Page 32 of The Bargain

“There you are,” I murmur softly when I see her, only half faking the pleased smile on my face.

She doesn’t stop when she sees me—she advances with fell purpose, fortresses raised sky high, armed to the teeth with determination.

And then, for the first time tonight, she surprises me.

She catches me by the collar of my shirt, yanks me down, and crushes my mouth to hers.

She kisses me like she hates me, and maybe that’s why my cock grows suddenly, convincingly hard. Alarm bells ring: pleasure should have nothing to do with this bargain.

Fuck.

There are whoops and cheers, and Dimitri’s hoarse voice bellows: “Fucking disgusting!” through a rasp of laughter. Around us, the crowd dissipates, Mira and Emerald dragging the others away as if to give us privacy.

When it’s just the two of us left, Desdemona breaks the kiss with an intake of breath that almost sounds like a sigh. I have the urge to suck her bottom lip into my mouth as she pulls away, give her a parting bite, but I quickly remind myself that’s not what this is. I let her retreat, the delicate string of saliva between our lips snapping.

And just like that, the moment is over—the curtain drops.

“Proof enough for you?” Desdemona says in a husky whisper.

I laugh, wiping my mouth with my thumb.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

@spearcrestinquisitor

Another interesting night at the Cyprian. Desdemona Sutton-Knight arrived arm-in-arm with Elias Lennox: the golden girl with her guttersnipe shadow. The only thing more interesting that night was the collective disbelief that ensued.

If love does conquer all, it should start by conquering the urge to humiliate oneself in public. Or perhaps love, like fortune, favours no one.

12

Copper Coins

Desdemona

When I was younger, I used to sit with my mother at the little chess table in the reading nook of our Manhattan townhouse. It was my favourite spot, because there was always sunlight coming in from the narrow window and because Mum always seemed most relaxed there, cozied up in the big blue velvet armchair, legs tucked under her, warming her hands on a cup of coffee while she’d consider her next move.

Over the years, she taught me the game, then she taught me the different openings, maneuvers, strategies. Finally, she taught me how to be good at the game—or, most importantly, how to avoid mistakes.

There’s a lot of mistakes you can make in chess, but the worst kind is when you risk losing a piece just for the sake of saving another piece—but end up losing both.

Kissing Elias Lennox on the Cyprian dance floor feels exactly like that.

If I thought the kiss was enough to convince everyone, I’m proven wrong by the deluge of texts awaiting me the following morning.

Dimitri Kavinski: You lost a bet or something?

Emerald Carver: Mental health crisis or are you trying to get Julian off your back? There are better ways of dealing either way, surely.

Mira alone seems convinced, and even then, this is what she sends me:

Mira Rajahn: I actually like this one, Dess. Maybe try being nice to him?

But as my aunt Willow once said to me: why be nice when you could be a stone-cold bitch?

So who cares what they all think? I have more important things to worry about.

It’s been several weeks now since the attack on Birnam—but I’ve not spoken to Ophelia since the night she walked into my bedroom after I made the deal with Elias. Nothing I’ve tried has worked: wheedling or threats, asking the twins or Blaise or any of the others. Ophelia has made it her mission to avoid me.