Chapter 28 #2
“No game is ever fair,” Nikolai calls out from the couch. “It’s high time we had some fresh blood in here. I, for one, have grown tired of watching Maeve and Finnian clean house.”
“Yeah, let’s mix it up!” Maeve cheers, then gulps more ale.
Min says, “Perhaps you should slow down, Maeve. That is your third glass in half an hour.”
“Third-smird.” Maeve dismissively waves her hand, then hiccups.
“Fine,” Brandur cuts in. His expression is hard and decisive. “The fae prince may stay, but only if he faces Cyn.”
Strip darts against Desmond. My heart squeezes against my ribs. This was not the plan.
Desmond takes three darts from the rack. Then he waits behind me, his presence consuming my thoughts despite how still he stands.
Come on, focus. I aim, forcing deep breaths.
“You have the advantage, Cyn. You just need to change how you aim,” Desmond says.
“Are you trying to psych me out?” It’s strange hearing him call me Cyn. I miss the intimacy of Cynthia. It never fails to bring a flush to my cheeks.
He doesn’t reply. He just smirks.
Frustrated, I throw. The dart hits the wall and bounces to the ground. Shit.
“Careful,” Finnian says, a real note of concern in his voice. “These darts don’t grow on trees. Don’t want to blunt the tips.”
I throw my second dart. It hits the board, but the wrong pie slice. It didn’t score. I flex my hand, trying to ignore the low ooh of our spectators.
“One more throw,” Finnian narrates.
I glare at him. “I can count, you know.”
“Aim higher,” Brandur calls out.
“It’s alright to have a buckshot. It’s your first try,” Nikolai chimes in.
This would be a lot easier if they let me concentrate. I aim a little higher and throw. The dart hits the first wedge. “Yes!” I pump my fists, relief rushing through me.
“Congratulations,” Min monotones, but I know that she means it. The others cheer.
Desmond’s hazel eyes glint as he takes my place. His bearing changes, the relaxed confidence transforming into focus. Every shift of his feet is intentional. He throws. The dart hits three inches too low.
The thieves heckle him, Maeve slamming her now-empty mug on the table so hard it rocks. “You talk a big game for such a lousy throw,” Brandur says with a smug baring of his teeth.
Desmond doesn’t dignify it with a reply. He squares himself up and throws again. The dart misses by a hair. He falls still, calculating, then throws again. It hits.
I gulp. Something tells me it wasn’t luck.
He sweeps his hand to me, stepping back.
My first throw hits. The second and third miss. What did Desmond mean by me having the advantage?
This time, he only pauses before his first throw. Hit. The others quickly follow with what can only be a fae’s lethal grace. Hit. Hit.
The room falls silent, then erupts into cheers.
“Off with her shoes!” Maeve shouts.
Fine. Not a big deal. It’s just one shoe. I untie the laces of my right boot, slip it off my foot, and float it away.
Brandur shakes his head. “Unacceptable! Shoes and stockings are pairs.”
Nikolai laughs. “The left one has to go, too. House rules.”
“That’s the only way you’ll be nude by the end of this,” Finnian says with a wink. “You have to give us our due fun.”
Gritting my teeth, I untether my left shoe, but this time I fling it at Finnian’s head. He dodges with a mischievous laugh.
“Your shoes are next,” I promise Desmond.
He collects his darts and looks at me with unbothered ease.
“You still haven’t figured it out.” Then he moves right behind me, the nearness of him making my breath catch.
“Until then, only one of us will be undressing.” His heated gaze starts at my stockings and roams up my body, a clear taunt that sets my skin on fire.
“Stop messing with me,” I hiss. As if his proximity wasn’t startling enough, he’s obviously making up my secret advantage to distract me. Unfortunately, it’s working.
His amused smile makes me huff. Then he backs away, giving me room to throw.
This time, two of my darts hit. I have four points out of twenty, and Desmond is starting his turn with the same number.
He makes two hits.
On my next turn, I make one.
The thieves stamp their feet and hiss. “At least you didn’t miss them all,” Nikolai calls out. “Better luck next turn.”
Luck is something I wish I had more of right now.
I watch Desmond as he readies himself. With quiet, assured confidence, all three of his throws hit. I have to close my eyes to process it. Why didn’t I insist on facing Maeve? She’s as drunk as a sailor.
Socks or corset? Cold feet or an exposed linen chemise?
I choose the corset, my magic loosening the corded laces.
I unthread them through the first grommets, but falter when I notice Desmond’s stare.
He swallows, approaches me with unhurried steps, and takes a cord in each hand.
The warmth of his fingers sends shockwaves through my torso as he unlaces it the rest of the way.
Then he dips me, his strong hand against the small of my back. Nervous heat pools in my stomach. It’s as if we’re putting on a show for others, but Desmond’s gaze doesn’t leave mine. Not even for a second.
The thieves howl as he removes my corset, revealing the strapless chemise beneath it. My pulse skips when he tosses the corset aside. His gaze roams my body. I feel a thrum of yearning through the bond that makes my next breath stutter.
“I wouldn’t want you to exhaust your Gift,” he murmurs, then slowly steps away.
Gods, I hope he couldn’t feel how much I enjoyed that. Then my thoughts snag on his words. My Gift. I should’ve thought of it myself.
I face the target and call my magic to me. My new plan will require more finesse than freezing something midair. I need to focus.
Breathe in, breathe out.
I throw the dart. My magic veers it violently, almost overcorrecting. It still hits the fifth wedge by a hair. The thieves notice, bursting into a cacophony of gasps and cheers.
Min sits up. “Using your Gift to play makes this game interesting.” Apparently, Desmond unlacing my corset didn’t qualify as entertainment for her.
My second dart hits. Then the third.
I smirk at Desmond. The competitive spark inside me can’t be quelled, and it fills me with a giddy rush of excitement. “What will it be? Shoes?” My magic tugs on his laces. “Your belt?” The buckle clicks open, arousing goading cheers from our spectators.
His gaze pierces mine, unyielding and unfaltering, as he pulls his belt off. “I wouldn’t be gloating yet. Not when your opponent won’t miss again.”
He throws in quick succession. All three hit true.
“Socks! Socks! Socks!” Brandur and Finnian cheer.
Desmond watches me, a hint of a smile dimpling his cheeks.
I mutter a swear as I yank them off. They were my last layer that won’t expose a risqué amount of skin. The stakes are real now. But the pressure tensing my body isn’t just from the thought of losing my clothes.
I don’t want to lose. Not to him. I have to find a way to make him miss without cheating—my pride doesn’t allow for that.
Subterfuge or distraction. Those are my weapons.
Now that I’m wielding magic, all three of my darts hit the wedges. Still, one was too close to missing for comfort. Finnian had to squint to announce the verdict.
“And you said I shouldn’t gloat,” I tease Desmond. “Your shoes, please.”
He takes them off and sets them beside mine.
I pluck my darts from the board as I gather my courage. Distraction. He has to miss at least once.
Desmond’s first throw hits, but as he pinches his second dart, I sidle up beside him. We’re so close I can hear him inhale as he watches me. “You’re good at this,” I murmur. “Too good.” I caress down his back as I circle him. Then I reach lower, a faint brush across his ass.
He shudders. His eyes narrow, but he dismisses me by looking at the dartboard. His body tenses for the throw.
“Maybe I’ll let you pick what I take off next.”
He falters as he throws, and the dart just barely misses.