34. Sophie
34
SOPHIE
T he library has this air of quiet authority, like it’s meant for serious discussions and plotting world domination, not unwinding.
But here I am, flipping through a deck of cards I found tucked between two dusty old books. The cards are stiff, the edges worn, and the jokers have seen better days. Still, it’s something to distract me while my laptop runs through a lengthy subroutine.
“You play cards?” Maxim’s voice comes from the doorway, smooth as silk but carrying that familiar edge.
I look up and find him leaning casually against the doorframe, his dark suit immaculate, his eyes sharp. “Do you lurk in every corner of this mansion, or is it just a coincidence you show up when I’m trying to have some peace?”
“Neither,” he says, stepping inside. “It’s my house. I go where I want and my cameras see everything.”
I roll my eyes but shuffle the deck, the sound crisp in the quiet room. “Do you play, or are you just here to intimidate me?”
A smirk tugs at his lips as he approaches. “I don’t play. I win.”
“Oh, please.” I snort, laying the cards flat on the table. “Pick your game, Bratva boss. Let’s see if you can actually back that up.”
He sits across from me. The cards are between us, and the firelight casts flickering shadows that make the moment feel strangely intimate. He leans forward, his elbows resting on the table, exuding confidence.
“Poker,” he says, dealing the first hand with a precision that’s unsettling. “But let’s make it interesting.”
“Interesting how?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.
“High stakes,” he replies, his smirk widening. “Every round, we raise the ante.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “And what exactly am I betting with? My stunning personality? I’m not exactly loaded, am I?”
“Clothes,” he says casually, and my jaw drops.
“Strip poker?” I sputter. “Seriously? Are we in college?”
He shrugs, leaning back in his chair. “I assumed you could handle a little risk.”
For a second, I consider throwing the cards at him. But then I see the glint in his eyes, the challenge he’s practically daring me to accept. My competitive streak flares, and I square my shoulders.
“Fine,” I say, picking up my cards. “But don’t cry when you’re down to your socks.”
Cards shuffle in my hands as I give him a sly look. His sharp jawline is set in that infuriatingly calm expression, but there’s a flicker of something behind his dark eyes—interest, challenge, amusement. He thinks he’s going to win.
And honestly? He probably will. But not without a fight.
“You realize I’m going easy on you,” I say, smirking as I win the first hand.
His mouth quirks at the corner. “You keep telling yourself that, malyshka. It might soften the sting when you’re bare and begging for mercy.”
“Bold words for a man who just lost his tie,” I counter, nodding to the silk strip lying forlorn on the arm of a nearby chair.
He leans back, exuding the kind of confidence that makes my stomach twist. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, revealing strong forearms, and I hate how distracting that is.
“You forget, I let you win that round. I’m just lulling you into a false sense of security.”
I snort, glancing at my cards. A pair of eights—not great, but not terrible. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that. But don’t cry when I take your socks.”
His low chuckle rolls across the table. “If you want my socks, Sophie, all you have to do is ask. But I’m warning you now—there’s no mercy once I’m done.”
I manage to pull off another win, and he sighs dramatically as he tugs at the buttons of his shirt.
“Careful,” I tease. “The librarian might come in here and tell you to keep it down.”
“Funny,” he says, tossing the shirt onto the chair with a casual flick of his wrist. “We’ll see who’s laughing in a minute.”
The next hand doesn’t go as well for me. I lose, which means the shoes have to go. I huff a little, slipping them off one by one and letting them thud onto the carpet.
“Better,” he says, leaning forward slightly as if this is all going according to his plan.
“You sound suspiciously smug for someone who has no shirt on,” I shoot back, narrowing my eyes.
He taps his cards against the table, the motion infuriatingly slow. “Give it time.”
The next hand is where things get interesting. I glance at my cards—a flush. My best hand yet. My gaze flicks to his face, searching for any clue as to what he might be holding. But as usual, he’s impossible to read, his expression smooth and unyielding.
“So,” I say, drumming my fingers against the table. “What’s the raise this time? Socks? Tighty whities? Or are you going to fold and admit defeat like a gentleman?”
His lips twitch, just enough to make me nervous. “You’re awfully cocky for someone about to lose her top.”
I laugh, even though my heart is pounding. “We’ll see about that.”
We lay our cards down at the same time. His straight beats my flush by a single rank.
“Damn it!” I groan, slumping back in my chair.
His grin is slow and deliberate, and the way he looks at me sends heat rushing to my cheeks. “Top,” he says, his voice low and smooth. “Off.”
“Fine.” I tug at my top, shooting him a glare. “Don’t enjoy this too much.”
His smile deepens, and I swear there’s something wolfish in his gaze as I slide it off my shoulders.
“Too late,” he murmurs.
I throw it at him, and he catches it easily, tossing it onto the growing pile. “You’re infuriating, you know that?” I say, crossing my arms.
He leans forward, his elbows resting on the table, his dark eyes locked on mine. “And yet you’re still playing.”
There’s a challenge in his tone, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. “Deal the cards,” I manage, my voice shakier than I’d like.
His smirk widens. “As you wish.”
“Your poker face is terrible,” he says, watching me over his cards. “I can read you like a book.”
I smirk, throwing down my cards. “Full house. Read that.”
I’ve soon shed my socks, sitting in jeans and a camisole. Maxim, meanwhile, has lost his shoes and his belt.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him.
“You’re still in the game, aren’t you?” he replies, his voice low and amused.
“Barely,” I mutter, studying my cards.
I make a bold bet on the next hand, and when he calls it, I realize I’ve lost. Again. I toss my jeans onto the chair behind me, glaring at him as I sit back down. “Happy now?”
He doesn’t answer right away, his gaze lingering just a little too long before he picks up the deck. “Let’s call it even,” he says, surprising me.
“What, no gloating?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Only when it’s deserved,” he replies, his smirk softening into something closer to genuine amusement. “You played well. Better than I expected.”
I gather the cards, shuffling them as the tension shifts into something less combative. “You’re not so bad at this whole relaxing thing,” I say, watching him.
“Don’t get used to it,” he replies, getting to his feet. But there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—something more human.
His fingers curl around my wrist, his grip firm yet gentle, as he pulls me closer. The intensity in his eyes is undeniable, a silent challenge.
"Maxim," I say, "what are you doing?"