Page 77 of Nash

The other player walks away, shaking his head. Daisy’s shaking hers, too. She looks half proud of my tactics, half betrayed that I lied about who I am.

Sorry, Daisy. We’re playing by Bratva rules now.

That’s who I feel loyal to—Nash and his brothers—not the legacy of my father, his name, or even my ego.

I eagle the sixteenth hole. That’s two strokes under par.

For an extra fuck-you, I double-eagle the seventeenth hole at three strokes under par. Yes, a winning score that low is extremely rare, but I’m an extreme bitch today.

So much so that on the eighteenth hole, I shank my drive. I aim my ball for the water hazard by the green and give Turner his victory.

Hisverylast victory.

He’s mocking, laughing, loving that he’s getting the applause from the crowd gathered around the final hole before they give him back-slaps and usher him into the after-party.

Nash grabs my hand as I drop my putter in my bag. I turn to find his eyes in a storm of heat and ice.

“Why did you call me your king?” he demands to know.

I lift my chin. “Because that’s who I want you to be, my king. I want to be your queen. No matter what.”

He steps to me, looming and lovely. “I’ve never been so aroused and irate at the same time,” he says. “You earned your name today because you’re definitely my poison, and you’re about to be his.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

NASH

“King.”

That’s what Vale called me. That’s what brought me back to her, back to the moment and the mission.

Does she know what that word means in my world? Does she know what it means to be my queen?

Murder pumps through my veins over Turner, and the thought of Vale made into my queen only makes my rage pound harder.

Never.As if I wouldn’t gouge out eyes for looking at her. As if I wouldn’t gnash throats open for touching her.

There’s a plan for Turner today, and as of right now, it involves me.

I weave through the boisterous crowd in the clubhouse. Drinks are raised. Toasts are made. Bragging rights and bets are being cashed in. Aiming down the hall to the men’s room on the right, I turn left, opening the door to the manager’s office.

“I want in,” I say coldly to Axel, waiting there.

Jace took Vale to the kitchen. He’s feeding her a club sandwich and Arnold Palmer’s while we have eyes on Turner. Select trusted waitstaff. Our loyal bartender. A tournament marshal. As soon as Turner aims for the men’s room, he’s ours.

“No, Turner is mine.”

I can tell by Axel’s tone my change in plan amuses him, but he’s not buying it.

“Not anymore. After how he just spoke to Vale, I want blood.”

“And I want intel,” Axel orders. “We leave quietly, take him to the boat, and keep him until we get what we want. You can never end the demand for what Turner sells, but you can kill the suppliers. As many as we can.”

Axel sits on the edge of the manager’s desk. It’s just him and me and the syringe in Axel’s black leather-gloved hand.

This is standard operation for us. Stellar operation, actually. We’ve done this too many times.

“One day, you’re going to care,” I tell him. “You’re going to have someone you’d kill for.”

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