The Monster (Boston Belles #3) - L.J. Shen Page 0,125

no prenup. Was I just a pawn in his game? Another juicy deal waiting to be sealed?

“Sweetheart, Brennan’s a top-notch mathematician. Crazy good with numbers. Run, don’t walk,” one man hollered from the depths of the room.

Sam smirked, neither confirming nor denying it.

“I know your older brother, little Fitzy. Say yes and I’ll have no choice but to call him,” another young man shouted.

Smiling and refusing to withdraw my hand and cower like everyone expected me to, I said, “Wouldn’t you like that, Samuel Brennan? The son of a whore, born without a dime to his name, married to one of the richest women in the western world. You’ll be eligible to half my fortune.”

“I know,” he said calmly. “Which means you’ll think twice before leaving me.”

Our audience laughed and hooted loudly.

“I’m not giving you half my kingdom,” I enunciated, my voice clear and unwavering.

“I don’t give a fuck about your kingdom, sweetheart. Mine is bigger in all the ways that matter. Believe it or not, the number in your bank account is not as powerful as my hold on the East Coast.”

“I don’t believe you,” I lied.

“Take the stakes or leave this room, Miss Fitzpatrick, but do it now. I’m running a well-oiled operation here, and every moment people don’t spend their money on these tables costs me.”

“Marry you,” I mouthed the words rather than said them aloud, shock still gripping me. My father was going to kill me. Cillian and Hunter were going to burn whatever was left of me. Yet somehow I believed Sam’s motive wasn’t money. He had enough of it.

He wanted to trap me. And me? I wanted to be trapped.

“Fine,” I said shakily, my stomach turning a hundred times over.

Sam finally clasped my hand in his, but instead of shaking it, he used our entwined fingers to jerk me toward him, pressing a very public, very possessive kiss on my mouth.

“We have a game. They’re going for it!” A young man in a sage green velvet suit jumped up from his seat. There was chaos in the room for the next few minutes, and I tried to gulp deep breaths and tell myself it didn’t matter. None of it did. I could dig my way out of this. Maybe.

The stakes for a game were never this high in the history of Badlands. Bookies rolled in from other rooms to take bets on the game, holding clipboards with spreadsheets, taking names and numbers and odds. I recognized Becker and Angus, the soldiers I had treated last year, shuffling about, whispering between them as they placed their bet against me.

There was a human traffic jam outside the door to the card room, and I could barely breathe when I heard the bouncers physically pushing people away.

We both took our places in front of the dealer, whose golden nametag said Daniel. I drummed my fingers against the green felt of the table. Sam stared at me. I refused to look back at him.

“Smart move. Your club’s about to become legendary after this.” I flicked my hair behind my shoulder.

“I never let a good scandal go to waste,” he replied wryly.

“Are you really that good at math?” my voice quivered.

“Better.”

Everyone settled, and Daniel started shuffling the cards, reciting the rules of the game loud and clear. He made a show of it. First with an overhand shuffle, a riffle shuffle, then a pile shuffle. By the time he was done, the cards were thoroughly mixed, even I couldn’t deny that.

Daniel put the neat stack of cards down, glancing between Sam and me.

Sam jerked his chin toward me, deciding now was a good time to become a gentleman.

I refused to remove my gaze from the cards, splitting them into two stacks.

Why was I so hysterical? Wasn’t it my longtime wish? To marry Sam Brennan?

Oui, mon cheri, but not like this. Not as a part of another elaborate game between you two.

I withdrew my hand and indicated for Daniel to choose from the right-hand stack. We were each dealt two cards. Daniel also dealt himself a hand. One exposed, one hidden.

The first round was a quick win for me, allowing me to breathe again. I spluttered around an exhale, wondering if it was Sam’s way of making me lower my guard. The second round went to Sam, after I doubled down and lost, making my rival flash a devious smirk. The third—to me. The fourth—to Sam.

The eerie feeling everything was premeditated took root in my stomach. Perhaps Sam had intentionally