Page 49

The last person sitting at the table was a small human man, dressed in a black, button-down shirt and white bowtie. He collected the cards from the table with exceptional speed. Remy had almost missed him entirely. With the richest and most powerful fae at the table, he seemed to fade into the background. Remy knew his silent, timid posturing was as calculated as her dress was.

The dealer gestured an open hand to the Witchslayer. His turn.

“Call,” Renwick said, throwing three more gold coins into the mountain of treasures on the table.

They all looked at Hale. He skimmed his nose across Remy’s temple and bent to nibble the top of her shoulder. They were both enjoying this game too much, it seemed. His rough, calloused hand slowly slid across Remy’s bare side. She bit her lip in response. Heat pooled below her belly button.

“Do you want to play, or do you want to go back to your lodgings and see to your desires?” Delta’s Western accent grew stronger with her anger.

Hale laughed casually. “Sorry, Delta,” he said with a smile that let her know he was not, in fact, sorry in the slightest. He threw three coins into the pot from the dwindling pile by his left hand and said, “Call.”

“By all means,” Bern said to them with a sparkle in his eye, “don’t stop on our account. I do not mind watching.”

“I bet you don’t,” Remy crooned, proud of how easily she volleyed back to these highborn fae.

Bern chuckled into his drink, “Well-picked indeed, Hale.” He turned to her and said with a wink, “But don’t worry darling, it’s not you I’d be watching.”

“I’ve told you, it’s never going to happen between us, Bern.” Hale chuckled, though his eyes remained fixed on Remy.

Bern laughed. “Every boy dreams of finding his prince.” He turned to the Witchslayer to continue his antics, but Renwick shut him down quick with a sharp, “Don’t.”

The way they spoke to each other with such casualness indicated to Remy that these fae knew each other well, probably for all of their lives. They had attended balls and banquets, important weddings and funerals. They all ran in the same important social circles. She wondered what the life of a courtier was like. To her, it had always sounded exceedingly dull. But playing this game, with a prince’s hand drifting down the thin fabric on her thigh . . . this was a game she enjoyed playing.

“Call,” Abalina said, tossing her coins onto the table.

“I’m out.” Delta chucked her cards to the dealer.

“Let’s see them then,” Abalina said to the Witchslayer.

Renwick laid down his cards: a flush. Hale threw down his cards then.

“You had nothing,” Remy said, scrutinizing Hale’s hand.

“I was calling his bluff.” Hale shrugged.

She pressed her lips together to hide her smile, shaking her head at him. “You are truly terrible at this game.”

“And you have a truly terrible mouth, witch,” he taunted. He pulled her closer against him. She felt the word witch rumble through his chest.

“Let me show you how truly terrible I can be,” Remy said, and before she could second-guess herself, she grabbed the prince’s face and pulled it to hers. She enveloped his lips in a light, sensuous kiss. He growled as his arms wrapped around her tighter. Remy smiled against his mouth.

Delta let out a loud, pointed cough.

“Ignore them,” Abalina ordered her cousin.

Remy pulled back lazily from the kiss to meet the prince’s blazing eyes. It was the first time she had looked into those hypnotizing gray eyes since yesterday. He knew the weight of that move. His lips remained parted as he stared back into her eyes.

Abalina laid down her cards: a straight, not enough to beat the Witchslayer. The Northern Prince permitted himself the briefest stony grin as the dealer began moving the winnings toward him, careful to sweep around the Shil-de ring at the center of the table. The ultimate prize.

Renwick’s hoard was three times the size of the others. He was a skilled card player, it seemed. It would only be a few more rounds before he surely won. And then he would have the Shil-de ring, a talisman so powerful it could protect the wearer from any harm. If that ring passed into the hands of Renwick’s father, King Vostemur, he would become unstoppable in any coming war, especially if he figured out how to wield the Immortal Blade too.

Hale’s mind must have been thinking the same.

“If I don’t win this next one, let it be the last hand,” his deep voice murmured.

The last hand: it was their agreed upon code phrase. Remy prepared herself for what was to come next.

“Thank the Gods,” Delta rolled her eyes.