50. Natural Twenty
Chapter fifty
Natural Twenty
Dex
This starts because I have a mouth.
Which, historically, is how most of my problems start.
About a week after Halloween, we're cleaning up after campaign night when I find one of my d20s under the table. As I straighten, Ronan is standing across from me, stacking books into one of his absurdly organized campaign boxes.
I look at the die.
I look at him.
And because apparently getting engaged did not cure me of poor impulse control, I say, “You know, once upon a time, you said you weren't opposed to bringing dice into the bedroom.”
Micah stops stacking plates.
Cami turns around slowly.
Griffin mutters, “Jesus Christ.”
Ronan doesn't even pause. “I remember.”
That's it.
Two words.
No smile.
No lecture.
No threat.
Which means, naturally, I point at him with the die.
“That sounded ominous.”
“It wasn't.”
“Definitely sounded ominous.”
Micah walks past me carrying the plates. “You started it.”
“Started what?”
“I don't know yet.”
That's the problem.
Neither do I.
Ronan puts the last book into the box, closes it, and looks at me over his glasses. “Goodnight, Dexter.”
My dick reacts.
Because of course it does.
Then Ronan walks away.
Nothing happens for a few weeks.
So I forget about it.
Mostly.
Which is why, when Thursday night rolls around, I expect D&D.
Actual D&D.
Swords.
Spells.
Questionable tactical decisions.
Cami murdering something with glitter.
Instead, I walk into the dining room at six fifty-eight and stop so hard Micah runs directly into my back.
“What the fuck?”
His hand lands automatically at my waist. “What?”
I point.
Everything is wrong.
Not wildly wrong.
That's what makes it worse.
Ronan's DM screen is at the head of the dining room table.
We don’t play in the dining room.
We eat in the dining room.
Our usual dice trays are set out. Pencils. Four folded initiative cards. Even our normal seating arrangement.
Just a different table.
But there's no battle map.
No minis.
No notebooks.
Instead there are four small stacks of black cards in front of Ronan, a velvet bag beside his screen, several colored glass beads in a shallow wooden bowl, and a rectangular box covered with a black cloth.
Cami appears behind Micah. “What the...”
Griffin comes in last.
He takes one look at the table.
Then at Ronan.
Then at me.
“This is your fault.”
“I don't even know what this is yet.”
Ronan sits behind his screen.
He's wearing black slacks, a charcoal button-down with the sleeves rolled neatly up his forearms, and his glasses.
Completely calm.
Already hot enough that whatever this is has become a medical event.
I narrow my eyes. “Why are we set up at the dining room table?”
Ronan gestures toward our chairs. “Sit down.”
Cami makes a tiny sound beside me.
I look at her.
Her cheeks are already pink.
I start bouncing with anticipation. “Oh, this is going to be fucking fantastic.”
“Dex,” Griffin warns.
“You don't know I'm wrong.”
“No. That's the problem.”
We sit in our normal positions—because some traditions matter.
Ronan looks around the table and waits.
Nobody says anything.
Which is possibly the first indication of how much power this man has accumulated.
He folds his hands in front of him. “Tonight, we're playing a different campaign.”
Holy.
Shit.
Cami's lips part.
Micah leans back slightly beside me.
Griffin closes his eyes.
I put both palms flat on the table. “You motherfucker.”
Ronan smiles.
Barely.
“You brought up dice.”
“I made a joke.”
“Yes.”
“I didn't realize you were going to workshop it.”
“I did.”
Micah laughs under his breath.
I turn toward him. “You knew?”
“No.”
“Good. I'd hate to end an engagement this early.”
“Noted.”
Ronan taps the table once.
The room quiets.
The movement shouldn't be sexy.
It is.
“Before we start, rules.”
Of course.
I lean over the table toward Micah and stage whisper, “I am so fucking hard already.”
“I know.”
“You haven't checked.”
“I don't need to.”
Ronan's eyes move toward us.
I sit up straight.
He continues.
“Red stops everything. Immediately. There is no roll, rule, turn, consequence, or objective that overrides it.”
The humor settles enough that everyone nods.
“Yellow pauses whatever is happening so we can check or adjust. The dice create opportunities.
They do not create obligations. If a roll gives you access you don't want, you decline it.
If someone declares an action involving you and you don't want it, you decline it. No penalty. No explanation required.”
Griffin nods once.
Cami's fingers find his.
Ronan continues.
“Target pools are individualized. Do not assume that because someone is participating, every action is available with every person.”
His gaze lands on Griffin. “Griffin's sexual target pool is only Cami.”
“Thank fuck,” Griffin says.
I gasp.
Everyone turns toward him.
Griffin looks around.
“What?”
I point. “Was that a joke?”
“No.”
“That was a joke.”
“It was gratitude.”
“Holy shit. He's evolving.”
Griffin flips me off.
Ronan waits until we're done. “Cami may target all three of you. Micah may target Cami and Dex.”
Micah's eyebrow rises.
“And Ronan?” I ask.
“No.”
I turn toward him. “Excuse me?”
Ronan ignores me. “Dex may target Cami and Micah.”
“And Ronan.”
“No.”
“But we're fucking.”
“Correct.”
“We have established diplomatic relations.”
“Correct.”
“We've exchanged fluids.”
“Dex,” Micah says.
“What? This is relevant case law.”
Ronan's mouth twitches. “As we begin, I am not in your target pool.”
My brain latches onto the as we begin.
Interesting.
“Griffin may target Cami. No one except Cami may target Griffin sexually.”
Cami smiles sweetly at her husband. “Hi.”
Ronan reaches behind the screen.
He sets four of the colored glass bead containers in a row. “Inspiration from the current campaign carries over.”
I stare. “No fucking way.”
“Yes.”
I look down at my spot.
Three beads.
Three.
I slap Micah's arm. “I have three.”
“I can count.”
“I'm rich.”
“You're an idiot.”
“An inspired idiot.”
Cami has two.
Micah has one.
Griffin has two.
He looks at his like someone has handed him foreign currency. “What exactly can we use them for?”
“Rerolls. Advantage when I permit it. Or,” Ronan says, looking directly at me, “certain petitions.”
My dick twitches. “Define petition.”
“No.”
“That feels intentionally vague.”
“It is.”
I grin.
This man.
This fucking man.
Ronan takes out the initiative cards.
“Phase one is exploration. You stay in your seats unless given movement. You begin fully clothed. On your turn, declare an action and a legal target. I will assign a check.”
Cami lifts her hand.
“Yes?”
“What kind of action?”
“Whatever you want.”
Her eyes widen.
“Oh.”
“Within the current phase.”
She pouts.
Ronan continues as if he didn't notice.
“A successful roll grants the action. The degree of success determines duration or intensity. For broader touch actions, you'll draw a body-zone card afterward.”
I glance at the black stacks.
Oh fuck.
“If the card conflicts with an established boundary, you redraw. That's not a failure.”
Griffin looks visibly relieved.
Ronan catches it. “Nothing tonight relies on someone being embarrassed into tolerating something.”
The room softens for half a second.
Then Ronan reaches for his dice.
“And nobody comes without my permission.”
There it is.
Cami's breathing changes.
Micah's jaw tightens.
Mine?
Little Dex stands even taller and salutes the flag.
Griffin clears his throat.
Ronan looks around at all four of us. “Questions?”
I raise my hand.
He sighs. “Yes, Dexter.”
“Is there a boss battle?”
Ronan smiles. “Survive long enough to find out.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
We roll initiative.
Cami gets nineteen.
Micah gets sixteen.
Griffin gets fourteen.
I roll a seven. “Bullshit.”
Ronan writes the order down. “That is what the die says.”
“My modifier?”
“This isn't your bard.”
“I have natural charisma.”
“Not mechanically.”
“Micah.”
“Don't involve me.”
Cami is almost vibrating.
Ronan looks at her. “Cameron. Your turn.”
She glances around the table.
Her eyes land on me. “I want to kiss Dex.”
“Persuasion.”
She rolls.
Seventeen.
Ronan barely looks at the die.
“Successful. Thirty seconds.”
I spread my arms. “Come to papa.”
“Sit still,” Ronan says.
Cami laughs, then leans across the table.
Her hand cups my jaw.
Her mouth meets mine.
Thirty seconds doesn't sound like much.
It is.
Especially with three men watching and Ronan fucking timing it.
Cami starts sweet.
She always does that when she's about to become a menace.
Her lips brush mine slowly, then her tongue slips between them, and I make the incredibly intelligent choice to grab her face.
“Hands,” Ronan says.
I freeze.
Cami smiles against my mouth.
“My action,” she whispers.
Fucking hell.
I drop my hands.
She kisses me harder.
Ronan says, “Time.”
Cami pulls away.
I chase her mouth before I remember I'm not supposed to.
“Dex.”
“Sorry.”
I'm not.
Micah's turn.
He looks at me.
Oh no.
“I want his shirt off.”
My dick approves.
Ronan nods. “Sleight of Hand.”
Micah laughs. “Seriously?”
“You chose clothing removal. Roll.”
Eighteen.
Ronan gestures toward me. “You may remove one article. No additional touching.”
Micah reaches for me.
Slowly.
His fingers find the hem of my shirt.
“You hear that?”
I look at Ronan.
Then Micah.
“No additional touching?”
“Correct.”
“This game is oppressive.”
Micah lifts my shirt.
I raise my arms.
His knuckles graze my ribs as little as physically possible.
Which somehow makes it worse.
The shirt comes off.
Micah folds it.
Folds it.
Then puts it beside his chair.
“You are sick.”
He smiles. “Good boy.”
My entire body reacts.
Ronan reaches into the bowl and rolls a glass bead between two fingers. “Micah earns inspiration.”
I turn on him. “For what?”
“Effective use of praise.”
“This is favoritism.”
“You responded exactly as he expected.”
Cami laughs.
Griffin's turn.
He looks at Ronan.
Then Cami.
“I want to kiss my wife.”
I snort.
Ronan nods.
“Persuasion.”
Griffin stares at him. “We're married.”
“Not a modifier.”
Cami loses it.
I slap the table.
Griffin looks at Ronan for a long second.
Then rolls.
Natural twenty.
The table erupts.
“No fucking way,” Micah mutters.