Patrick and I aren’t a “couple” or “engaged” in really anything but name. It’s an arrangement, made due to my “family connections” to one of the crime families in Chicago and with Patrick being Terry’s nephew. But an “arrangement” is exactly what it is. The creep has never touched me. Trust me, I’ve made damn sure of that. He’s certainly tried, but I’ve made it clear that nothing is happening until the wedding.
…Which, in a perfect world, I can put off basically indefinitely, because I loathe the man I’m “supposed to” marry.
“You lost, boy-o,” Clay grunts, his thick, deep voice rumbling through the room. “So, run along.” He smiles thinly. “Unless there’s more things that belong to you that we could…” his eyes slide back to me, dragging slowly over every inch of me and making me shiver under the heat and the power in those eyes.
“Take from you.”
Patrick swears viciously, and I watch his hand dart to the gun he keeps tucked in a holster in the small of his back. Except, this time, there’s no gun there. There’re no guns anywhere in the room, since the rules are that they get checked before a game.
“Run along, little boy,” Eamon says darkly before his eyes move to me, drinking me in like I’m a slow, tall glass of something strong.
I swallow, heat flushing through my cheeks.
Patrick moves away from the table, muttering and swearing. Now there are two players left—each of them dark, dominant, wicked as sin, and gorgeous as hell. And after one more hand, one of them is going to have me. The idea is so wrong, and in any other situation, it’d be a nauseating thought. But not when I’m face to face with the both of them, and with that power behind both of their eyes.
One of these men is going to claim me.
I bite back the whimper as I tremble in my skimpy green party dress, teetering on my glossy green stilettos.
One of these rough, older, sinfully sexy and totally dangerous and off-limits crime kingpins is going to have me, in just one more hand of a freaking poker game.
Patrick is still fuming, muttering to himself as he scrolls viciously through his phone, when the dealer meekly clears his throat.
“Uh, last hand, gentlemen—”
“No.”
Eamon smiles thinly, his eyes looking at no one else but me as he shakes his head.
“No more hands.”
The dealer frowns. “Gentlemen, it’s a winner take all ga—”
“Fine,” Clay snarls darkly, impatience darkening his face. And from the hungry look in his eyes, I have an idea what he’s impatient about.
“Deal.”
The dealer nods and quickly passes out the cards, all while Patrick paces the room swearing furiously, and while I stand there froze to the spot. My heart races, my tongue wets my lips, and my eyes dart between the two of them, wondering which of these dangerous, powerful men is going to “win me”.
They both snatch their cards up quickly, and my pulse quickens. But suddenly, the two of them just glance at each other before smiling quietly.
“I fold,” Clay grunts, tossing his cards down.
My eyes fly to Eamon, and instantly, I shiver as those piercing blue eyes sizzle into me.
“Me too.”
I blink. Wait, what?
Eamon throws his cards down too, fire blazing in his eyes as he levels them at me, his fingers steepling together.
The dealer sputters. “Wait, gentlemen, you—I mean—that means—”
“That mean’s, if I’m not mistaken, and according to house rules of this game,” Clay growls. “That it’s a draw.”
My heart leaps into my throat, and slowly, my mouth starts to drop.
Eamon smiles wickedly, easing back in his chair and folding his arms over his chest. His eyes find mine, and something fierce sparks in that look that has my breath catching.
“That means we’re gonna share the pot,” he purrs lowly.
Patrick whirls, his face red and sputtering as he jabs a finger at the men across the table. “You motherfucking—”
“Leave.”
Clay Moreland’s gritty baritone booms through the room, and instantly, the entire freaking place starts to empty. Normally tough looking guys glance nervously at the two imposing, dominant Irish mob kings as they skitter out through the door back into the bar and the other one that leads into the alleyway out back. And then it’s just Clay, Eamon, me, and Patrick.
“You ain’t laying a hand on—”
“You don’t leave now, boy-o,” Eamon growls lowly. “And you’ll be leaving without a hand.”
The weaselly little shit glances at me, and slowly, his look sours.
“This ain’t over, bitch,” he spits.
It was your bet, asshole! I want to scream back. But, I don’t, because I can’t. Because my mouth is so dry, and my heart is pounding so fast that I can barely think let alone make words.
We’re gonna share the pot.
Me. I’m the pot. And suddenly, the full weight of what’s happening sinks in for me.