Chapter 5 Kara #2
“I didn’t have anything decent,” he said, though there was a slight edge to his tone now, something just a little more invested. And I had a feeling this whole “playing for pride” thing was starting to matter to him more than he wanted to admit.
By the fifth hand, he had started to catch on, and by the eighth, he wasn’t watching the cards anymore.
He was watching me.
I didn’t exactly mind the way his gaze lingered, like he was trying to read something beneath the surface.
It made me wonder if he was watching me to see through my poker face in the game, or if he was trying to see through my poker face and crack the facade I’d built to stay hidden in this town.
Either way, it left me feeling a little nervous.
We played a few more hands as the thunder faded into background noise. For a moment, it almost felt normal. I leaned back slightly, eyeing my opponent, taking in the way he still held himself just a little too stiff, like even this simple game required control.
I bet, with the right motivation, Octavius Grouchy-Pants Yasu could actually be fun.
“You know what?” I said, like I’d just had the best idea I’d ever come up with. “Let’s make this interesting.”
I stood, crossing to the small cabinet and pulling out the one bottle I had managed to salvage from my previous life.
Whiskey. Expensive whiskey, at that. Well, stolen, technically. From Hugo, along with a few other things that had made my escape possible, including the pearl still resting against my collarbone, my quiet lifeline to Crescent Cove. But right now, the whiskey was what mattered.
I held it up, giving it a small shake in his direction. “What do you say?”
“I don’t drink often,” he said immediately.
I turned back toward him, lifting a brow. “Well, often is not a no.” I set the bottle down, grabbed two mismatched glasses, and poured a small amount into each. “Whoever loses the hand takes a shot.”
He looked at the whiskey like it had personally offended him, like he was considering interrogating it before making a decision. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“That’s the point,” I said easily. “It’ll be fun. Raise the stakes a little. So if you want to keep your wits about you, I suggest you start taking more risks in this game.”
He stayed quiet, clearly weighing it, his expression caught somewhere between suspicion and reluctant consideration.
“What?” I pressed, tilting my head. “Are you scared?”
His eyes flicked up to mine, something sharper settling into his gaze. “No, but—”
“Then play,” I cut in.
There was a pause, then slowly, he nodded and I smiled, unable to help it. This was progress.
By the time we were several hands in, it became very clear that Octavius was actually trying. Really trying in fact. And... he was still losing.
He took each loss with that same quiet composure he carried through everything, but there was a faint tightness in his expression now, a subtle shift in his shoulders that gave him away.
This wasn’t something he was used to. Not being outplayed.
Not immediately knowing how to win. And definitely not being out of control.
I, on the other hand, was having a great time. “Another one,” I said, a little too cheerfully as I revealed my hand and reached for the bottle to pour him another shot.
He didn’t argue. Instead, he picked up the glass and downed it in one go. This time, though, there was a slight pause afterward, his eyes closing just a fraction longer as the burn settled in.
“You’re doing amazing,” I added, trying—and failing—to keep the smile out of my voice.
I laughed as I dealt the next hand. The storm was still present outside, but it felt farther away now, less intrusive, like the room had become its own little pocket of calm in the middle of it.
He won the next round, and I was oddly proud.
He was starting to trust the game—trust himself.
Or maybe he just couldn’t stomach another shot and decided it was time to take risks.
Either way, the look he gave me when I took my shot in return was far too satisfied for someone who had just lost the previous six rounds.
We played a few more hands after that, and I could tell the alcohol was starting to take hold of him.
Not dramatically, or in any way that made him sloppy or loud or anything remotely out of control.
More like something in him had loosened just a bit.
Even his tentacles had slipped free from his back, moving with a slower, more relaxed rhythm, and I couldn’t help the heat that crept into my cheeks every time I caught sight of them.
“Why are you so good at this?” he asked after losing another hand.
How was I supposed to answer that exactly?
Oh, you know. Because I had spent years surrounded by this game, trapped in the orbit of one of the most notorious gambling lords in the region, where losing didn’t just cost you money, it cost you everything.
Because I had learned to read people before they could read me.
Because I had seen what happened to those who didn’t, the ones who thought they could play their way out of debt only to sink deeper.
I had watched it happen over and over again, had lived it myself, and paid for it in ways I still couldn’t think about too closely.
My fingers tightened slightly around the deck, knowing I could never give him the truth without revealing everything. So instead, I gave him something easier.
“Just a hobby,” I said lightly, forcing the words to sound effortless. “Been playing for years.”
His gaze didn’t shift or soften, and suddenly I was very aware of him again, like he could tell I was lying. “And how exactly did you pick up this hobby?” he asked.
For a split second, panic flared, because of course I was hiding something.
I was usually pretty good at lying, but for whatever reason, around him it felt like I was a rookie all over again.
And even though I had only taken three shots compared to his ten—ten he was surprisingly handling very well—I wasn’t ready to get into any of that.
Instead, I needed an out. I forced a yawn, stretching slightly, like I hadn’t just spiraled halfway into a memory I had no intention of revisiting.
“You know what,” I said, setting the cards down, “I’m actually getting pretty tired. I think we should call it quits before you get even more wasted.”
“I’m not wasted, Kara. Believe it or not, shifters can hold their own.”
“That sounds exactly like something someone halfway to getting shitfaced would say.”
He didn’t argue, which told me everything I needed to know. And honestly, he didn’t seem drunk, maybe a solid buzz at most. If he were human, he would have been passed out somewhere by now, but whatever magic or biology ran through Crescent Cove clearly came with a higher tolerance.
“Okay,” I said, a little breathless in a way I hoped he wouldn’t notice. “Sleeping arrangements.”
I led him down the short hallway, pushing open the bedroom door and stepping aside to let him in first. The space was only marginally better than the rest of the house, though I had at least attempted to make it feel somewhat livable.
The bed was unmade, blankets half-folded from that morning, and the pile of pillows I had gathered sat in a slightly chaotic heap at the foot.
“Go ahead,” I said, gesturing toward them. “Take whatever you need. Lucky for you, this place came with an excessive amount of blankets and pillows. And before you even ask, they were the first things I threw in the wash, so they’re nice and clean.”
He stepped in, glancing around with that same assessing gaze before reaching down to pick up a blanket. Then, as if he owned the place, he sat on the bed, giving it a testing bounce.
And just like that, my brain betrayed me. Because now I was suddenly very aware of the fact that he was sitting on my bed.
He had agreed to let me sleep in my own bed, which was ridiculous to even think about, since, yes, it was my bed, but he was my guest. Now I was worried he was reconsidering the whole bathtub situation, leaving me to sleep on the soggy loveseat, which, no thank you.
If he did change his mind, there were enough pillows to make a barrier where we could both share the bed, since it was big enough.
Though something told me those tentacles of his didn’t exactly respect boundaries.
And something even worse whispered that I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted them to.
The thought hit harder this time, heat pooling low in my body until I felt it flare in a way that made my breath hitch slightly. It was wildly inappropriate given the situation, and yet it refused to fade.
My gaze flicked to him before I could stop it, tracking the line of his shoulders, the way his still-damp shirt clung just enough to suggest what was beneath it.
My stomach tightened as I became far too aware of everything, and now I could focus on nothing but the handsome, albeit dick of an octopus shifter sitting on my bed.
I felt my face flush, because shit, I did not just think about his dick.
No, Kara, you said he was a dick, you know, like an asshole... oh fuck, now I was thinking about his ass. God, what was wrong with me? I’d only had three shots, but I needed to get myself under control before he sensed anything from me or, more likely, before I blurted it out myself.
“It’s wet.” His voice broke through my thoughts, and I froze.
“What?” I practically shouted, my mind immediately jumping to the worst possible conclusion, because now I was absolutely convinced he could sense something, feel something, or do whatever it was he did.