Chapter Twenty-Two
I knew the Den would be packed, but it’s still shocking to see it lit up and sparkling, so different from how dark and bloody I saw it last. Yellow light spills from the door, which stands open. Two bouncers stand on either side, as large as professional football players. Maybe they actually are professional football players. They’re wearing suits which had to have been custom made. No way does anything that broad in the chest and arms come off a rack.
They’re checking names off a list.
Some of the people clutch a cream vellum invitation with calligraphy, as if to prove that they’re allowed. Apparently their elegant gowns and tuxes wouldn’t be proof enough. I’m sure no one gets in if their identity isn’t confirmed.
“We won’t get in,” I say, my heart squeezing.
I knew it would be a bumpy road convincing Damon to let us play, hiding the counting and the signals, but it aches to be stopped so early. That game means college-level math classes and professional addiction therapy for Daddy. It means freedom from ever being bartered again.
“Let’s try,” Daddy says, but I know he’s secretly relieved we’ll be stopped.
He thinks Damon Scott is just as bad as his father. I tell him it’s not true, but that sounds like a lie. He looked so much like Jonathan Scott at the end, his eyes more pale and shimmery than ever. Like a cold, unfeeling monster. And then he’d left me, his eyes as impassive and stone-black as the water in that pool.
Exactly the opposite of what Damon Scott had been to me.
“Penny,” calls a feminine voice.
I turn to see Avery in a glittering gown that hugs her slender body. She looks like a celebrity stepping out of the limo. Gabriel emerges in a tux, growling about safety and letting him go first. The rough sidewalk could be a red carpet when they stroll over.
She grins at me. “You look lovely.”
I glance down at my black dress. There are sequins on it, which is the only nod to fanciness I had. Manufactured sparkle. Fake gems. And the saddest part is that the dress isn’t even mine. I borrowed it from Jessica. Give me something that will help me blend in with rich people.
“Thanks,” I say weakly. “I’m not sure we’ll get in.”
“I didn’t know you’d be here.”
My confidence wavers. “I…I have to talk to Damon.”
“Oh,” she says, hooking her elbow in mine. “You can come in with us.”
“There’s security. And they look… strong.”
“Gabriel will get us in,” she says, sure of him with a serenity that makes me blush.
Gabriel leans forward and whispers a few words in one of the bouncer’s ear. Then I’m ushered inside, Daddy following on our heels. One hurdle down. At least a hundred to go.
The crowd glitters in the large foyer, large gemstones sparkling from their necks, champagne glasses in their hands. Many of them turn to look at Gabriel Miller when we enter. Most of the women check him out. Some of the men, too. He cuts a handsome figure in his tux, his wild mane of hair and rare golden eyes compelling.
But only one man captures my attention, all the way in the back of the crowd, lurking in the shadows. Black eyes meet mine, glinting from the chandeliers.
Gabriel Miller is as bold as thunder, rumbling, unmistakable.
Damon Scott is lightning, so bright he’ll blind you. They’re both forces of nature but only one will kill you just to touch him. Only one will burn you in a flash.
Damon pushes through the crowd, more furious than I’ve ever seen him. “What are you doing here?”
The chatter stops almost completely, everyone watching us. Embarrassment turns my cheeks red. I don’t belong here, but this is my only chance. “I’m with my father. He’s playing tonight.”
“Like hell he is,” Damon says, glaring at Gabriel. “Did you bring them?”
“I took them in off the streets, if that’s what you mean,” Gabriel says in a slow drawl, clearly entertained by his friend’s fury.
“We took a cab,” I say, my fingers clenching together.
“Get out,” Damon says, eyes on me.
Acid rises in my throat. This is it. More than the game is at stake here. We’re at stake. Him. Me. Whatever twisted future we might have, when I’m a woman and he’s a man. “I’ll go,” I whisper.
“Not you,” he says sharply. “Everyone else.”
There are gasps and whispers. A few drunken protests.
He glances at Gabriel. “Kick them out. Or let them play, for all I care. I’m done here.”
With that he grasps my wrist, his grip firm but not bruising.
Despite his words I expect him to throw me out into the street. Or maybe take me to the private room with the small card table. What I don’t expect is for him to pull me up the stairs. I already know what’s here. I’ve been here before, carried in his arms. His bedroom.
There must be other rooms up here. We’re going to one of them.
But I know, even before we stop outside his bedroom. Before he crosses the threshold, taking me with him. Before he locks the door with an old-fashioned skeleton key.
There’s only one place he would take me tonight.
“All right,” he says, his tone casual. “Let’s play.”
“I want to play in the big game,” I say, my voice shaking.
“You don’t think I’m big enough?” he asks, his voice mocking.
“The grand prize. That’s what I need to win.”
“I thought you weren’t playing. It was dear old Dad who’s going to play, right? With you as his wager. Surely you weren’t going to help him in any illegal manner.”
My hands are shaking. My whole body shakes. I’m an earthquake in the form of a young woman. “Fine, then I’ll play myself. I’ll be my own wager.”
“So that you can count cards?” he asks softly. “That isn’t allowed.”
“How will you know?” I say, my throat dry.
“We don’t have to know,” he says. “That’s what you don’t seem to understand. We only have to think you’re counting cards, and that’s enough to break your knees.”
I flinch. “Then I won’t count them.”
“You won’t be able to stop yourself. You and I both know that.”
He’s right about that. I won’t be able to stop any more than I can stop breathing or existing or wanting this man I shouldn’t. “Then I really can’t play.”
“Oh, I didn’t say that. We’ll definitely play. Not in the big game, though. We’ll have a private one, you and I.” Walking over to a small circular table with two chairs, he pulls something from his pocket. A deck of cards, the box unopened. It lands on the gleaming wood surface. “Strip poker.”
Shock renders me speechless. “What?”
“Strip,” he says, pausing enough to make me flush. “Poker. You’ve heard of it, haven’t you?”
Of course I’ve heard of it.
The boys are always asking the girls to play at parties. It’s not really a game. Not a real wager. The only goal is to get undressed. To find an empty room upstairs and have sex.
“No,” I say.
He nods. “That’s perfectly fine. If you don’t want to play, you don’t have to.”
My heart stops. “Wait.”
“Yes?” he asks, all distant politeness.
“I want to play. But not strip poker. Something else.” I’m desperate, knowing I’m already beaten. “Blackjack. Rummy. Anything.”
He smiles, but it’s not sweet. It’s a cold smile, beautiful in its sparseness. “Take it or leave it, baby.”
All of this is wrong. We should be downstairs. I should be on the sidelines, helping Daddy move to the next round. Damon should be running the show like a ringmaster, casually debonair. Controlling the whole room with a calculated smile.
Then again there’s something hard and right about this moment. The two of us alone, the same way we began. There’s no lake near us, only the shared nightmare of water. No trees around us except the walls of the Den.
“I’ll take it.”
“Have a seat,” he says, pulling out a chair.
It feels ominous, that invitation.
I sit in the wooden chair with its leather cushion anyway. Nowhere near as heavenly as the one downstairs, but just as lush, just as expensive. The sequins on my dress pull against the leather as I scoot into place.
“Now,” he says, taking his seat opposite me. “For the bet. What shall we wager? Something large. You were concerned about size, I recall.”
A flush heats my cheeks. “That’s why I’m doing this. So I don’t have to worry about Daddy gambling again. So I don’t have to be afraid.”
He hesitates for one sweet moment, as if he might bring us to a stop. Then he continues on as if he never stopped, unpackaging the fresh deck, shuffling them quickly.
With a small flourish he sets the deck down. “Cut it.”
I pick a random spot and cut the deck in half. He folds it over.
“I accept your terms,” he says softly. “If you win you get freedom from worry. From fear. No one will ever be able to use you against your will again.”
Does that mean money? How much money? I’m almost afraid to ask, because the truth is no amount of money will make me stop being afraid. No amount of money will stop the nightmares. It’s not money that will save me—it’s power.
“What would you win?” I ask, not sure this question is any better.
“Your father,” he says, surprising me. “He stays with me. He disappears.”
My mouth drops open. “What?”
“Don’t look so surprised. You should even be glad. Either way you’re free of him, of the gambling and the lies. The weakness. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
In this moment what I want is…him. Whether he’s the wild boy or the perfectly handsome Damon Scott, he’s always been kind to me. Playful and brooding, his touch in turns coaxing and commanding. He only turned cruel once he tortured his father.
Once he became his father, which was all Jonathan Scott wanted.
“What would you want with Daddy?” I say, my voice trembling.
“Does it matter what I do with him? He didn’t ask questions when he used you as his bet into the game. I suppose he didn’t need to ask questions.” Dark eyes run over my body, as if he can see through the sequins and the thin black fabric. As if he sees my heart beating rapid-fire under my ribs. “It’s fairly obvious what we would do with you.”
I understand then what this is. A test of my will.
He has to put something on the line, something I would hate to lose. And I almost stop. Because who am I to bet my father’s life? Then again, who was he to bet mine? If I do this, I’ll become just as bad as him. Maybe that’s the point.
Making me turn into my father the way he turned into his.
“Fine,” I say.
“Three rounds,” he says, dealing the cards.
My first hand starts weak—nothing with a queen high. With new cards I end up with a king, which his three of a kind queens easily beats. He wins the first round.
Staring at him, I swallow. That means I have to strip. I have to take off a piece of clothing. With shaking hands I remove a red bangle Jessica loaned me from my wrist.
He laughs softly. “Does that count?”
“Doesn’t it?” I ask, arching my eyebrow, daring him to argue.
I win the second round with two pairs, relief pouring over me.
His eyes glint. “What should I remove?”
I shrug, expecting him to take off his watch. His shoes. There are so many innocuous things he could remove on such a finely dressed man. The only thing missing from him is his jacket, which he removed when we entered the room.
Standing, he reaches for the button at his collar. Oh God, he’s going to remove his shirt. My skin suddenly feels prickly and too tight. The tendons in his hands move subtly as he undoes each button, revealing a sliver of golden skin and a hint of dark hair.
When the buttons are finished he pulls the hem from his pants, letting the two halves of white linen hang open. His masculine figure takes my breath away. Power, exactly the way I dreamed about.
Then his hands move to his wrists, where he works at the cufflinks.
They drop onto the table in front of me. Curious because they aren’t sterling silver or even gold. They’re this deep copper color, blackened at the edges.
Realization washes over me, as potent and clear as an ocean wave.
It’s a penny. A real penny that has been attached to a bracket, melded to make this cufflink that he wears on his body. I pick one up and find it warm.
My gaze rises to meet his. “Where is this from?”
I already know the answer, but it still makes me shiver to hear him say, “They’re two of the breadcrumbs you left me. So I never forget.”
From the haunted look I know he never would have.
It might be a memory, but it’s also a punishment. Is that what I mean to him?
He shrugs his powerful shoulders, letting the fabric fall to the floor. The only other time I saw him shirtless was when I had just been attacked. I couldn’t look close. Only now can I see his tattoos clearly. And only now can I see the scars between them. Elaborate scrolls and dragon scales. They’re beautiful, and they almost, almost distract from the silvery lines between them. Scars.
I stand, sick to my stomach. “He did that to you.”
“Are you surprised?” he asks, his voice low and taunting. “Are you disgusted by me?”
He sounds so casual, but I know that’s not real. He hates them. Hates them so much he’s covered them up with miles of ink—still never enough. How many people have seen him this way? How many women have actually seen him naked?
How many suits does he wear to hide his past?
I reach out a hand. “Damon, please.”
He turns away with a rough sound. “We aren’t here to talk about my father. We’re here to play a final hand for yours.”
There’s bile in my throat. I’m sick looking at him, how beautiful he is, how broken. Except he holds himself away from me, his body straight, muscles tight.
Reluctantly I sit down across from him.
My voice comes out halting. More sincere than I’ve ever been with him. Tears prick my eyes. “I’m sorry. That I sent you back there. I was sorry every day of my life.”
“Don’t be,” he says softly. “I was never sorry I did that.”
“And now?”
He deals the final hand. “I guess we’ll find out.”
The cards look like snakes to me. Deadly. Poisonous. I don’t want to touch them. They’re the root of everything ugly in my life—gambling and risk. Money.
How could anything this dark actually help me?
Of course the slick coating on the thin cards feels the same in my hands when I pick them up. There’s nothing different about the cards. I’m the one who’s changed.
A straight flush. An incredible hand, minus one card.
It seems impossible. I have to keep my eyes down so he doesn’t see my excitement. My nervousness. Because this can’t be real. It’s like I’m dreaming the six of hearts. The seven, the eight, and the ten. The last card doesn’t suit, I’m hovering on the edge of a precipice.
I push the fifth card down and receive a new one.
I’m sure fangs will sink into my skin if I reach for it. Poison will spread through my veins. Calm down, I tell myself. It’s just a game. But I learned a long time ago that it’s more than that. It’s hunger and it’s pain. Or it can be survival.
My hand is strangely steady as I reach for the last card. Even if it bites me I have to know. I lift the card, struggling to breathe. Struggling to see. Adrenaline blurs the nine. The hearts. I got it. The straight flush.
A beautiful, perfect hand.
Elation runs through me. In that moment I know exactly why Daddy gambles. It’s impossible not to love this, not to become this wild triumphant creature. Intellect may make us human, but this desperate desire for risk keeps us animal.
Damon’s eyes glint dark in the lamplight. “You look pleased,” he says.
And he doesn’t look worried.
Because he wants me to win? Or because he knows he can beat me.
I put down my cards. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react beyond a genial nod of his head, acknowledging a good hand. “Well played, baby genius. Not good enough, but still. A very good showing.”
One thud in my chest. Another. Painfully slow, time crawling now.
“How?”
He tosses down his cards with casual superiority. A royal flush. The only thing that could have beaten my cards, almost. And nearly impossible. The odds…
God, the odds.
Randomness doesn’t play favorites. That ace of spades is as likely to appear as any other card. The king, the queen. Except when you put the odds together, they multiply. They become infinitely smaller. Like in calculus, they approach zero—never quite reaching it.
My breath comes short. “You cheated.”
He laughs. “How do you know? Did you see me do something?”
My mind races, a hundred numbers swirling around, a thousand of them clamoring for attention. It’s really the simplest one that has the answer. The cards that we played. My hand of nothing, queen high. His three of a kind, queens.
“The queens. They’ve all been played.”
Which means the one sitting in front of us right now, it doesn’t belong in the deck. Whether he modified the deck beforehand or whether he used sleight of hand to insert it, that queen doesn’t belong in this deck. And I’m willing to bet the entire hand is fake.
“I don’t see how you can prove it,” he says, his voice mocking.
I stand up. “If you’re cheating the game doesn’t count.”
He stands too, reaching for his shirt. Putting it back on, like armor. Covering up the scars of the past and all that beautiful vulnerability. “Oh, the game most definitely counts. Your father is forfeit. And you, my sweet Penny, are free to go.”
* * *
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