Page 57 of The King (Masterpiece Duet 1)
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.
