14. CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Omaera
We arrived back at the apartment, and I scuttled off to my bedroom so Zandren and Maxar could give Drak the capsule. Then they waited the appropriate thirty minutes before Zandren knocked on my door. “I think it’s safe to come out now.”
I nodded and glanced at my phone. Gemma would be home soon.
Stepping into the living room, I glanced at Drak, who was still restrained and sitting on the barstool, wrapped up in flaming rope by the sliding glass door.
I still hadn’t had any coffee today and was seriously feeling the caffeine deprivation.
“Here,” Zandren said, wandering into the kitchen. “I just made you a fresh batch, since I know we keep pulling you away from your coffee.” He poured a healthy amount into a green and tan hand-thrown mug that said, “I’m not a bitch, I just don’t like you.” Smirking after reading it, he went to the fridge. “Oat milk, right?”
I nodded, all tingly with joy from the simple, yet wonderful, fact that someone was in my kitchen making me coffee. And that he knew I took oat milk. I’d only had coffee in front of him once. How did he remember?
He poured the perfect amount of creamy oat milk into the coffee, then handed me the mug with the handle out. I gripped it with both hands and leaned against the counter, letting the steam and incredible chocolatey scent of the dark roast fill my nostrils. “Thank you,” I said softly. “I really needed this.”
His smile was all kinds of youthful and sexy, reminding me more of a teddy bear than a ferocious grizzly. “I know.”
My gaze pivoted to Drak, whose nostrils no longer flared like an agitated bull’s. “How are you feeling over there, Fangs?”
His gaze was level, irritated, and arrogant. So, normal for him. “Better,” he said cooly. “Thank you for going to Fiddleman.”
“You’re welcome.”
Uncertainty creased his face for a moment. “I apologize for my . . . less than civilized behavior earlier. For dropping to my knees and—”
“Apology accepted. Don’t mention that again, please.”
The flush of color to his cheeks was subtle, but noticeable, and he averted his gaze. “Noted.”
I hope she’s not afraid of me now. I hope she can forgive me. Drak’s voice and words drove hard and fast into my mind, and I nearly dropped my mug as my head snapped up and I stared at him.
“What?” he asked, with a knitted brow.
“Did you just . . . did you say something?”
“I said ‘ noted .’”
“But nothing else?”
“No.”
I wish she could see how badly we need to mate. How mating would help all of this.
“There it is again. You’re talking.”
He shook his head. “No. I’m not.”
I was hearing his fears. Much like I’d heard them when he found Zandren and me in the woods.
“I’m hungry,” Zandren said.
“You’re always hungry,” Maxar countered.
“Yeah. So? ”
The front door opened and Gemma walked in, looking as beautiful as ever, despite the events of last night and Raewyn nearly killing her. Guilt still gnawed at my gut with serrated teeth over what nearly happened. And it happened because she was with me. She was my best friend, my roommate, my sister. As much as I didn’t want to leave her, maybe it was for the best? At least until I got a handle on my powers and could better protect her.
“What’s going on with The Count over there?” Gemma asked, referring to the fire ropes wrapped around Drak. “Did he misbehave and now he’s in a magical timeout?”
“You could say that,” I murmured, still a little shaken from hearing Drak’s thoughts.
Gemma set down her purse and a fabric shopping bag on the counter. She came to me and rubbed my back. “How are you doing?”
I exhaled and leaned my head against hers. “Been better. I’ll admit that much. But more importantly, how are you after last night?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I woke up with a migraine.”
“Shit.”
“But I took some Tylenol and drank a lot of water. Then more water, then took some electrolytes, and even though it’s better, the headache is still there.”
“Go lay down then. I hate that this happened to you.”
She nodded, appearing more exhausted and in pain than when she initially walked in. “I stopped and bought your favorite gelato on my way home. Don’t let it melt. Put it in the freezer.” She pointed at the shopping bag.
“You’re the best,” I said, kissing her on the temple before shooing her off to her room.
I followed her and helped her climb into bed. Then I brought her more Tylenol and Advil too, along with some water, and waited until she took the pills. I closed the blinds in her room, grabbed her some earplugs and once she was all tucked into bed, I kissed her forehead and left.
I was nearly at the door when I heard her voice.
I hope I’m okay. I really hope this isn’t a sign of my brain slowly bleeding and killing me. I don’t want to lose Omaera. I don’t want to lose her to those men. To lose her, or die. I don’t want to feel like this. I’m scared.
I rushed back to her side. “You’re not going to lose me. You’re going to be okay.”
She stirred. “Hmm?”
Oh, god. I was hearing her fears just like I’d heard Drak’s.
I kissed her head again, then slowly left, sicker than ever that my best friend was so scared and all because of me.
The shopping bag was empty when I returned to the kitchen. “Who touched the gelato?” I asked, regretting my accusatory tone.
“I put it in the freezer,” Zandren said. “So it didn’t melt.” He got up from his spot on the couch and approached me, picking up the mug of coffee and handing it to me. “Drink this. It was made with love.”
Smirking, I took a sip. Goddammit, it was good. Closing my eyes, I moaned. “Fuck.”
The same purring sound as when we were in the woods together rumbled, and I opened my eyes to find Zandren staring down at me, grinning. “You take care of everyone else. Let someone take care of you.”
My smile was small and fake as I nodded at him. “I’ll try.”
“Maxar went out to get dinner. He needed a break from babysitting. But I need you to keep me company so I don’t haul off and murder the vampire here. He’s making it difficult not to just bite his head off.”
“I haven’t said a word to you, shifter ,” Drak said with his educated, arrogant tone.
“Yeah, but your face is saying so many things,” Zandren countered.
I rolled my eyes. “All right. That’s enough.” I took another sip of my coffee and moaned again.
“That’s the best sound in the world, Little One,” Zandren murmured. “At least so far. I’m guessing the noises you make during sex are even better.”
My cheeks caught fire, and I glanced anywhere and everywhere but at the big bear staring at me. I cleared my throat. “I um . . . how about we work on some mind power stuff?”
Zandren snickered. “Sure. What did you have in mind? ”
“I want to try to infiltrate your thoughts and manipulate you. I also want Drak to piss me off—”
“So you can murder me while I am restrained?” the vampire asked with a scoff.
“No. So I can not murder you. I need to practice. So . . . piss me off, Blood Boy.”
Gemma slept through dinner.
I checked on her several times, even woke her up to see how she was feeling. She said her head felt better, but she was tired and felt the headache on the fringes. She just wanted to sleep. I put more Tylenol and Advil on her nightstand, along with water and a granola bar, before letting her be for the night.
Maxar went and picked up falafel and shawarma for everyone. So we dined on delicious Middle Eastern cuisine. I locked myself in my room, and Zandren and Maxar released Drak from his restraints long enough for him to eat and use the bathroom.
I waited up for a while, hoping Mr. Fiddleman would call Maxar to let him know any new spells he discovered at my aunt’s. But we heard nothing.
I practiced a lot on all three of them. Sending thoughts of persuasion and manipulation into their minds. Nothing nefarious. Though I did persuade Drak to bok like a chicken, which was pretty hilarious. He didn’t think it was funny, but I didn’t care.
True to form, the vampire did a good job pissing me off with just his words and face, but I managed to compartmentalize my rage, shove it in a box, and keep from making his nose bleed or brain hemorrhage. We called that a win.
Maxar took the couch and Zandren asked how we would all feel if he shifted and slept on the balcony. He also asked that we leave the sliding glass door open slightly so he could still hear the coming and going of the house.
We obliged.
Once I was safely locked away in my room again, they released Drak from his restraints, only to tether him to the leg of the love seat so he could sleep reclined, but not get very far.
I waited until midnight when I knew everyone would be asleep before I slipped into a pair of dark jeans, the same crop top as earlier that day, and my black leather jacket. I yanked on my combat boots and let my hair do its thing. Then, like a starved mouse willing to risk the trap to get the cheese, I tiptoed as quiet as ever, opened my bedroom door, and crept across the apartment to the front door.
Nobody in the living room stirred.
I didn’t even look in the direction of the couches as I slipped out the front door. Then I took the stairs and was as silent as could be when I burst into the night, free as a bird.
Even though Zandren and I went to the woods that morning, I was feeling so smothered by these mates. They barely knew me and yet, they wouldn’t let me be.
I knew there was love there. Zandren said as much. And maybe that’s because they felt it the moment the lightning struck, but I was still getting to know them. I was still making sense of everything. Of my role as Queen, of the fact that my father was a demon—the King—my mother was a human, and my aunt was a mage. A dead mage, no less. I was working through my grief as best I could, but it didn’t seem like there was any time for that. I could crumble later.
Right now, I had to figure out how to be Queen, how to be a demon, and find the two men who killed Delia.
But for just a few hours, I needed to go back to a time before I was hit by lightning. Before three gorgeous men knocked on my door asking me for forever.
I had my bear spray clutched tight in my palm, a switchblade in the other. Not to mention, I was armed with the demon power of deep-frying brains. I was safe .
Keeping a keen eye out around me, I headed for the bus stop. Even though the subway would be faster, dangerous things happened in tunnels and stairwells. I was already being stupid leaving; I didn’t need to be doubly stupid.
Whatever. I could be stupid. Twenty-two-year-olds were stupid. My prefrontal cortex wasn’t even fully developed. And right now, after everything that happened in the last three days, I deserved not only some time by myself to do what I wanted to do, but I deserved a break from all things magical. I just wanted to go back to a time before shit hit the fan.
It was nearly one o’clock by the time I arrived at Black Fox. It wasn’t my first time at this establishment and the bouncer let me in with no fuss. I thanked Roman with a wink and a fifty-dollar tip. I always tipped all the staff very well. Bouncers, bussers, bartenders, servers, the cashier, the dealer. I usually left with at least a grand less in my pocket because I spread the wealth.
But these people worked hard. And tipping them ensured not only excellent service, but if things got dicey—which they had in the past—because some egotistical jackass got his tighty whities in a twist, the staff was quick to jump to my defense and get me the hell out of dodge.
I made my way through the front of the house, which was a lounge, bar, and nightclub. It was a weekday, so things were slow. I said “hello” to the two bartenders—Alex and Felix—waved at the servers who knew me, and winked at the DJ, who waved back as I headed for the spiral staircase at the rear of the room. There was another bouncer there, guarding the velvet rope.
Damien lit up when he saw me. “I was hoping you’d come,” he said. “Where’s your cute little ginger friend?”
I pouted. “Home with a migraine. I’m flying solo tonight.”
He nodded, turning serious again. “I’ll let Cane know. Make sure nobody bugs you.” He unhooked the rope, and I handed him a fifty, then lifted up onto my tiptoes and kissed his chiseled cheek. “Thanks, Damien. You’re the best.”
Down, down, down the spiral staircase I went, the pumping sounds of the club music growing fainter the deeper into the earth I stepped.
The poker game was held under the bar in what was at one time a speakeasy during prohibition times. The above ground club was actually an old textile shop.
Laughter filtered up toward me, along with the sound of ice being dumped into glasses. Different music—jazzier stuff—played, and the faint hint of cigar smoke made me cringe. Nobody was allowed to smoke down here, but I knew that smell. I knew who would be at the table.
Ugh!
A few heads turned my way as I entered the room with the big, green felt table set up. I nodded at those who waved my way and said hello, but I didn’t stop to speak to anyone. I headed straight for Marty, the cashier. “How’s it going, Marty?”
“No complaints, Omaera. How are you?”
“Been a wild three days.”
His brows hitched up. “Oh, yeah?”
“Probably not as wild as yours, seeing as you’ve got brand new twins at home. How are Alyssa and the boys doing?”
He smiled sweetly at the mention of his wife and twin sons. “Rio has decided he doesn’t like sleeping at night. And Sam screams if anybody but Alyssa holds him.”
“So you’re exhausted and yet you’re still here?”
He sighed. “Day job doesn’t pay enough. Alyssa’s job has no maternity leave and she can’t bear to leave the kids in daycare.”
I frowned and reached into my purse. “Well, I just remembered that I never got you guys a baby gift, so as a belated gift—and if you say no, I’ll kick you in the shins—here is a small bump. Hire a nanny or something. Just get some sleep, okay?” I handed him five hundred dollars.
“Omaera, I ca—”
“I said ‘I’ll kick you in the shins’ and I meant it.”
He accepted the cash as tears welled up in his eyes. “Thank you.”
“Cross your fingers I win big tonight and there’ll be more where that came from.” I handed him my buy-in, and he exchanged the cash for chips. Then I casually wandered through the crowd to an empty seat at the table.
“Omaera,” Cane, the dealer said, purring my name. “I’m glad you made it. ”
“Me too. How are you, Cane? How’s your mother?”
His amber eyes twinkled and crinkled at the corners, creating deep lines in his tan, weathered face. “She’s better, thanks. She was on the waitlist for a new hip. They said it would be a year or more, but the fall she took the other day was a blessing in disguise. They got her in right away, gave her a new hip, and she’s already up and walking.”
“Oh, wow. That is a blessing in disguise. I’m so happy to hear she’s doing better. Send her my best, please.”
Cane grinned. “Well, she’s still a cranky old thing, but she’s less cranky now that she’s not in pain anymore.”
I chuckled. “Less cranky is always better.”
The seats beside me filled up with other players, and the bell to announce that the game would start in five minutes, chimed.
“Ms. Playfair, can I get you something to drink?” asked Cherise, one of the servers. “Your usual?”
“Please,” I said to her.
“Club soda with a splash of blueberry syrup and a wedge of lemon coming right up.”
“Thank you.”
She brought my drink in record time, and I tipped her handsomely.
“You’re a celebrity,” came a gravelly voice to my left. “Everybody knows you by name. The help even knows your drink order.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “No. I just play the local circuit and I get to know the staff at the events. They’re people too, you know.” Lifting my gaze and taking a sip of my drink, I came face to face with an older gentleman. His hair was a deep, rusty red, and that included his thick, bushy mustache. He was probably old enough to be my father—even though my real father was centuries old. And his belly was large and barrel shaped. His eyes were a pale green, almost gray, and the capillaries on his nose had burst, creating red spiderweb like veins. I glanced at the drink in his hand to find it a double of some amber spirit. Probably a very expensive scotch.
His suit was expensive. Dark. And he smelled faintly of peppermint .
He wasn’t the cigar smoking jerk I was waiting to see.
He thrust his right hand forward. “Ambrose Charlston.”
“Omaera Playfair,” I said, taking his sweaty palm in mine.
“What’s a little thing like you doing out so late and down here?”
I glanced at him, chomping down hard on the inside of my cheek. “As I said, I play the local circuit. And my size has nothing to do with my ability to play poker. I’m also old enough to be out later than when the streetlights come on.”
He huffed and reached inside his suit jacket to tug on his suspenders. “No need to get emotional. It was just a question.”
No need to get emotional ? I wasn’t getting emotional. I was getting defensive, but even that was handled without any anger in my tone.
“Let’s just play poker, hmm?” I said, as everyone else around the table settled down. There were ten players in total.
Cane gave a quick rundown of the rules as he always did. Then he dealt the cards.
I had an okay first hand. Nothing to get too excited about. Nine of spades and king of diamonds. I quickly calculated the probability of what each player could get, based on my cards being out of the deck.
My odds of winning weren’t spectacular, but with that king, they weren’t completely terrible either. Sure, the same suit would be nice, but I could work with these two cards.
Slowly, we went around the table and placed our bets. The man to my left with the ginger mustache placed his bet—five hundred.
Already, just based on the way he cleared his throat and popped another peppermint in his mouth, I could tell that he had nothing. He was a bluffer through and through.
The buy-in for this game was five thousand. I bet five hundred to start.
The man to my right bet five as well. Then, it was the cigar-smoking asshole beside him who chuckled like he smoked a pack a day, and pushed six hundred in front of him.
I refused to make eye contact with him, even though I could feel his gaze on me .
The remaining players placed their bets based on their two cards.
Then the dealer burned one card before dealing three cards from the deck face up for the start of the community river.
Three of diamonds. Two of diamonds. Nine of clubs.
Okay.
That nine of clubs with my nine of spades at least puts me in the game with a pair.
I glanced around the table, watching the tells.
When you play poker for a living, you don’t look at it like gambling. You view it as the grind, just like every other working stiff out there. This was what I did to pay the bills, buy food, and keep a roof over my head. The goal was to keep the money safe and never leave with less than I showed up with. Win one, big bet an hour and don’t get cocky. Quit while you’re in the black. Folding is not failing.
I repeated these things to myself several times throughout each game. Even when I wanted to bluff and play my opponent, I knew better than to get too arrogant and risk losing more than I came with. Folding wasn’t the end. Folding wasn’t failure.
The other thing about playing poker for a living was that you learned a lot about people without ever asking them a single question. Like the man next to the ginger mustache beside me, he was a Nervous Nelly. His nails were gnawed down to the quick. A few Band-Aids on his left said he’d already nibbled those down enough to make them bleed.
The question was: did he nibble when he had something good? Or something bad?
I shouldn’t be here. I’m a terrible player. My hand is bad. They’re going to take all my money and I won’t be able to pay rent. Why did I let Ricky talk me into coming?
Oh, that was interesting.
The man beside him kept flaring his nostrils and fiddling with a chip in his right hand, flipping it back and forth. Then he’d check his cards after five flips, put them down again, smile discreetly, and flip five times once more. I’d played with him before. This meant he had a good hand.
No fearful thoughts filled his mind.
The woman beside him blinked a lot and kept side-eyeing everyone. She also refused to put her cards down. She kept them in her hand as if she’d forget them if she set them down.
I need to fold. I can’t afford to lose his money. He said he’d leave me if I kept coming to these games.
I narrowed my gaze in her direction. She caught me looking at her and went pink in the cheeks.
The man beside her was watching me. His features were wolfish. That was the best way to describe him. One eye was a pale blue, the other amber. His brows were bushy and low down over his eyes. He bared his straight, white teeth. “So this is how you win, huh?”
Now it was my turn to blink. “Excuse me?”
He sniffed. “Little demon playing mind games,” he whispered. “Manipulating the other players to fold.”
I swallowed. No. That wasn’t how I played at all.
He smiled diabolically with bared teeth; the canines extended down further, just enough to let me know he wasn’t of the human world.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I can smell you. Couldn’t smell you before tonight. Your spell must have worn off.”
I glanced around the table, hoping to God nobody was listening.
Nobody was.
He managed to keep his voice low enough and everyone was in their own little world, calling and betting. The woman with the gambling addiction folded, as did the nail biter. Then it was mustache’s turn, and he upped his bet, matching the last raise with another hundred.
My turn now. But I was frazzled by this shifter across from me and hadn’t had a chance to study all the other players. Okay, I needed to get my head back in the game. You played the players more than you played the cards, and right now the shifter was doing a damned good job playing me. Everyone knew that if you couldn’t spot the sucker at the table in the first thirty minutes, you were the sucker. And I sure as hell was not the fucking sucker here.
I had a nine of spades and the king of hearts. My only play at the moment was a pair of nines. And although people won with lesser hands than that one pair, my odds weren’t looking good.
I studied what everyone else bet. Three of the ten of us so far had already folded, which left seven in the game.
I pushed another two hundred “in” chips forward.
The man to my right folded. Now there were six left in the game.
The cigar-smoke smelling asshole pushed four hundred “in” chips forward.
The man beside him—the cut-off—bet four as well.
Then it was back to the dealer.
Cane burned another card and placed the fourth card face up in the community row. Eight of clubs.
This didn’t help my chances at all.
A few people around the table sighed in frustration. Including the ginger mustache beside me. The chip flipping man with the flaring nostrils smiled, but only for a second, before stowing that grin and slapping on a resting bitch face. But I could already feel that he had nothing. Would he continue bluffing? Risk more money? Or cut his loses and fold? How well did he play the other players?
The small blind—the player right after the dealer, which was another woman—folded. Which meant now the big blind—the person after her—had to start the bet based on the new card in play.
And that just happened to be the shifter. Refusing to take his eyes off me, he bet three hundred, which meant he probably had a pair of some kind—or two—or the makings of a flush with the two and three or the eight and nine.
Blinking lady had already folded, so it was up to nostrils to fold, call, or bet.
He folded.
Called it. He would have been a terrible bluffer anyway.
Nail biter had already folded, so then it was mustache’s turn.
He hummed and hawed, glanced at his cards three times before finally matching the shifter’s bet of three hundred .
I refused to look at the shifter, even though I could feel his eyes burning on me. I increased the bet to three fifty. The man beside me had already folded, which meant it was cigar smoker’s turn. He raised the bet to four fifty. I knew he shifted his gaze my way, but I still refused to bite.
I hated this man, and he knew it. He was goading me. Trying to out play me and get in my head.
The cut-off folded as well.
This left just four of us in the game.
The shifter, the mustache man, the cigar smoker, and me.
Cane burned another card, then placed the fifth and final card face up in the river.
It was a king of spades.
Holy fucking shit.
I had two pair.
I didn’t react. Gemma and I had worked on killing any of my tells. I had none.
I never reacted when I had good cards or terrible cards.
The shifter went all in, smiling at me as he pushed all his chips into the middle.
Mustache man huffed in frustration and folded, throwing his cards down onto the table with a dramatic flair.
There was nothing I could do besides fold or match his bet, and as much as I didn’t want to go all-in and push all my money into the middle on two pairs, I had to.
Lastly, was the cigar smoker.
Like always, he waited the dramatic minute, glancing at his cards several times and swiveling his gaze between myself and the shifter. Finally, with a deep sigh, he pushed all his chips into the center as well.
The room was tense as fuck. Nobody spoke. Breaths were held. Assholes were clenched.
The shifter flipped his cards over first. A two of hearts and a jack of diamonds.
He had two pairs as well .
But my pairs were better.
“Two pair,” Cane announced. “Jacks and twos.” He smiled when he turned to me. “You’re up, Omaera.”
With my heart pummeling my ribcage, I flipped my cards over.
The crowd gasped.
“Two pair,” Cane said again. “Kings and nines.”
A very wolfish growl rumbled across the table from the shifter
“You’re up, Mr. Cavendish,” Cane said to the man who smelled like cigar smoke.
Mr. Cavendish, also known as Ricky C, a full-of-himself rounder with groupies, fancy cars and, from everything I’ve heard, a very small dick, flipped over his cards to reveal a three of spades and a jack of hearts. He also had two pairs. But they still weren’t as good as mine.
“Two pairs,” Cane announced. “Jacks and threes. The pot goes to Omaera with a winning hand of two pairs of kings and nines.”
Never wanting to showboat—too much—I smiled and leaned forward, scooping my chips toward me. It was a good and profitable game. This was exactly what I needed to get out of my head, out of my grief and confusion, and make some money as well. I could head home now to the chaos that awaited me.
As I was gathering my chips, the shifter leaned forward. “I’m sure Cane, Marty and Mr. Bello would love to hear how you’ve been cheating by persuasion and manipulation all these years.” His voice was low, growly and laden with threat.
Mr. Bello was the guy who owned the lounge upstairs and ran the games in the basement. It was rumored he had ties to the mob, but he’d never been anything but nice to me. Besides, I played fair, never cheated, and I made sure to tip his staff well. He liked me. And I . . . respected his establishment and choice of enterprise by not getting on his bad side.
“And I’m sure the High Council would love to hear how you’re threatening to out another member of the Realm because you’re a sore loser,” came a very familiar, distinct, and oh-so-pompous voice behind me .
I spun around to find Drak standing there, fuming at not only the shifter, but me as well.
Oh, lovely. The vampire who, despite being old as fuck, couldn’t for the immortal life of him understand motherfucking boundaries.
What other wonderful surprises and delights did this night have to offer me?