Page 147 of A Sanctuary from Shadow
As Howlite mulled over his sixth hand, I popped up, grinning at the Danann to my right. “Care to scoot over?”
Blinking, the rangy feyr did just as I asked.
Better arranging my skirt, I fluffed my ruffles before sitting on my own. If at first affronted, Howlite mellowed when I leaned in and trailed a finger up his forearm. A forearm tattooed in fae runes I was certain not even he knew the meanings of. “Can you show me how to play? I bet a clever feyr like you knows all the best strategies.”
Wolfish, Howlite grabbed the edge of my stool and slid me so close that my bare knee settled into his crotch. I gritted my teeth, staying put. At least in this position, unnerving though it was, I had a clear view of his cards—the ace of hearts and the two of clubs. On Howlite’s turn, he called the blinds.
Palming my chin, I watched the flop like a novice (which I was in reality). “What do you do with this?” I asked Howlite, guileless as an angel, though Pete had already explained what Howlite could do with a five of spades, a nine of clubs, and a four of clubs. He needed two more clubs to make a flush, and he also had a straight draw. But I hung on Howlite’s every word as he whispered into my ear.
Even with such a potential wellspring in his fingers, Howlite bet a small amount, calling the three guys before him. Pete called too, glancing my way in anticipation of a signal. But I waited until the turn, which was a jack of clubs, before I scratched my collarbone.
Howlite merely called again when it was his turn. Pete folded, however, as advised. Good thing because Howlite took out two other players with that hand in the end. Yeah, Howlite was a total prick, but he was also a smart bachram player. Even when a joker ruined one of his hands, he still wheedled a win.
Plus, he had the advantage of a captive consultant. Pete hadn’t lied about the slaver talking to his snake piercing. Hydra might’ve been its given name, but it also went by Chappie. And no, from what I witnessed, Chappie didn’t talk back, thankDanu.
The night continued in a sluggish whirl of cards, chips, and ale. I’d imbibed so much of Rye and Maggie’s sweet brew by the time the piper hit the hay that I’d grown accustomed to Howlite’s groping and off-putting come-ons. I knew I should abstain, but I was giddy and having a blast. Not because of Howlite, really.
More because of Pete—and his tactics for throwing Howlite off his game.
He started with a cavalier remark regarding his preference for pocket eights. Then he stared at my half-covered boobs for a half hour, melting my insides—making Howlite glare like a territorial badger. Next, Pete teased me into cutting the deck for a token of luck between hands. When he got the higher card, he reached across the table, took my hand, and placed another titillating kiss on my inner wrist. Howlite had pounded the table for another ale, shattering the connection Pete and I were seemingly forging. The last time was just after Howlite boasted of punching his overseer in the nose over a beyn they both desired.
“Oh, my.” I squeezed Howlite’s arm. “Did that earn her affection?”
“Not as of yet,” he slurred, having imbibed his fair share of ale. “But it will, mark me.”
My heart skipped at Pete’s deep chuckle. When I swiveled his way, he was again the dashing stranger I’d met at the Thorny Rose Tavern. “No wonder he didn’t earn her, using his fists to impress instead of his tongue.” Pete’s eyes locked with mine. He lifted his mug to his mouth and licked foam off its rim.
Why, mercy me, I thought like a southern romance heroine, close to feeling the vapors.
“It’s always been my experience that females favor a male who knows the value of a silver tongue.” Pete’s brogue had never sounded sexier. “Or am I wrong, darlin’?”
As tipsy as I was, I nearly said I’d need a demonstration.
His delicate feyrhood bleeding in his bloodshot eyes, Howlite tapped his cards upon the tabletop. “Is that what you used to please your masters in the Shadow Palace, McKenna? You remember—all the lusty Dananns Gentian lent you to as a novelty—for a pittance?”
Pete’s smile calcified.
“Tell me, friend, just how many arses was your silver tongue obliged to lick?”
The two other players left at the table shifted, averting their gazes from Pete.
But I couldn’t tear my eyes from him, from the pain and rage mingling in his darkening gaze. So, I didn’t see Howlite’s cards before he tossed a heavy handful of chips into the pot, raising everyone a fortune. When I looked, the brute had already set his hand face down on the table. Had he even checked them? I had no fucking clue!
But Ididknow that Howlite meant to bait Pete into going all in. Which Pete would need to do, should he call. As would the other two suddenly stoic players.
As smoothly as I could, I tapped my lips. Telling Pete to fold.
Testosterone throbbed in Pete’s throat as he shoved his every chip into the pot.
WTF!
Howlite caressed my lower back, making my skin crawl. “Fret not, lady fair. The fates would never allow such a tramp to prevail over me.”
I bit back a frown, praying like hell he was wrong. And that he’d stop touching me.
He didn’t. And he wasn’t.
After the river, Pete had a measly pair of 10s. Howlite had a fucking full house!
