Page 3 of Burned in Stone
The corner of his mouth lifts into that infuriating, devastatingly handsome smirk. “Maybe I am.” He leans forward, his voice dropping low again, the sound a physical touch against my skin. “But you still have to pay up.”
I fold my arms across my chest and jut out my chin. “Ask then.”
“Why here, Mercy? Out of all the places you could have settled in, why’d you pick Stoneheart?”
My breath catches. That question cuts too deep, straight to the bone of a story I’m not ready to tell, a wound I’m not ready to show him. But he wants to know me? Fine. But I think I’d rather show instead of tell.
Shifting back from the table, I hook my thumbs under the hem of my Devil’s Bar t-shirt. With one smooth motion, I pull it over my head, letting my wild curls fall around my bare shoulders. I tossthe shirt onto the table between us. Clad only in a simple black lace bra, I meet his stunned gaze.
“Your questions are boring, biker,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Let’s make it strip poker.”
2
MERCY
“Angel.” Cash’s gaze drops to the swell of my breasts. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. When his eyes meet mine, that pale green has darkened—hungry. “You sure you know what game you’re playing?”
The rational part of my brain is screaming at me to stop this. Walk away. This is Cash, a biker who’s six years younger and way more dangerous to my duct-taped heart than anyone has a right to be. He could shatter what’s left of me without even noticing. Could break a woman just by smiling.
The rational part of my brain can scream all it wants. It’s not the one in control right now. What’s in control is the part of me that’s been starved for a touch that isn’t a threat, for a look that sees me as desirable instead of deficient.
A wolfish smile takes over his mouth. He doesn’t look away from my chest. “Fine.” The word comes out gravelly, a promise. He reaches for the deck, movements deliberate. “But the secrets stay on the table too. You lose, I get a piece of clothing… and an answer.”
My chin lifts. “We’ll see.”
He smirks and deals. His hands move over the worn table, knuckles dragging slowly as he slides the cards toward me. The air vibrates with whiskey and want. His gaze lingers on my collarbones, the lace edge of my bra. Every breath between us sounds loud in the silence. This isn’t a game anymore. It’s a negotiation, and I’m not sure what I’m willing to lose.
My fingers tremble as I gather the cards. A pair of aces. Hope flares. When I glance up, he’s watching me instead of his hand. I discard three.
He deals again, eyes never leaving me. I draw another ace. My pulse kicks. Three of a kind. Triumph sparks through me.
I fan the cards out. “Three aces. Surely that’s a win for me. Pay up, biker.”
He flips his cards one by one. A pair of nines. Not enough.
A slow smile curves my lips. I lean back, savoring the shift in power. “The cut,” I murmur. “Take it off.”
His eyes flash, then darken. No argument. He stands and shrugs off the heavy leather, drapes it over the back of the booth. Without it, he looks broader somehow, less guarded.
“All right, angel.” He settles back in. “What secret do you want?”
“Why are you always here?” I ask, nodding toward the bar.
“Stone wants someone keeping an eye on the place.”
“A prospect could do that.” I tilt my head. “Whyyou?”
He leans forward, the space between us shrinking to nothing. His voice drops, rough and quiet. “I think we both know the answer to that.”
The words hang there, a confession disguised as a challenge. My pulse kicks hard. He’s here for me. He doesn’t say it, but it’s in the heat of his gaze and the tension in his shoulders.
I swallow, throat dry. “Shuffle,” I whisper. The word feels like a dare. His gaze flicks to my mouth. For a heartbeat, I think he’ll forget the game entirely. Instead, a slow, predatory smile curls his lips. He picks up the deck and shuffles with deliberate grace. The rhythmic whisper of cards matches the frantic beat of my pulse.
He’s playing my game. For now. And that knowledge is a heady, dangerous drug.
He deals. The cards slide across the wood, a cool contrast to the heat in his eyes. I pick up my hand. Garbage. A pair of threes and nothing else. I discard three, praying for a miracle from a god I stopped believing in long ago.
No luck.
