Page 87

BECKETT

"You realizeyour entire strategy is absurd, right?" Graham says, shuffling the deck with practiced hands, cards flowing through his fingers like water. "You're bleeding chips because you keep trying to bluff, and Seb can smell weakness like a shark smells blood."

The three of us sit around the antique poker table in my penthouse, whiskey glasses half-empty, cigar smoke hanging in lazy spirals beneath recessed lighting. Friday night poker—a tradition that's outlasted marriages, business rivalries, and at least one attempted murder between us.

Sebastian chuckles, stacking his chips with meticulous precision. "I don't need to smell anything when Graham broadcasts his hand with those tells of his. Left eyebrow twitches for a good hand, right corner of his mouth for a bluff."

"Fuck you," Graham says good-naturedly, dealing the next hand with swift efficiency. "I haven't had a tell since 2010."

"Which is why I've been taking your money since 2011," Sebastian counters.

I remain silent, arranging my cards without much interest. My mind is elsewhere—split between the phone that hasn't rung and the security feed I checked before they arrived. Luna, alone in my upstate house, standing before an easel, finally painting after days of resistance. The image of her, brush in hand, surrounded by my walls, keeps intruding on my concentration.

"Earth to Beckett," Graham waves a hand in front of my face. "Your bet."

I toss in a chip without looking at my cards.

"Jesus," Graham sighs dramatically. "At least pretend this matters to you."

"Some of us have actual concerns," I reply, taking a slow sip of whiskey.

Sebastian raises an eyebrow. "The Collectors?"

"Almost forty-eight hours," I confirm. "Decision deadline's approaching."

Graham whistles low. "They're making you sweat. Classic power move."

"Collectors love their little games," Sebastian agrees, his expression darkening slightly. He adjusts his cuffs—a nervous habit he's never managed to break. "Especially Baine."

"Speaking of games," Graham says, waggling his eyebrows suggestively, "how's the lovely Luna? Still locked away in your fortress of doom?"

"Careful," I warn, my voice dropping to a register that usually makes men reconsider their next words.

Graham, of course, ignores the warning entirely. "What? I'm just asking after the wellbeing of a fellow Club member." His smile is all innocence, but his eyes gleam with mischief. "Though I have to say, I've never seen anyone go this far for a piece of ass, no matter how exceptional."

Sebastian winces visibly. "Graham?—"

"She's not up for discussion," I cut in, my tone final.

"Interesting," Graham muses, studying me over the rim of his glass. "Very interesting."

"What's interesting," Sebastian interrupts smoothly, "is how a man who built an empire from nothing still can't figure out when to shut his mouth."

Graham laughs, unbothered. "What can I say? I didn't get where I am by keeping quiet when I noticed things." He turns back to me, head tilted curiously. "And I notice that our resident ice king has gone and developed actual feelings. That's new."

"Feelings for what? Winning?" I deflect. "Always had those."

"No, no," Graham presses, leaning forward. "Feelings for a woman. A specific woman. One you've got locked away like Rapunzel while you fight dragons for her."

Sebastian shoots me a look that's half warning, half sympathy. "Graham thinks every interaction between men and women has to follow his playboy manual."

"And Sebastian thinks every relationship needs a prenup and political alliance," Graham fires back good-naturedly. "But our Beckett here—he usually treats women like expensive rentals. Temporary pleasures with clear terms and expiration dates." He points at me with his cigar. "This is different. This is?—"

My phone vibrates on the table, Anthony Baine's name lighting up the screen.

The room falls silent.

I stand, buttoning my jacket with methodical precision as I pick up the phone. "Excuse me."