Purpose skewed.
Contorting.
Distorting reason and sound mind.
Hours had passed.
Each had whittled away a little more of the exterior—the pretenses and façades—and peeled away my flesh to reveal bare bones.
It seemed I was no longer playing for wealth.
It was pride.
Revenge.
Or maybe it was purely survival because I wasn’t sure I was going to make it through this alive.
The only thing I was certain of as I pushed another ten grand into the pot and stared across at the single player who remained was that I was going to destroy him. Take everything he had and ruin what was left.
Jarek tried to keep his expression neutral, the pompous prick with his slicked back black hair and his careless confidence that had been given to him through his name rather than earned.
Like he was confident I would let him reach out and take what was mine.
Not ever again.
Even with the pungent arrogance, I saw the tick of his jaw, the flinch of his eyes, the sheen of sweat that hinted at the edges of his brow and glimmered beneath the dull lights from the chandelier that hung from above.
He glanced at his dwindling chips.
“Your father-in-law would be proud. If only he could see you now.” I couldn’t help but taunt it as I rocked back in my chair. I did my best to ignore the presence that hovered over him from behind.
A presence that fanned out and teased me like a sinful, decadent dream. A dream that had once been so beautiful it’d coerced me into believing there just might be something better in this life than depravity and greed.
I glanced up in time to catch the worry that riddled those fire-agate eyes. The golden green with flecks of red that were begging for something she didn’t deserve to be given.
Mercy.
I tore my attention from the lure of hers and watched as redness clawed at Jarek’s throat before he started to push in the chips to meet the bet.
Aster gripped him by the shoulder. “Jarek, don’t do this.”
I had to wonder exactly what he had riding on the line. Why he was there. Why I could feel the chinks in his armor coming apart.
Flinging off her hand, he cut her a hard glare.
“Don’t,” he warned.
The word was coated with his humiliation. With desperation.
Ah.
There was the chink.
Weakness wept through the powerful persona.
Reluctantly, Aster withdrew her hand, and her delicate throat trembled as she swallowed. She lifted that stoic chin that I’d caressed more times than I could count.
Okay, fine.