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“The rules are simple, Ms. Summers,” the man informed her. “You pick up the gun, ask a question. The man does not answer, you pull the trigger. Empty shot, you ask another question. Man don’t answer, shoot again. But he can ask back, and you don’t answer, you eat the bullet.”
Morana knew of this game. She’d heard her father and his men when they’d played it at the house. She’d spied on the games when she’d been a little girl. There were six slots in the gun, and six questions to go between a pair. If she survived all empty shots, she could ask other questions. But so could the other man.
The older man beside Morana picked up the gun, pointing it at an even older man smoking a cigar, the back of his hand wrinkled with age.
“Where is the next shipment going?” the first man asked forcefully. Morana watched as Cigar Guy blew a thick swirl of smoke into the air, refusing to respond.
Morana watched the procession, a bead of sweat rolling down her spine.
Without further ado, the first guy pulled the trigger, but the shot went empty. Cigar Guy stubbed his cigar in a tray and pulled the gun towards himself.
“When did you start licking off Big-J’s shoes?”
The first man pursed his lips as Cigar Guy pointed the gun to his chest and shot.
The loud boom echoed in the room and Morana barely stopped herself from flinching, only years of hearing the sound allowing her to keep her composure as the first guy coughed blood and went limp, his eyes lifeless.
Oh god.
This game was like counting shots, instead of counting cards. She was good at the latter but she had no idea about the first. Looking across at Tristan Caine, she could tell by the easy way he sat that this wasn’t the first time he’d been to a game like this. Hell, she’d be surprised if anyone had actually questioned him. The fact that he sat there told her he’d never lost.
She didn’t want to play. But she knew there was no better time to get information out of Tristan Caine.
She eyed the gun sitting in the middle of the table, loaded again with a single bullet, her heart thudding, and shook herself.
Fuck, she wasn’t a coward.
Steeling herself, she leaned forward and gripped the gun in her hand, letting her palm familiarize itself with the weight, and pointed it at the man sitting across from her, completely still.
The room had gone dead silent – so silent that she could have heard a breath catch. It told her what she’d been suspecting was correct – no one pulled the gun on Tristan Caine. Yeah, well, no one dry humped him against the wall of their father’s house either.
Clearing her face of all emotions, knowing her voice would be steady even as her legs trembled under the table, she pinned him with her eyes and spoke quietly, not knowing if she’d get the answer. She didn’t want to think about pulling the trigger and killing him, and she definitely did not want to look into it, not for now.
“Tell me about the Alliance.”
His blue gaze pinned her to her chair, not a flicker of anything anywhere on his face as his body stayed relaxed, the suit of his jacket parted to reveal the shirt stretched taut across his chest. The collar was parted to reveal the strong line of his neck. Morana watched the vein on the neck, not seeing it flutter or give any indication of distress. It just lay against his skin, kissing his flesh, taunting her for all of his control.
“It’s been dead for twenty-two years,” he spoke quietly, his voice even, tone neutral, like he was discussing the weather with no gun pointed at him.
Morana grit her teeth, knowing she couldn’t shoot because he had answered, yet told her nothing she didn’t know.
Clever.
She placed the gun on the table just as he extended his hand and took it from her, his fingers brushing her, sending tingles up her entire arm.
She saw his eyes take in the bruise on her upper arm, where the brute had grabbed her roughly before he leaned back again. Keeping his hand on the gun, he let it stay on the table. Morana knew, having watched him in action, that he could have the gun up and shooting her dead before she could blink. He was deceptive that way. Dangerous.
“Why are you here?” he asked, his voice leaving no inflection of anything for her to read.
Morana felt a little smile on the inside. He wasn’t the only one who could play on words.
She raised her eyebrows, tilting her head to the side. “For information.”
She saw his one eyebrow notch up slightly, before he slid the gun across the table to her, his hands on the arms of the chair.
Morana picked up the gun, pointing it at him again, aware of all the eyes on them, all the men watching the game shrewdly.
“Why did it end?” she asked, her skin crawling from all the stares of the man, knowing their eyes were lingering on places she’d rather they not see.
