open, and I can see the edge of the tattoos on his neck as they disappear into the shirt.

I see the heat in his eyes when he looks at me, and I tilt my chin up, not missing a beat, as I step into my heels, seeing his gaze slide over me from forehead to toes.

“The purple dress was a good choice,” he says quietly, and I see one hand flex at his side, as if he’s trying hard not to touch me. “No one is going to be able to look at anything other than you.”

“Does that ‘no one’ include you?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light as I look up at him. “You’re supposed to be paying attention to the game, remember?”

“Oh, I remember,” Levin says darkly, his gaze still drifting over me. It makes my skin feel warm, the way he’s looking at me, and I can feel my cheeks flushing.

He takes a step back, clearing his throat. “Remember, come down an hour after me. Don’t come straight to me—”

“Go to the bar, get a drink of my own, and wait to bring you yours,” I recite. “Don’t worry, I remember.”

Levin nods. “Last game, Elena. And then we’re done.”

I know he means done with this ruse, but hearing those last words still makes me feel as if something sharp has been driven into my chest, pain radiating through it.I don’t want to be done,I want to say, but I don’t. It won’t help matters.

I watch him leave, feeling fidgety. The hour ticks by immeasurably slowly, and by the time it hits fifteen minutes till and I’m able to head to the elevator, I feel like I’m about to come out of my skin.

The hallways are empty. I stride quickly to the elevator, keeping an eye out for anyone strange. I know Levin hated the idea of having me come down alone without him to watch out for me, but in this case, the plan was more important than him being by my side. It feels a little exhilarating to be on my own—I haven’t been out of a hotel room alone since we were dropped off in Rio.

The elevator chimes as it reaches the lower floor, and I step out onto marble and gold tile, my heels clicking on the floor and the silky skirt of my dress swirling around my ankles as I make my way to the room where the game is being held.

When I step in, I can see the men already assembled around the table to the left of the bar, raised up a little with a clear view of it. I walk forward without looking at them for long, as if I don’t have a care in the world except getting to the bar on my own time and ordering a drink. I don’t look to see whose eyes are on me, but I can feel them drifting over me. After so many of these, it’s hard not to know when I’m being watched.

I wonder if Levin feels like this all of the time, after so many years of being on his guard.

“Gin and tonic with two limes,” I tell the bartender as I reach the long, gleaming wooden bar, setting my black silk clutch in front of me as I take a seat. It feels like an appropriately fancy drink for a place like this. I try not to wrinkle my nose when I take a sip of it as he passes it to me, watching the game as casually as I can.

Levin doesn’t look up at me. His focus is on the cards in his hand, but I can see already that it’s not the same for everyone at the table. There are a few other women at the bar drawing eyes, but most of them are on me. I glance over at the other women, wondering if any of them are playing the same game I am or if they really are just waiting on the men they’re with.

I hear a grumble at the table as someone folds, and Levin’s glance flicks up at me just long enough for me to know I’m supposed to bring him his drink.

“Vodka, neat,” I tell the bartender, and he brings it to me in a cut-crystal glass. I stand up, feeling the tiniest bit unsteady on my heels from nerves. Still, I manage to keep myself together as I walk slowly toward Levin, knowing I need to draw as much attention as I can. I should look as if I’m in no hurry, as if I’m not particularly excited to get to him.

Like I might leave with someone else, if they impressed me enough.

As if there would ever really be a chance of that.

I set the glass down by his elbow, and he barely acknowledges me, not even when I brush my hand over his upper arm. I know it’s part of the game—to make it seem as if he’s not all that pleased with or attentive to me, both to bolster the ruse that I might take an interest in someone else and to keep it from seeming as if I’d be willing to help him win. But it still hurts, especially after the affection he showed me when we played this game in other places. After so many days and nights of him continuing to pull away, I feel like I’m starving for him to so much as touch me. I miss it in a way that feels like a physical ache.

As I draw back, I see the hand of the man next to him, and I discreetly tap one finger against Levin’s shoulder as I pull away.

I still don’t entirely understand the game, but Levin showed me enough of the hands for me to understand which ones could be detrimental to his winning. The man next to him has one of those, and though Levin doesn’t so much as twitch at the tap of my finger, I’m certain he understands.

When I retreat to the bar, I see the players finishing their hand just in time to take a break. Levin stays at the table, and I know it’s on purpose, to give someone else a chance to approach me and flirt.

At least three of the other men take the bait. It makes me feel a little like a cornered rabbit, as they approach the bar and make small talk with me, all of them flirting as they jockey to see who can buy me my next drink, but I force myself to smile and give just enough back that it seems like there might be a chance. I see at least one other woman at the bar doing something similar while the others are watching with an air that suggests that they’re with other players, not the ones currently trying to pick one of us up.

It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, not to look over at Levin as I accept another drink and toss my hair back over my shoulder, smiling sweetly at the compliments and wishing for time to pass more quickly so they’d all go back to the table. I want to see if he’s looking at me too, if there’s jealousy on his face, if he hates this as much as I do.

I can feel the tension ramping up as the night continues. The table is thinning out, fewer and fewer players left with every hand, and Levin is still in the game. I bring him another drink a little while later, noticing another player's hand, and I tap my finger against the back of his neck on the side the player is on, as I pretend that I’m just caressing him there as I walk away.

By the time the game is drawing to a close, all I want is for it to be over, either way. I want to watch, but I’m too busy fending off men trying to talk to me, and I don’t know how Levin is doing—not that I’d be able to tell anyway, with his poker face. It’s flawless—which is great for the game and terrible for my anxiety.

An angry groan comes from the table, and I turn to look just in time to see Levin bringing the last of the chips and plastic cards towards him—a clear sign that he’s won. I feel a flood of relief—and then an instant, clutching fear as the other players still at the table stand up, two of them nearly red-faced with fury.

---