Page 93 of The Cost of Blood and Bonds

“I haven’t forgotten anything.” He leans closer, and his fingers trace circles along my arm, where it rests on the bar. “I’ve been thinking about it all day, actually.”

The heat spreads, turning dangerous and hard to ignore.

“Thinking about what, exactly?”

“About making you lose.”

A laugh escapes me, half-nerves, half-want.

“Bold of you to assume I’m going to lose.”

“Bold of you to assume you have a choice.”

Fuck. I catch my lower lip between my teeth without thinking. His gaze drops to my mouth and stays there, and when his eyes lift back to mine, they’re burning, like he’s barely holding himself back. The heat turns to need, but I hold his gaze, refusing to look away first.

“And how exactly will we know who wins?”

He shifts closer. His huge, warm hand cups the back of my neck and pulls me possessively toward him until his lips brush the shell of my ear.

“We’ll know.”

My eyes flutter shut. Cedar and moss flood my senses. His breath is hot against my skin, and I have to dig my nails into my thigh to stop the sound building in my throat.

Fuck. Two words…and I’m already falling apart. I refuse to lose this easily. I pull back, putting space between us, and wave down the bartender.

“Two whiskeys, please.”

Ryewood watches me with that infuriating half-smile, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

While we wait, I let my eyes wander the room. The crowd is thick near the band, bodies swaying and laughing. The tables along the wall are full. And there, tucked in the back corner, past where the bar curves into shadow, hangs a dartboard. Secluded and hidden from the rest of the room. Perfect.

The shots arrive, and I throw mine back without waiting for him, relishing the burn, letting it settle my nerves.

“Darts?” I say, nodding toward the corner.

His eyes follow mine, and when they come back to me, there’s a knowing glint in them.

“Lead the way.”

I slide off my stool and head toward the shadows. His hand finds the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd. His thumb traces a slow circle against my spine, like a promise of what’s to come.

The corner is dark and quiet, the kind of place people come to not be seen.

Ryewood reaches past me to pull the darts from the board, his chest brushes my shoulder, while his hand stays on the small of my back. He hands them to me and lets his fingers linger against mine.

“Ladies first,” he says, his thumb still tracing slow circles against my spine.

“Shall we make this interesting?”

“I’m already interested. But go ahead.”

“Loser buys the next round.”

“Done,” he says with that infuriating smile again.

I turn to the board, take aim, and throw intentionally wide. The dart hits the outer edge.

I glance back at him.