Page 100 of A Thief Among Fae

We’re not alone. The cat-calling and hiss of ale sloshing from kegs are clear evidence.

Yet we stare at each other as if nothing else outside of us exists, as if our minds are compasses that point me to him and him to me. The crescent on my wrist burns, and the woven thread of our emotions pulls—curiosity mingling with yearning—and I don’t know whose it is, only that it’s strong enough to steal my breath away.

Time slows to a delicate crawl, one second stretching slowly like honey into the next.

Desmond looks away first. The connection snaps as if he thrust a blade through it, and I mourn it. That’s ridiculous. Being bound to him is a pain, not something I should enjoy.

He quickly finishes his turn.

“Strip!” Finnian drums his hands against his thighs.

Desmond made all three throws.

Swallowing, I shimmy my underwear off from underneath my skirt. I toss it beside my shoes, goosebumps trailing up my bare skin.

Finnian whistles so loudly it rings through my ears.

And Desmond stares at my underwear, his cheeks flushed.

“Seventeen,” I tell him, nodding at his spread. “One more perfect round, and you win.” And I’ll lose my skirt. The thought makes me swallow hard. I’m no prude, but I’d be lying if I claimed I’d be comfortable standing here half-naked.

In fact, the thought terrifies me. There is a huge line between a little cleavage and the complete bareness of my thighs, the exposed curve of my ass. Everyone would be staring, cheering, or heckling. That’s not a line I want to cross.

I really didn’t think this through, did I?

Desmond’s expression is stone cold, not letting a hint of emotion leak through. It strikes me that if he were carved from marble by an artisan, he would be the centerpiece of any collection. A measure of beauty. Impossible to ignore.

All three of my throws land, bringing me up to seventeen, too. Desmond takes off his socks.

I tense, filled with dread, as Desmond lines up for his throws.

“Take her skirt next!” Maeve shouts before faceplanting on the table. She doesn’t move.

“Maeve has blacked out,” Min announces.

Desmond looks at the board and back at me, then at the board again. His first dart strikes the bullseye, dead center.

“Miss!” Brandur shouts. “You need to hit the next number, not the center.”

The second dart hits the eighteenth wedge. The third, the nineteenth.

The thieves jeer.

My lips part, but no sound comes out. Why did he miss? Surely, he should’ve made that hit.

Desmond steps back, allowing me to throw.

All three of my darts hover as I grit my teeth, the realization weighing heavily inside me. I fling all three in a quick volley, but halt them just before they strike the board. They float into their racks and fall still.

“I forfeit.” I shoot Desmond a quick, knowing glare. “I don’t play opponents who go easy on me. Have a good night, everyone. And Nikolai—thank you.”

Then I grab my clothes, ignoring the protests and heckling from our spectators.

“Cyn,” Desmond calls out.

I pause as his footsteps near, but I don’t turn around.

He stops just behind me, then tucks several loose strands of my hair behind my ear. “Sleep well.”