The Crowns Gambit

❦ Chapter Nine: Charlotte ❦

The game of poker sprawls across the table like a battlefield—cards, cigars, and gold coins scattered among empty glasses. Laughter bubbles, punctuated by muttered curses and the scrape of chairs. Thick cigar smoke clings to the room, weaving through my hair and dress, curling around my throat like a noose. I shift slightly on Elliot's lap, trying to ignore the steady prickle of unease, the burn of every passing second.

His arm is draped loosely around my waist—not for comfort, but for show—just tight enough to feel like a chain disguised as affection. To the others, it probably looks natural, even romantic. But I know better. It's control. Possession.

Elliot shifts beneath me, adjusting his legs wider so I fit snugly between them. His hand rests on my upper thigh, fingers brushing just under the hem of my dress, deliberate and slow. Each touch is a statement, one that's meant for everyone in the room: This one is mine.

Cards slap down on the table. Another burst of laughter. Somewhere in the haze, a man belches, drawing jeers from the others. I swallow hard, forcing my features into a mask of calm. No one can know how desperately I want to leave.

Elliot hums low in my ear, his breath warm against my skin. "You're squirming, darling," he murmurs, his lips grazing the curve of my ear. "Trying to make me lose focus?"

"I wouldn't dream of it," I say, forcing a soft laugh that feels more like a plea. Play along. Blend in.

He tightens his grip around my waist, pulling me closer until I feel the steady beat of his heart against my back. "Good," he whispers, drumming his fingers against my thigh, slow and rhythmic. "You know what you are, don't you?"

I glance at him from the corner of my eye, though I already know the answer. We've played this game before.

"You're my good luck charm," he murmurs with a grin, brushing his lips along my temple. The words slide from his mouth like silk, smooth and calculated.

I arch a brow, feigning amusement. "Is that what I am?"

"Without a doubt." His hand slides another inch up my thigh. "I never lose when I have you on my lap."

One of the men grins, raising his glass with a toast. "Guess we all need to find ourselves a lucky charm, eh?"

More laughter. Another belch. Someone slaps a pair of aces down with a flourish, only for Elliot to lay a straight flush across the table with casual ease.

"Unbeatable," one of the players groans, shoving his cards away.

Elliot's grin widens, lazy and smug, like a cat that's just cornered a mouse. "Luck has nothing to do with it," he says, gathering his winnings in one hand while drawing me closer with the other. His fingers press into my hip, the subtle pressure saying everything his words don't: You belong to me.

I force myself to relax against him, my head resting lightly on his shoulder. To the others, I must look like a spoiled prize—a beautiful accessory draped across his lap. But inside, I feel trapped. The weight of his presence, his cologne—sharp, bitter, overpowering—blends with the smoke and liquor until it feels like I'm suffocating.

Elliot adjusts his grip, sliding me slightly to get comfortable, as though holding me like this is second nature. "You're my little good luck charm," he murmurs again, just for me. "And you're going to stay right here, aren't you, sweetheart?"

My stomach twists, but I manage a soft hum of agreement. Just survive the night.

He shifts beneath me, brushing his thumb along the hem of my dress. The movement is casual, easy, like we've done this a hundred times before. But there's something different in the way his fingers linger—a subtle change I can't quite place.