The Monster (Boston Belles #3) - L.J. Shen Page 0,126

made this game a close call to make people more interested. Statistically, the neatness of our wins, and losses, seemed highly unlikely. He was engineering a narrative where anything could happen, and it made me even more nervous because that meant he knew he would win.

I never lose.

Sam played against casinos and won repeatedly. The chances of him losing twice, out of four times, were slim to nonexistent.

By the time we were dealt our fifth hands, I was a sweaty pile of mess. My hair was plastered to my temples, and everything in me shook. No matter the result, I was going to be devastated.

I didn’t want his money, but marrying him right now seemed as impossible as kissing the moon good night.

“Don’t worry. I’ll make it fast and easy for you, Miss Fitzpatrick.” Sam shot me an impersonal smile as Daniel cut the cards. The whole room held its breath.

I got confused and didn’t stand with a pair of nines when Daniel’s up-card was a seven, even though Cillian had taught me to do so.

Sam split a pair of eights and aces.

Sam won.

Three to two.

Fair and square.

The whole room erupted in screams, arguments, and laughter as hands exchanged thick stacks of money. People huddled over the betting books. Others clapped Sam’s back and whistled, shaking his hand with a smug smile.

“The deal of your life, Brennan. Next stop, world domination.”

“Make sure you get your hands on those Royal Pipelines shares, man.”

“You delicate fucking genius.”

“Better take her for a test drive, eh?”

Nausea washed over me, and I gripped the edges of the table with force.

I lost.

Not only tonight but the last decade.

We were always playing a game, at least that was how it felt, and this was the pinnacle of a ten-year battle.

It didn’t matter that I wanted it. That I wished for it. That I longed for it.

Sam Brennan won me, but he didn’t earn me.

What kind of marriage would I have to a man who didn’t want to have children and hated women?

Sam ignored the congratulations, strolling the short distance to meet me, his face unreadable. Everyone stopped to see what happened next. I couldn’t blame them. I wanted to know, too. I didn’t move. Didn’t run away. The least I could do was handle the situation with dignity. A Fitzpatrick never bowed down.

Sam stopped a foot away from me.

“Well done. I knew you were a talented mathematician and blackjack player, but I still underestimated you.” I offered him my hand again, my voice quiet and resolute.

He narrowed his eyes at me, like we were enemies. Maybe we were. I never knew where we stood. He cupped my throat, angling my face up to look him in the eye. When he spoke, it was to the room, not to me, but his words were loud and clear, filling the air with poison.

“I want every single asshole who witnessed this game to go and tell their friends. And tell your friends to tell their friends. I want this to hit Cillian, Hunter, and Gerald’s ears tonight. I want this in the papers. Aisling Fitzpatrick is now mine. I won her, and she is going to be my wife. If anyone has a problem with that, he will have to go through me, and I sincerely don’t recommend it. It’s a terrible way to die.”

With that, he crashed his lips down on mine, sealing our deal with an animalistic kiss. People cheered in the background, but we paid no attention to them. I paid no attention to them, completely immersed in this thing between us, my heart soaring to the sky. Sam hoisted me up and carried me out of the card room, shouldering past dozens of men, heading straight to his office. My legs wrapped around his waist, my tongue dancing inside his mouth.

We reached the point of no return.

There were no more games to be played.

We were together.

“You will keep your word to me,” he growled into my mouth, kicking the door to his office open and slamming it shut behind us without touching the handle, his fingers digging into my behind.

“No,” I insisted breathlessly, peppering his neck with kisses. “Not until you tell me that it’s real. That I’m just not a conquest. That I mean something to you.”

“You don’t mean something to me,” he countered. “You mean everything to me. Jesus Christ, I need to get inside you before I fucking die.” He let me down, turned to his desk, and in one go wiped it