Page 56 of The King (Masterpiece Duet 1)
“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.”
