Page 99 of A Thief Among Fae

I face the target and call my magic to me. My new plan will require more finesse than freezing something midair. I need to focus.

Breathe in, breathe out.

I throw the dart. My magic veers it violently, almost overcorrecting. It still hits the fifth wedge by a hair. The thieves notice, bursting into a cacophony of gasps and cheers.

Min sits up. “Using your Gift to play makes this game interesting.” Apparently, Desmond unlacing my corset didn’t qualify as entertainment for her.

My second dart hits. Then the third.

I smirk at Desmond. The competitive spark inside me can’t be quelled, and it fills me with a giddy rush of excitement. “What will it be? Shoes?” My magic tugs on his laces. “Your belt?” The buckle clicks open, arousing goading cheers from our spectators.

His gaze pierces mine, unyielding and unfaltering, as he pulls his belt off. “I wouldn’t be gloating yet. Not when your opponent won’t miss again.”

He throws in quick succession. All three hit true.

“Socks! Socks! Socks!” Brandur and Finnian cheer.

Desmond watches me, a hint of a smile dimpling his cheeks.

I mutter a swear as I yank them off. They were my last layer that won’t expose a risqué amount of skin. The stakes are real now. But the pressure tensing my body isn’t just from the thought of losing my clothes.

I don’t want to lose. Not to him. I have to find a way to make him miss without cheating—my pride doesn’t allow for that.

Subterfuge or distraction. Those are my weapons.

Now that I’m wielding magic, all three of my darts hit the wedges. Still, one was too close to missing for comfort. Finnian had to squint to announce the verdict.

“And you said I shouldn’t gloat,” I tease Desmond. “Your shoes, please.”

He takes them off and sets them beside mine.

I pluck my darts from the board as I gather my courage. Distraction. He has to miss at least once.

Desmond’s first throw hits, but as he pinches his second dart, I sidle up beside him. We’re so close I can hear him inhale as he watches me. “You’re good at this,” I murmur. “Too good.” I caress down his back as I circle him. Then I reach lower, a faint brush across his ass.

He shudders. His eyes narrow, but he dismisses me by looking at the dartboard. His body tenses for the throw.

“Maybe I’ll let you pick what I take off next.”

He falters as he throws, and the dart just barely misses.

Finnian howls. Brandur slaps his knees as Maeve cheers over her new mug of ale. I dance away from Desmond with a sly grin, reveling in it all.

Desmond swears. He closes his eyes, breathes in, then out. When he finally opens them, they burn into me. His face may be a perfect mask of reticence, but a smooth, sultry undertone coats his voice with velvet. “You may not like what I choose.”

I shiver. That’s unfair. Completely, utterly, underhanded and⁠—

His third dart strikes the board, bringing his score up to fourteen. He’s silent as he collects his darts and leans against the wall, calm and confident.

Unless I throw him off his game again, I have no hope of catching up. I hate losing. The whole village of Nettlerock knows that’s one of my largest vices. I can still lose with grace, but it does motivate me to play one heck of a game. At least with magic, I’m guaranteed not to miss. The thought fuels me as I complete my next visit.

Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. We’re tied, but the order of our turns puts him in the lead.

Maeve shouts, “Cyn is on fire!” The others join in, chanting “Fire! Fire!”

I should feel bolstered by their cheers, but the gap between our scores eats away at me. Shoving the frustration down, I focus on my small win as Desmond pushes off the wall. “Let me help you with that.” I untether his left stocking, rolling the hem down.

He surprises me by reaching for his jacket instead. The burgundy fabric comes off in one fluid pull, revealing warm brown skin with hard muscle underneath. I’ve seen him shirtless before, when he undressed in Hawthorn Inn and when he was doing his impressive clapping push-ups, but this is. . . different.