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Rolling my eyes, I retort, "Didn't realize you brought me along for my skills in seducing sleazebags."
He chuckles, though the sound lacks any real amusement. "I should've known better."
I smirk, "Clearly. So much for that irresistible charm of mine."
With a raised brow, Samuil asks, "What did he say?"
"He's playing till he's out of money. Said maybe he'd be up for a chat when and if that happens."
Samuil's expression remains unreadable, the gears visibly turning behind those sharp eyes of his. For a moment, he's silent, his gaze fixed on the poker table, assessing the situation. Then, without a word, he strides forward, his aura of authority clear. He seats himself confidently, drawing attention immediately. I hold my breath, feeling the tension thickening in the air.
"Deal me in," Samuil says in a tone that isn't quite a request.
Van looks over, his expression one of faux surprise. "Look who's decided to join. But where's your money? You can't play without a stake."
It's evident he's trying to belittle Samuil, to assert dominance in his own domain. But I know Samuil. He's not easily rattled, and he doesn't play games he doesn't intend to win.
Samuil's jaw tenses for a moment, a clear indication that he's mulling over his next move. The moment stretches on, filled with a silent confrontation. The cards, the chips, the money—it's all a mere backdrop to the power play unfolding between them.
Samuil's confidence never wavers. Even in the tense ambiance of the underground den, he's an immovable rock. His eyes scan the table, the players, and then fall onto Van. Just when a hand concludes, and the other players' attention drifts to their winnings or their losses, Samuil leans in, addressing Van in a hushed but firm tone.
"How about we play for something other than money?" he proposes.
Van, trying to keep his facade of amusement, meets Samuil's eyes, clearly intrigued. "And what could possibly be more valuable than money to you?"
Samuil lets the question hang in the air for a moment, building the suspense. "Information."
Van's eyes narrow, his jovial demeanor dimming. "About what?"
Samuil leans in even closer, his voice a whisper that holds more weight than a shout. "You know exactly what."
A pause ensues. Van's false bravado starts to crumble, revealing the coward beneath. But then, with a sudden smug grin, he finds his voice again. "Alright, but let's make this more interesting. If I win the next hand, I get to take your lovely companion out for the night."
Samuil's eyes flare with a dangerous spark. I can almost feel the heat radiating off him, the raw protectiveness clashing with the calculated risk he's considering. He opens his mouth, ready to shut down Van's audacious proposal.
But I beat him to it. "Sure," I chirp, feigning nonchalance.
His head swivels to me, eyes wide in surprise. It's a rare sight—Samuil caught off guard. "Ana—" he starts, his tone dripping with warning.
"No," I cut him off. "It's fine."
He studies me for a moment, trying to decipher my motivations. But in truth, it's not about the game, or Van, or even the dare. It's about asserting myself, reminding him, and everyone else, that I'm not just a pawn or a prize. I make my own choices.
The tension at the table is now a living thing. Van, sensing an opportunity, shuffles the deck with a newfound enthusiasm as he chuckles and grins at Samuil. But beneath Samuil's coolexterior, I can see the simmering rage. It's not just the stakes of the game that are causing it. It's the fact that another man sees me as something to be won or lost, a prize to be flaunted. The fact that I went along with it, even if in defiance, only fuels his anger.
As the cards are dealt, and the game progresses, I find myself grappling with mixed emotions of what I’m in the middle of. There's the thrill of the gamble, the silent battle of wits and strategy playing out, but there’s also the tension between Samuil and me. Every glance we exchange, every subtle touch, speaks volumes.
Samuil's hand is strong. Anyone else at the table would fold against it. The friction in the room amplifies as cards are revealed, but there's an undercurrent of something else—I've been watching Van's every move, noting the subtle changes in his demeanor. There's a particular way he shuffles his cards around, a slight twitch of his wrist when he picks up certain ones.
He's cheating.
The realization is a punch in the gut, but I keep it to myself for now. If I'm right, we can use this against him.
It comes down to the last card. Van's face is the very picture of smug satisfaction as he reveals his winning hand. The reactions are immediate. Groans from some of the other players, an audible sigh from another. But Samuil, stoic as ever, remains impassive.
Van, gleefully rakes in his money, his eyes shifting to me. "Looks like you're my prize for the evening."
Samuil's jaw clenches. "The game isn’t over."
