Chapter 28 #3
Finnian howls. Brandur slaps his knees as Maeve cheers over her new mug of ale. I dance away from Desmond with a sly grin, reveling in it all.
Desmond swears. He closes his eyes, breathes in, then out. When he finally opens them, they burn into me. His face may be a perfect mask of reticence, but a smooth, sultry undertone coats his voice with velvet. “You may not like what I choose.”
I shiver. That’s unfair. Completely, utterly, underhanded and—
His third dart strikes the board, bringing his score up to fourteen. He’s silent as he collects his darts and leans against the wall, calm and confident.
Unless I throw him off his game again, I have no hope of catching up.
I hate losing. The whole village of Nettlerock knows that’s one of my largest vices.
I can still lose with grace, but it does motivate me to play one heck of a game.
At least with magic, I’m guaranteed not to miss.
The thought fuels me as I complete my next visit.
Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. We’re tied, but the order of our turns puts him in the lead.
Maeve shouts, “Cyn is on fire!” The others join in, chanting “Fire! Fire!”
I should feel bolstered by their cheers, but the gap between our scores eats away at me. Shoving the frustration down, I focus on my small win as Desmond pushes off the wall. “Let me help you with that.” I untether his left stocking, rolling the hem down.
He surprises me by reaching for his jacket instead.
The burgundy fabric comes off in one fluid pull, revealing warm brown skin with hard muscle underneath.
I’ve seen him shirtless before, when he undressed in Hawthorn Inn and when he was doing his impressive clapping push-ups, but this is. . . different.
We’re not alone. The cat-calling and hiss of ale sloshing from kegs are clear evidence.
Yet we stare at each other as if nothing else outside of us exists, as if our minds are compasses that point me to him and him to me.
The crescent on my wrist burns, and the woven thread of our emotions pulls—curiosity mingling with yearning—and I don’t know whose it is, only that it’s strong enough to steal my breath away.
Time slows to a delicate crawl, one second stretching slowly like honey into the next.
Desmond looks away first. The connection snaps as if he thrust a blade through it, and I mourn it. That’s ridiculous. Being bound to him is a pain, not something I should enjoy.
He quickly finishes his turn.
“Strip!” Finnian drums his hands against his thighs.
Desmond made all three throws.
Swallowing, I shimmy my underwear off from underneath my skirt. I toss it beside my shoes, goosebumps trailing up my bare skin.
Finnian whistles so loudly it rings through my ears.
And Desmond stares at my underwear, his cheeks flushed.
“Seventeen,” I tell him, nodding at his spread. “One more perfect round, and you win.” And I’ll lose my skirt. The thought makes me swallow hard. I’m no prude, but I’d be lying if I claimed I’d be comfortable standing here half-naked.
In fact, the thought terrifies me. There is a huge line between a little cleavage and the complete bareness of my thighs, the exposed curve of my ass. Everyone would be staring, cheering, or heckling. That’s not a line I want to cross.
I really didn’t think this through, did I?
Desmond’s expression is stone cold, not letting a hint of emotion leak through. It strikes me that if he were carved from marble by an artisan, he would be the centerpiece of any collection. A measure of beauty. Impossible to ignore.
All three of my throws land, bringing me up to seventeen, too. Desmond takes off his socks.
I tense, filled with dread, as Desmond lines up for his throws.
“Take her skirt next!” Maeve shouts before faceplanting on the table. She doesn’t move.
“Maeve has blacked out,” Min announces.
Desmond looks at the board and back at me, then at the board again. His first dart strikes the bullseye, dead center.
“Miss!” Brandur shouts. “You need to hit the next number, not the center.”
The second dart hits the eighteenth wedge. The third, the nineteenth.
The thieves jeer.
My lips part, but no sound comes out. Why did he miss? Surely, he should’ve made that hit.
Desmond steps back, allowing me to throw.
All three of my darts hover as I grit my teeth, the realization weighing heavily inside me. I fling all three in a quick volley, but halt them just before they strike the board. They float into their racks and fall still.
“I forfeit.” I shoot Desmond a quick, knowing glare. “I don’t play opponents who go easy on me. Have a good night, everyone. And Nikolai—thank you.”
Then I grab my clothes, ignoring the protests and heckling from our spectators.
“Cyn,” Desmond calls out.
I pause as his footsteps near, but I don’t turn around.
He stops just behind me, then tucks several loose strands of my hair behind my ear. “Sleep well.”
I resist the urge to touch where his fingers had just brushed my skin. Then I crawl through the tunnel.
He didn’t miss to let me win. No, he’d never do something so trivial.
He missed because he knew I didn’t want to cross that line.