CHAPTER 3
EDEN
Idrew in a slow breath, held it for a second longer than necessary, and then let it out through my nose as I stepped into the high roller room. No matter how many times I worked this section, a flicker of nerves always followed.
The air felt different in here, or maybe that was just me.
I always felt it in my bones, the reminder that I didn’t belong at their table.
I was here to serve them, to smile at the right moments, to anticipate what they wanted before they asked.
I could move through the room without stumbling and balance a tray without spilling a drop, but there was still that part of me that felt like any second someone was going to stand up and call for the girl from the trailer park to be escorted out.
I adjusted my grip on the tray and started forward, and that was when I felt it . . . a faint awareness creeping along my spine, a prickle at the back of my neck that had nothing to do with noise or movement. It was the steady certainty of being watched. Not glanced at. Watched.
I forced myself to take another step before I looked up.
And that was a mistake.
Because the god of a man in front of me wasn’t just seated at the poker table. He was positioned. Like he’d picked that exact chair because it gave him the best line of sight.
Of the room.
Of me.
His blond hair was darker at the roots, swept back like someone’s hands had gripped it hard only minutes ago and ruined it on purpose. His suit was black and perfectly cut, fitted through the shoulders and tapered at the waist so it emphasized a build you don’t get from a desk job.
He’d pushed the sleeves up to his elbows, exposing forearms corded with muscle and covered in dark ink—layered tattoos that climbed from his wrist to where the shirt hid the rest, disappearing under the cuffs like secrets he hadn’t decided to share yet.
The top two buttons of his white shirt were undone, revealing the hollow of his throat, the edge of more ink crawling up his chest, and a silver chain that caught the low light every time he breathed.
He leaned back in his chair, one elbow draped over the armrest while his other hand rested on the green felt.
His long fingers loosely circled a stack of black chips like he had nowhere else to be.
The way he held himself was effortless, almost lazy, but there was nothing lazy about his body.
There was tension in the way he occupied space.
Like if he stood up, the entire table would adjust without him asking.
And he was staring at me.
Not scanning or checking out my body and moving on.
Staring.
He looked . . . momentarily unmoored. As if the room had narrowed down to one waitress holding a tray, and he had no idea why she suddenly mattered.
It was probably all in my head. It had to be.
But my pulse was still hammering in my chest, and an uncomfortable heat was slipping lower before I crushed it down.
I forced myself to keep moving, reminding my body that this was ridiculous, that he was just another high roller in a tailored suit with too much money.
Still, his gaze didn’t waver.
Not when I reached the table. Not when I set the tray down smoothly exactly how I’d been trained. Not even when I straightened and finally met his eyes head-on.
The dazed quality in his eyes suddenly focused into intent, and he tilted his head slightly, studying me like he was sorting through a memory. His mouth pressed together for a second, then relaxed, and his full lips curved faintly as if he were close to placing me.
I could save him the time; we had definitely never crossed paths. He wasn’t a person you forgot.
My fingers curled against the edge of the tray, and I had to take a deep breath because I had the strange, unsettling sense that he was seeing far more of me than I would have liked.
“Saints preserve us.” The words came out rough and edged with irritation, wrapped in an accent that sounded like it had traveled a long way to get to Vegas.
My head snapped up to the man sitting across from the blond one at the table.
He was leaning back in his chair as if the pile of money in front of him were more of a nuisance than a win.
His dark hair was cut short and close, and his nose was slightly crooked, like it had been broken once and he’d never bothered fixing it.
Thick fingers crowded with gold rings rested on his stack of chips, while the other hand lifted his glass with clear annoyance.
His eyes were calculating, and I got the feeling that he was the kind of man who missed almost nothing and forgave even less.
The blond man reacted instantly to his voice.
His attention tore away from me like he’d physically yanked it back, and he stiffened as he refocused on the table, his posture shifting from relaxed to coiled in the space of a breath.
Whatever momentary lapse he’d had vanished, replaced by something colder.
“Well,” he said mildly, his voice low and smooth and far too calm for the tension suddenly threading the air. “If noise improved odds,” he said lightly, “you’d finally win something.”
The insult slid out wrapped in politeness, and one of the other men at the table let out a quiet laugh. Another shifted, discomfort flickering across his face. The Irishman’s mouth twitched, but it wasn’t quite a smile.
I stood there with the tray balanced against my palm, wondering what exactly I’d walked into .
. . and why the blond man’s voice was lingering longer than it should have.
It was doing something strange to me, settling under my skin and tracing down my spine, and it wasn’t fear that I was feeling.
It was something else that had no business being there.
I swallowed and cursed myself for reacting. Exhaustion . . . hunger . . . that was all it was.
Slipping into motion around the table, I passed out drinks with steady hands and a neutral smile.
Up close, the feeling I’d had when I first walked into the room worsened.
These men weren’t just rich. This casino was always crawling with wealthy men, men who dressed up in tailored suits and polished smiles.
But this table felt different. Like I’d wandered too close to something that didn’t belong on the main floor.
Something that belonged in back rooms and shadows, not under the bright lights and crystal chandeliers.
The Irishman assessed me once as I handed him a new drink, and then he dismissed me entirely.
The blond man didn’t look at me again, either .
. . but I felt him all the same. Like a presence just behind my shoulder or gravity tugging without permission.
I had to force myself not to look at him and keep doing my job.
A hand came out of nowhere and slapped my ass as I passed. The sound was loud in the quiet room, and I squeaked in surprise, the tray jolting in my grip as my body reacted before my brain caught up.
Stumbling half a step, my heart was lurching into my throat as the man laughed like I was part of the entertainment.
I turned, outraged . . . my mouth opening to say something, even though I’d get in trouble . . . but I didn’t get a chance.
The blond man moved. It was so quick I barely saw it. One second his hand was empty, the next a knife was buried deep in the felt between the other man’s splayed fingers. The blade wasn’t touching his skin, but it didn’t have to. The message was unmistakable.
He hadn’t liked what had just happened.
The room went deadly silent, and the man who’d touched me froze, color draining from his face as he stared down at the blade trembling between his splayed fingers.
The blond man leaned forward slightly, as if he were simply correcting a bet. “Oh,” he said blandly, “I’m sorry.” His voice stayed perfectly calm, and for some reason that scared me more than shouting ever could.
I didn’t know why calm felt worse, but it did.
“How did that get there?” he mused.
Had everyone else forgotten how to breathe, or was that just me?
Casually, he wrapped his fingers around the handle and drew the knife back out, the sound of metal leaving wood grating through the silence. He held it for a moment, inspecting it like he was more worried about a scratch on the knife than anything else before he tucked it back into his suit coat.
The man who’d slapped my ass jerked his hand back from the table as if he’d been burned.
His chair scraped loudly against the floor as he stumbled to his feet, his eyes wide and glassy with a fear that had nothing to do with the alcohol he’d been drinking.
“I—I was just—” he stammered, already backing away.
No one stopped him.
He didn’t look at me or anyone as he turned and fled, nearly tripping over his own feet as he bolted from the room, disappearing through the doors like the devil himself was on his heels.
My legs felt weak, and I gripped the tray as my pulse roared in my ears. I couldn’t stop staring at the spot where the knife had been. Terror curled in my stomach, and tangled up with it was . . . awe.
The blond man finally looked at me then.
His brown eyes caught the light, and I saw there was a flash of silver at their centers. A part of me immediately wanted to look closer.
“You all right?” he asked quietly.
I nodded, because my voice had abandoned me completely. He inclined his head once, as if that settled something, then turned back to the table like nothing had happened at all. “Deal,” he murmured, and then play resumed.
The rest of the room returned to me in pieces, and I forced my feet to move so I could keep working. Each step felt strange, though, and my fingers trembled against the tray no matter how tightly I steadied them. And underneath everything else, one thought wouldn’t quiet down.
No one had ever stepped in for me like that before.