Chapter 8 #2
“I thought I did?” He pitches forward, tension rippling through his shoulders. Even just sitting beside me, he’s a mountain. He’s like this house. Absorbs all the light in this world and reflects nothing but darkness back. “You knew the Winter Games were here. Remember?”
He's right. I did.
My mouth falls open a little. I wasn’t meaning that, I was talking about his fiancée.
I can't be jealous. I can’t afford to be jealous. I’m so fucked.
“Hey.” His thigh taps mine and my heart skips. Probably from all the scenarios flying around inside my head. “Don't do that.”
“Do what?” I ask, sucking in a breath and looking through eyes I’d found a home in.
He leans in close, so close I can feel the soft brushes of every exhale. It’s so easy for me to get lost in him. To just allow myself to fall in.
His mouth twitches. “That thing you're doing where you look jealous.”
Heat floods my cheeks.
I lean back, needing distance between us, but his scent—cedar and something distinctly him—lingers.
“Jealous?” I force a laugh, the sound brittle even to my own ears. “Of what exactly?”
His mouth curves into that infuriating half-smile. “You tell me.”
Before I can choke out something that won't end with my fists in his face or me on it, Lucinda barrels through the doorway, arms wrapped around a beaten-to-shit Monopoly box. Camille glides in after her, trailing behind Parker.
“Game night!” Luce announces, setting the box down on the coffee table with theatrical flair. “I found this in one of the closets upstairs.”
Atlas groans from his position sprawled across an armchair. “Really? We're doing board games?”
“It's tradition,” Punk pipes up, settling cross-legged on the floor. “Ivy always insists on it when we're together.”
Asher shifts beside me, his thigh brushing mine as he reaches for his drink. “Course she does. Can't stand not being in control of something.”
I turn to stare at him, but he's already looking away, accepting the Monopoly pieces Luce is distributing. His dismissal stings more than it should.
“I like to win,” I snap, eyes narrowed on his ridiculously sharp jaw.
“There's a difference?” He selects the top hat without looking at me.
Parker settles onto the opposite sofa with Camille.
“Ivy's competitive streak is legendary. You should see her play poker.” Luce grins, and I want to kick her for not helping deflect the attention away from me.
“I bet,” Asher answers with obvious sarcasm.
Luce catches my eye across the board, her expression questioning. I shake my head, hoping she'll drop whatever intervention she's planning.
“So what's the buy-in?” Atlas asks, already counting out his Monopoly money.
“Pride,” I say, finding my voice again. “Winner gets bragging rights until next year.”
Camille laughs, the sound light. “How quaint. Back home, we usually play for actual stakes.”
“Where's home?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
“Beverly Hills.” She adjusts her position against Parker, diamond engagement ring catching the firelight. “My family owns a few hotels there.”
Of course they do. I roll the dice harder than necessary, the plastic clattering against the board.
“Careful there, Venom,” Asher murmurs from behind his glass, using the nickname that sends an unwelcome thrill through me. “Don't want to break something.”
His words carry a double meaning that makes my stomach clench. I meet his gaze over my shoulder, searching for some trace of the man who used to text me at midnight to see if I was awake, who drove me to coffee shops at dawn because he knew I couldn't sleep.
Instead, I find a stranger wearing his face.
He must sense my annoyance, because he rolls his eyes and moves to the other sofa, lowering beside Camille.
“My turn,” Camille says brightly, reaching for the dice. As she leans forward, her hand touches Asher's arm, a casual gesture that shouldn't matter but somehow does.
A couple of hours later, Camille lands on one of my properties, bankrupting her.
She laughs, tossing her last dollar into the middle. “I have to say, real estate is so much more thrilling when the properties exist.”
She drapes herself over Asher's shoulder, fingers tracing the ink on his forearm. “Isn't that right, baby? Remember when I helped close your house in Malibu?”
My whiskey finds my lips before I register that I’m moving. The burn helps. It helps everything. Shit, by the time these four weeks are over, I’ll be an alcoholic.
“A house is a house.” He shifts, creating distance that Camille immediately closes.
Atlas watches the exchange, before swinging to me, his grin widening. His eyes drop to my throat, and something wicked sparks there. “Cute leash you got there.”
The room falls quiet.
My hand stops over the flower. I didn’t realize I was playing with it.
“Excuse me?”
“Your choker.” He gestures with his beer bottle. “Very… domesticated.”
Heat crawls up my neck. Camille's eyes narrow, tracking between Atlas and me. There's something there, a tension that predates this moment. She doesn't like him. Interesting.
“Isn't it?” Luce's voice cuts through, bright with mischief. She's had three drinks and her filter's slipping. “A birthday present from her handler, Asher, last year.”
Camille's perfectly sculpted eyebrows climb. “Handler?”
“Inside joke,” I say quickly, but Luce is already rolling. God dammit. Someone needs to cut her off.
“He gave it to her for her twenty-ninth.” She grins at me, oblivious to the minefield she's dancing through. “Speaking of which, the big three-oh is coming up. What are we doing? Please tell me we're not sitting around playing board games.”
Parker, who's been unusually quiet, perks up. “Your birthday's soon?”
“In three weeks.” I hiss after emptying my Whiskey. I need more.
“We should throw a party,” Camille suggests, her hand still on Asher's arm. “I know this amazing event planner in LA who could fly out—”
“Ivy doesn't do parties,” Asher interrupts, looking at me. “She prefers quiet dinners. Small groups.”
The fact that he knows this, remembers this, shouldn't matter. But Camille's fingers tighten on his biceps, and I catch the flash of calculation in her eyes.
“How sweet that you know that.” Her tone drips honey over arsenic. “You two must be close.”
Punk clears her throat from her spot on the floor. “We usually do dinner at Le Chat, Jord's restaurant, or at one of the houses.”
“Which I now partially own,” I add, needing to move this conversation away from Asher and I.
Atlas whistles low. “Moving up in the world. From what to restaurant mogul?”
Is he fishing? Huh. Probably. Mysterious woman becomes best friends with his brother. It’s valid.
“From none of your business to still none of your business.” I collect the Monopoly pieces, needing something to do with my hands.
“Feisty.” Atlas tips his beer toward me. “No wonder my brother likes—”
“Atlas.” Asher's voice cuts in. A warning.
The brothers lock eyes across the coffee table. Whatever passes between them does so silently, but Camille obviously thinks she can hear them loud and clear.
Her expression shifts from curious to sharp.
“No wonder your brother likes what?” She asks, sweet as poison.
Atlas shrugs, all innocence. “Her business acumen. Obviously.”
Jord stands, stretching theatrically. “Well, this has been fun, but I've got an early conference call tomorrow. Restaurant business never sleeps.”
“Since when do you take early calls?” I challenge, grateful for the redirect.
“Since my business partner bought in.” He winks at me. “Gotta keep appearances now that we're legitimate.”
Luce snorts. “You? Legitimate? That's rich.”
“Speaking of rich,” Camille interjects, “I'm curious about this restaurant. What kind of cuisine?”
“French,” Jord replies, toneless but polite. “Classic techniques, modern presentation.”
“How… predictable.” She examines her manicure. “French cuisine is so overdone these days. Everyone thinks they can master it after a few months in Paris.”
It this bitch for real?
Jord's expression doesn't change, but I know him well enough to catch the tightening around his eyes. “Good thing I trained in Lyon then.”
“Oh?” Camille perks up, scenting blood. “Under whom?”
“Paul Bocuse.” Jord shrugs. “Before he passed, obviously.”
Even Camille can't find fault with that. Bocuse is legendary, and Jord knows it. But she recovers quickly, turning her attention back to me.
“So a restaurant, this gorgeous house, a devoted husband who travels constantly…” She ticks off each point on her manicured fingers. “You've built quite the life.”
The implication slithers between us. I’m a gold digger. That I haven't earned any of this.
“Some of us do work for what we have,” I say evenly.
“Of course.” Her smile could cut diamonds. “I'm sure your… work… is demanding.”
Asher shifts beside her, and for a moment I think he'll intervene. Instead, he pulls out his phone and scrolls.
“What kind of work do you do?” Atlas asks, genuinely curious now.
I open my mouth, but Asher speaks first.
“She's in publishing.” He doesn't look up from his phone. “Prefers the underdogs. Unconventional stories.”
Camille laughs, the sound brittle. “How mysterious. Are we talking sci-fi? Romance?”
I hold her stare. “Well, a bit of this and a bit of that. I do love a good horror romance.”
Her brows shoot up as she rests back against the couch. “Huh. I'm not surprised. I mean for someone to be so close to my Asher, I would assume you'd be into all that… gore.” So she knows we're close. Or were.
She must sense my inner thoughts because she rolls her eyes. “Oh puhlease, let's get this over with. Yes, I know about Ashvy, and yes, I know you're his precious Venom. It's why he hasn't mentioned me that has me confused.”
Finally. Something we can agree on.