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“Hit,” he says, his tone steady.

I deal him another card—a four. He’s probably close to 20 now.

Now, it’s my turn. I slide my fingers over my cards, and in one swift, practiced motion, I swap them.

“I’ll stay,” I say, leaning back, the fabric of my dress falling to the side, exposing my legs.

Corm’s gaze lowers to my skin, then he flips over his cards—a six and a nine. Not bad, but not good enough.

His eyes flick to my hand. Slowly, deliberately, I reveal my cards—first the ten, then the ace. Twenty-one.

For a moment, Corm’s expression doesn’t change. He just stares at the cards, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Impressive,” he says, his voice smooth but with a hint of something else beneath it—something darker, more calculated. “How come you are so good at this?”

“I cheat.” I smile at him.

“Is cheating in cards another pastime like knitting?” He stands and walks to a cabinet beside us and retrieves a bottle of whiskey and two tumblers.

“How do you know I knit?” Where is this conversation going?

“Observation skills.” He pours two inches into each glass.

“You’ve never seen me knitting.” I take a tumbler from him and wet my lips in the amber liquid.

“True, but there are yarns and needles in the kitchen.”

“How do you know they are not Livia’s?”

Why am I engaging in this idle conversation? He forced me to play cards, and now we are talking about my hobbies? And the fact he knows mine is unnerving. I won a game, and I still feel like he has the upper hand.

Because he fucking has. He can still stall on his side of the bargain.

“She wouldn’t dare to sit around while at work. Where did you learn to cheat at cards, Saar?”

The question hits me with its coldness and directness, his tone not leaving any room to deflect. Not that I need to. What is going on?

“Jesus, you’re a sore loser. I learned some tricks from a girl in school. I palmed my cards while I was shuffling. That’s why I needed your jacket. The challenge is timing, but I’ve done this enough times to know when I can get away with it.” I straighten and shake the garment from my shoulders, letting it drop behind me.

He takes a sip. “And how did you perfect the skills?”

I frown. “Why are you being weird?”

He moves with the speed of a predator and leans down, propping his hands on the armrests, caging me. The alcohol in his hand sloshes around, staining my dress.

“Answer the fucking question, Saar.”

His nose is an inch from my face. There is room behind me on my seat, but I’m not sliding back. I’m not scared of him. His jaw ticks, and he shakes, barely hanging onto his control.

“Every summer, Finn and Cal would come to Europe to take me on vacation, and we played a game to choose the destination. Two years in a row I lost, and we went to Ibiza, the horny players they were. So I picked up a few tricks to finally choose where we’d go.”

He stands up suddenly and paces to the window and back. He takes a sip of his whiskey and then chugs the glass across the room. It hits the wall and shatters into pieces behind me.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I jump up, rushing to the door.

He reaches me before I manage two steps and whips me around, one arm around my waist, his other hand pinching my chin, forcing me to look at him.

I pant.