Page 96 of A Thief Among Fae

Brandur eyes the board and growls. “A rematch is in order.”

“Yes, let’s stop bothering Cyn and watch you lose again,” Maeve says. She takes a long sip of her ale’s foaming head and slams it down.

“Or we test out the skills of our newcomer.” Finnian saunters over to me and waggles his brows. “You ready to owe me a secret? We always play with a wager here.”

“Be warned,” Min calls out. There’s a hint of humor in her voice, even though her expression is impassive. “He will try to hustle you.”

Finnian gasps. He clutches his chest in mock offense. “Hustle her? How could you think so lowly of me, Min?”

“Experience,” she replies.

His gaze lingers on her before he faces me, mischief dancing in his dark eyes. “I’ve thought of an even better wager, one that won’t cost you a thing. And we’ll make it a simpler game since you’re a novice. Around-the-clock darts instead of five-oh-one.”

I lift a brow at him. There’s no way he’s not up to something. “And what is the wager, exactly?”

He grins. “Strip darts. Unless you’re too quail for it.”

Min shakes her head. “I believe the word they use in Avedor is chicken.”

“Here we go again,” Maeve says as she rolls her eyes. Nikolai chuckles.

I don’t miss the anticipatory glances, the buzz of unrest as everyone awaits my answer. If I refuse, they’ll think I’m a prude at best, as boring as a milksop at worst. They all expect me to say no, which is exactly why I’ll say yes. Besides, I look damn good in midnight blue.

“Tell me the rules.” I hold out my hand for a dart, then smirk as Finnian falters.

“Alright.” He plucks the darts from the board and hands them to me. “You get three throws per visit, which is the darts term for your turn. You start at one and must hit every number in order until you reach twenty. If your opponent hits all three throws in their visit, you strip an article. The game is won by whoever hits twenty first.”

Maeve hops down from her bar chair. “I’ll show you how to hold it.”

“Maybe—” Finnian starts.

She sticks her tongue out at him. “I may be the poker queen, but don’t forget who won our last game of darts.” Then she models her grip for me. “Remember to follow through on your throw.”

“Like throwing a dagger at your enemy’s throat,” Brandur chimes in.

Maeve shoulder-bumps me, then hiccups. “He doesn’t mean that. He’s never thrown a dagger at anything but a target, the softie.” Her voice rises as she points at Min. “If anyone here wants to talk daggers, it should be her.”

Nikolai gently grabs her by the elbow and leads her back to the table.

It takes me a few tries to mimic Maeve’s grip until the thieves affirm that I’ve got it. Then everyone settles back to watch, Finnian standing to the side, Nikolai relaxing back on the sofa, and Brandur leaning against the wall.

I take careful aim at the one.

“You’ll miss,” an unexpected voice says behind me.

I shiver from Desmond’s smooth, silken tone as it glides over me like a shadow. Just knowing he’s there is enough to make his presence a palpable weight in the back of my mind, even without turning around.

“Another outsider?” Brandur demands, pushing off the wall. “You would think our code no longer holds any sanctity. Who told him about our game room?”

“No one here.” Desmond’s footsteps are light even against stone, and his gait is casual as he comes into my line of sight. “You’ve never played this before,” he says with irritating frankness. “You need to aim higher.”

I glance at him, just in time to catch his gaze lingering on my tight corset. The rebuttal I’d had ready dies the moment I take him in.

The sleeves of his wine-red jacket are rolled up to his elbows, revealing thick cords of muscle as he crosses his arms. If that wasn’t enough of a distraction, he’s shirtless beneath it, exposing the wispy trail of dark hair down his chiseled chest. From one ear hangs a golden hoop with a delicate chain leading to a cuff on his lobe, and his curls look softer than usual, bathed in the warmth of the candles overhead.

He doesn’t dress like this when we train. The look is both rugged and royal, giving me a hint of the prince beneath the swordsman. I school my expression in an attempt to feign being unaffected. “What do you care if I miss?”

“It seems to me that the stakes are rather high,” he replies. “Finnian’s dignity—or lack thereof—is on the line.”