Page 47 of Heart of Thieves

“I thought I did once,” I admit. “But that wasn’t you. And neither is this.”

“Isn’t it?” His eyes glow colder as he scours my face like I hide a thousand secrets behind it, like he hasn’t already seen so many of them. “The truth is, you don’t know, do you?”

I scowl, crossing my arms.

“The Liar,” he continues. “How many faces has he worn? How many parts has he played? Which, if any, is real? Or are they all a farce?”

“Does he even know who he is?” I retort.

“Does anyone truly know who they are?” He twirls his snake-eye ring around his finger.

“I do.”

“Of course you do.” He says it like he’s placating me, and it strikes a nerve. “You are a liar, just like—”

“You—” I snap, fury biting through me, “are not this, Donnic Sinclair.”

His name on my mouth seems to crack something in him, a split-second break in his veneer. He stares at me, pupils dilating, that cold glow guttering, and for a moment I see him. Not whoever this is. Him.

But before I can grasp onto that, the mask slams back into place so quickly I cannot tell if I imagined it.

“You can believe that,” he says smoothly, “if you like.”

Was what I just saw another illusion? A glamour to trick or tempt me?

Why, though? If this self-obsessed casino lord who doesn’t give a damn about me is truly who he is, why would he pretend there’s something in him that matches the illusion he showed me during the tournament? What benefit would there be in that?

He crosses his arms, and the corner of a piece of white parchment crinkles out of his pocket. Could that be . . . ? Yes, it looks like it’s one of the invitations I put into the newspapers today for Nocturne’s game.

I nod at it. “Are you going?”

He glances down, then seizes it and smooths it on his knee. “Why? Are you going to be there?” I wait for him to give me a look that says he knows exactly who Nocturne is, but he doesn’t.

“Maybe,” I say, fingers knotting as my mind whirs through possibilities. How can I convince him to participate without showing my hand? “Do you care if I’m there?”

“You always make things more fun.” His eyes dance, and my heart lurches.

“What do you know of Nocturne?”

He shrugs. “Seems nobody really knows much about her, do they?”

“The prize,” I say, “for the game. What would you do with it?”

“What would a seaspawn like me need a magical favor for?”

I tip my head in close, as though I’m about to say something I don’t want anyone to overhear. “I’m kind of worried about what someone like St. James would do with it.”

“Why’s that?” he asks lazily, as though this conversation is the least engaging one he’s had in weeks.

“Well, if Nocturne has power over darkness, and our souls are literally made of light . . . don’t you think it could be possible for her to exterminate anyone just by snuffing out the light inside them?”

The corners of his eyes tighten. “That would be terrifying. Luckily for me, seaspawn cannot die.”

But I saw it. Somewhere in there, he latched on to it. I can only pray he shares this with Laurel. That the idea of being able to have Nocturne do her dirty work for her is appealing enough to get her to want to play the game.

“You should enter,” I say brightly as he folds the parchment. “You don’t strike me as the sort of man to bow out of a gamble.”

A grin sparks on his face. “It’s not a gamble if you know you’ll win.”