Page 59 of Unravelled
The private booth was dimly lit, the cushions plush along the edges of the wall and along the floor, the air thick with the scent of spiced wine and burning oil. Mira’s gaze caught on something beyond the veil of candlelight. Tharion. Coming through the front door. Their eyes locked.
Tharion’s fear was unmistakable. It was in the way he stiffened, the flicker of tension barely contained beneath his ever-controlled exterior. Fear. She batted her lashes at him, the smallest smile tugging at her mouth, the unspoken message clear.I’m fine. Without hesitation, she stepped inside. The heavy fabric swung shut behind them, sealing her off from the world outside. From anything that wasn’t this moment, this game.
Dren lounged back against the pillows on the seat, his body sinking into the lush cushions, one arm draped lazily along the backrest. He lifted his glass to his lips,but his attention was on drinking her in far more than the liquor in his hand. Mira let the silence stretch, let him look.
After a moment, with slow ease, she undid the ties of her robe, just enough for the heavy fabric to slip from her shoulders, revealing the smooth curve of her collarbone, the barest hint of lace beneath. Dren’s smile sharpened, knowing, like a predator recognizing easy prey.
"Tell me," she murmured, tilting her head slightly, letting her fingers ghost along the edge of her robe, "what is it you do, exactly?"
He exhaled a soft chuckle, watching her as if he knew exactly what she was doing, but was in no rush to stop her. He tipped his glass back, draining the last of the liquid before pouring himself another from the private reserve, swallowing half in a single sip.
"I command," he said simply, rolling his glass between his fingers. "I've served for years, at sea, at war."
Mira forced a look of impressed curiosity, but inside, she scoffed. He was inflating his importance, playing up his influence the way men like him always did. She knew the type, a soldier, perhaps seasoned, but not a leader. No one truly reported to him. At best, he was a blunt instrument for someone else’s orders. Still, she played along.
"You’ve been in battle?" Her voice was light, curious, her fingers toying with the edge of her robe. Dren nodded, watching as the fabric inched just a little lower with every breath she took.
"More than most," he said, his voice dropping into something rougher, something edged. "You learn quickly what it takes to survive in battle. What it takes to win."
Mira let the words linger, let them settle. Then, ever so slowly, she let the robe slide lower over her chest. The candlelight flickered over her skin, the delicate ivory lace catching the glow, whispering of everything that remained hidden. She let the robe fall completely.
Dren drained the rest of his glass in one swallow, setting it down with a quiet thud. Mira lowered herself onto the cushions at his feet, tilting her head up to look at him, eyes wide, innocent.
"So, you command fleets, then?" She shifted subtly, her hips rolling in slow, hypnotic circles, moving with the rhythm of the music.
Dren chuckled, running a hand along her neck, his fingers dragging slowly along the sensitive skin beneath her jaw. "Among other things." Mira tilted her head into his touch, feigning comfort.
"And what does a man like you command?" She glanced up through her lashes, brushing her fingers lightly against his thigh. "Just ships, or do you have men willing to follow you into battle?"
Dren’s smirk deepened. "Both." He exhaled, his thumb brushing over her pulse, pressing just slightly. "The sea doesn’t forgive weakness, and neither do I." Mira parted her lips slightly, as if fascinated, her fingers tracing delicate circles along his leg.
"It must take a certain type of man to do what you do," she murmured, shifting just slightly so that her ribs brushed against his knee.
"To know when to strike. When to hold back." Dren’s gaze flicked downward, to the curve of her body, to the subtle shift of lace against her skin. "That’s the difference between winning and losing."
She pretended to falter, just slightly. "And how do you know?"
Dren leaned in, his hand trailing up her throat, his breath warm against her skin. "Instinct. Experience." His lips hovered close to hers. "I trust my gut. And my gut tells me exactly what I want."
Mira smiled, slow and knowing. "And what does your gut say about me?"
Dren's fingers tightened slightly at her throat. His eyes locked onto hers. He leaned closer. Mira felt the shift, felt the moment closing in on her. She would have to kiss him. Disgust curled in her stomach, a sharp, suffocating thing. But she swallowed it down. Let herself stay in the role in the game. Just as their lips were about to meet,
Dren exhaled and whispered. "My gut says there’s more to you than an easy fuck, Selene."
Mira froze. Just for a fraction of a second. Then she smiled, tilting her head in faux confusion. Dren smirked, his thumb brushing along her lower lip. He thought she wanted him. That she was just as ensnared by the game as he was. Inside, revulsion curled in her stomach.
He was a pig, a man so steeped in his own ego he couldn’t fathom that she might not want him, that this was just a job to her. But Mira played along. She leaned into his touch, exhaling softly, letting her lips part ever so slightly, as if indulging in the moment. That was when he pressed his thumb into her mouth. The taste of him flooded her senses, masculine, with the tang of spiced liquor, but underneath it… something else. Sour. A faint bite of sweat and salt, of indulgence, gone stale.
Her stomach churned. She resisted the urge to recoil, to bite down, to pull away. Instead, she let her tongue flick against the tip of his thumb, playing the part, feigning submission. Dren’s satisfaction flickering across his sharp features.
"You must be surrounded by high-ranking officials here, seeing as they hide you away until someone important comes along." He drawled.
The words were too smooth. Too intentional. Her stomach tensed. Of course. He wasn’t just playing, he was trying to get information out of her. It was too perfect. He wanted something from her just as much as hethought she wanted something from him. Her fingers trailed up his leg lazily, a slow, teasing touch. She let out a soft, muffled sound around his thumb, a low hum of affirmation. Dren chuckled, shifting closer, and before she could brace herself, he dragged her fully between his legs. The movement was firm, deliberate. His thumb remained in her mouth, pressing just slightly deeper, as though testing her obedience, as though daring her to resist. She wanted to gag. Wanted to rip his hand away, wipe the taste of him off her tongue. Instead, she lowered her lashes, letting the game to play out.
"Because a woman like you doesn’t go unnoticed," Dren murmured, voice low, amused. His other hand traced along her jaw. "Men like me take notice." Mira tilted her head slightly before she slowly pulled away, rising onto her knees. His thumb left her mouth and she suppressed another gag. Mira dragged a hand up his chest, over his shoulders, her fingertips grazing along the tension hidden beneath his layers of silk and leather.
"And what is it you want me to notice, Commander?" Her voice softened into something sultry, teasing. He groaned, his grip on her tightening just slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her he thought he was in control.
