28. Sienna
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
SIENNA
Jamison Crow survived dinner with my family.
He sat through all the courses, speeches, one disagreement about whether the west garden hydrangeas had been pruned too severely, and my mother’s seven-minute explanation of the candle order for the evening table without once overturning a chair or reacting.
By the time the dinner plates were cleared, I had stopped waiting for Jamison to stand. Hope had a way of sneaking in when shock grew tired.
My father lifted his glass and said, “Cards in the east salon in twenty.”
And Jamison said, “Fine.”
As if fine was a normal response from a Crow who had spent three years avoiding every Bellemere room.
My fork slipped against my dessert plate.
He looked at me from beside my shoulder, black shirt open at his throat, one hand resting near his glass. His expression was bored in the way Jamison often looked bored before ruining lives.
“What?” he asked.
“You agreed to cards, with my family. Voluntarily.”
His mouth curved. “Careful, baby. You look concerned.”
I leaned closer to him, lowering my voice. “You don’t have to come.”
His eyes came back to mine.
Far too focused for a candlelit family table.
“Are you going?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m coming.”
My stomach turned over softly.
He said things now. As if three years of absence could be answered by one dark look and a sentence that made my heart do foolish little things in my chest.
“You’ll be annoyed,” I whispered. “And bored.”
“I am always annoyed, people are regularly incompetent.”
I tried very hard to keep my mouth steady. “Then why come?”
His gaze dipped to my lips for one dangerous second.
“Because you’ll be there.”
I forgot how to answer.
Jamison smiled as if he knew exactly what he had done, then lifted his glass and drank.
Smug bastard.
The east salon was one of the older rooms in the main house, tucked behind the library through double doors painted a deep green that my grandmother had chosen and my mother had spent twenty years trying to replace.
A long card table had been set near the fireplace, green felt brushed smooth, chips arranged in neat ivory stacks, crystal tumblers ready beside a silver decanter.
Bellemere cards had rituals.
My father took the head seat. Julian sat on his right, Adrian opposite him, my cousins and brothers-in-law scattered around the table.
My mother preferred bridge and declined poker with an expression that suggested poker was beneath her attention.
Sabine sat near the window with Henri, one hand resting over her stomach while Mila slept across a nearby lounge with Honey tucked under her chin.
Henri checked the steps to her twice before fussing over Sabine.
Jamison paused in the doorway.
Every man at the table shifted.
He looked around the salon, then at me.
“This is very serious for a family that argues over sandwich filling.”
I smiled. “Poker matters.”
“Do you play?”
“Yes.”
Adrian coughed into his drink. Julian looked down at the chips, and, Henri’s mouth twitched. Jamison noticed everyone immediately.
His head turned slowly back to me. “Do you play well?”
I lifted my chin. “I play socially.”
I moved toward my usual seat near Sabine, but Jamison’s hand settled at my lower back and redirected me. As if he had already decided where I belonged and expected the room to update itself around that decision.
“Here,” he said.
He pulled out the chair beside him
I looked at it.
That was the seat closest to the main play. My seat was usually farther back, safe enough to lose quietly.
“Jamison.”
“You’re engaged to a Crow.”
I frowned slightly, unsure what he was trying to tell me.
“Crows own casinos. You are about to marry into a bloodline whose main trade is making people believe they are smarter than the table.” His hand rested on the chair. “Sit.”
He took the chair next to mine.
A staff member appeared with a cigar tray before anyone asked.
Jamison reached for one, then paused and looked at me.
“Do you mind?”
It took me a second to understand.
He was asking me.
In front of my all the men who had spent the day trying to pretend he was a normal guest and failing miserably.
I shook my head. “No. I like the smell.”
His eyes held mine for a beat too long.
He selected a cigar.
The staff member lifted a cutter, but Jamison held out his hand.
“I’ll do it,” he said.
I surprised myself by reaching first.
“Can I?”
Jamison’s eyes moved to my hand.
Then to my face.
“You want to cut my cigar?”
“It looks satisfying.”
Jamison handed me the cigar.
It was heavier than I expected. He passed me the cutter as well, placing it into my palm. His fingers brushed mine. A small, stupid thrill went up my wrist.
“Straight cut,” he said, voice lower now. “Just the cap. Don’t take too much.”
I nodded, suddenly focused.
The cigar sat between my fingers.
I lined it up.
Pressed.
The cap fell cleanly into the ashtray.
Jamison’s mouth curved.
“Good girl.”
My cheeks went hot.
Across the table, Henri looked down politely. Julian cleared his throat. Adrian’s grin became indecent before my father’s glare killed it.
Jamison took the cigar from me slowly, as if the whole room had disappeared, then placed it between his lips.
I had seen men smoke cigars before, and never cared to look twice.
Jamison made it look obscene without doing anything. Just the cigar resting at his mouth, the lighter flaring gold near his face, his tattooed fingers turning it with slow precision while smoke drifted between us.
He drew in the first breath and let it out to the side, away from me.
Another little courtesy.
I noticed every one of them now.
The first hand began, and I tried to look as though I belonged in the main play.
I looked down at my cards. A king and queen of hearts sat together in my hand, red and elegant, facing the same way, both far too beautiful to be separated by something as ugly as strategy. They somehow found themselves together despite the shuffle.
I smiled before I could stop myself.
Jamison’s cigar paused near his mouth. “Sienna.”
“Yes?”
“Why are you looking at those cards like that?”
Adrian made a strangled sound into his drink.
I glared at him. “Don’t.”
He lifted both hands, already grinning.
Julian looked down at his chips, which meant he was smiling and trying to hide it. Henri pressed two fingers against his mouth, but Sabine had already turned her face toward the window, shoulders shaking gently.
Jamison’s attention sharpened.
That was never good for the person being examined.
“Explain,” he said.
“No.”
“Baby.”
I swallowed. “They belong together.”
Jamison stared at me. “Who belongs together?”
“The king and queen.”
His gaze dropped to my cards.
Then came back up.
“The king and queen.”
“Yes.”
“Because they are both hearts?”
“Because they are married.”
Adrian lost the fight and laughed.
Julian said, “To be fair, she does this with every suit.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do,” Adrian said, delighted now. “She keeps kings and queens together. If she gets a king with no queen, she says he looks lonely. If she gets a queen with no king, she says she’s better off because the king was probably useless anyway.”
“That last part is accurate in many cases,” Sabine said from the window.
Henri looked at his wife with deep admiration. “Agreed.”
“This is why Sienna should never be allowed near serious money.” My mother’s expression pinched.
I sat straighter. “I have played cards for years.”
“You have sat at card tables for years,” Julian corrected.
Jamison lowered the cigar into the ashtray. “You don’t know how to play poker.”
“I do.” I lifted my chin, and looked at my cards.
The first three cards were turned over on the table. A two of clubs, a seven of diamonds, and a queen of spades.
“Oh,” I said, brightening.
Jamison’s eyes opened. “No.”
“What?”
“That face again. That one just told the room you saw something you liked.”
Adrian lifted a finger. “She has a queen.”
I gasped. “You don’t know that.”
Julian looked at Jamison. “She does.”
Henri nodded apologetically. “She definitely does.”
I looked around the table, wounded by betrayal from every direction. “You are all being mean to me.”
Jamison’s attention came back to me, and his mouth curved around the edge of his cigar with slow, dangerous amusement. “Baby, are you marrying cards together?”
My cheeks heated. “Only the ones that belong together.”
My father sighed.
Jamison continued staring at me, something between horror and fascination moving through his expression. “That is how you decide whether to keep a hand?”
“No,” I said, because I had dignity. Then I looked down at my cards. “Sometimes. Unless it is a two.”
He leaned back slowly, cigar in one hand, the other resting near his chips. “What about twos?”
I looked at the two of clubs on the table. It sat there hopeful, ignored by everyone, with its little black symbols arranged so carefully. Poor thing. People were always rude about twos.
“I feel bad for them.”
Jamison stared. “You feel bad for the twos.”
“No one wants them.”
“That is because they are weak.”
“Last summer,” Julian said, voice strained from amusement, “she bet half her chips on a pair of twos because she said they deserved one good night.”
“They lost,” Adrian added.
I frowned. “They were brave.”
Jamison looked at me with the same expression he might have used on a man who had confessed to setting fire to a casino.
I picked up my glass and took a careful sip of water because wine would only make my card judgment more compassionate. “Sometimes I ask everyone to play snap instead.”
Jamison’s head turned very slowly toward Julian.
Julian nodded once. “She does.”
“Or Go Fish,” Henri offered, far too gently.
“Go Fish has a lovely structure,” I said. “Everyone asks politely.”
Adrian grinned. “She likes it because if you need a queen, you can ask for one instead of waiting for fate.”
“That is practical.”