Badass in Disguise Chapter 217

"Ordinary Blackjack is too boring," Chris Jensen declared, leaning back in his chair at the Russian Deputy Prime Minister's anniversary celebration. "Let's add some stakes."

We had commandeered a secluded corner of the glittering ballroom, away from Moscow's elite who mingled and networked across the room.

Night's gray eyes sparkled with mischief as he shuffled the deck. "Loser drinks a shot of vodka?"

"Absolutely not," Chris replied firmly, adjusting his position to accommodate his still-bandaged wrists. "Last time we played drinking games, I ended up passed out in the bathtub while you were still doing tequila shots off the balcony railing."

"It's hardly a punishment for him," I agreed, nodding toward Night. "The man practically has vodka instead of blood."

Night grinned. "Not my fault you two can't handle your liquor."

I tapped my finger against my chin, pretending to consider options. "What about ghost peppers? I spotted some in the kitchen earlier."

Night's face fell instantly. "You know I can't handle spicy food."

"That's exactly the point," Chris laughed, enjoying Night's discomfort. "Perfect punishment for someone who can drink us both under the table."

"Remember that 'mild' curry in London?" I added, smirking at the memory. "You couldn't taste anything for three days."

Night scowled. "That chef was clearly trying to assassinate me. It wasn't mild by any definition."

"Then it's settled," Chris said, gesturing for me to deal. "Jade's the dealer. We play against the house. Bust or lose to the dealer, you earn a ghost pepper."

Twenty minutes later, Night groaned as he tossed his cards down on the table. "Another bust," he sighed, running a hand through his golden curls. "That's thirteen ghost peppers I owe you now."

Chris straightened his glasses, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "At least I'm only down eight."

We'd been playing for nearly an hour, having completed over twenty rounds. As the dealer, I'd barely lost at all.

"This party is boring as hell," Chris said, checking his watch. "Let's get out of here. I'm dying to see him eat those peppers."

Night's retort died in his throat as his gaze fixed on something over my shoulder. His expression cooled instantly. "Don't look now, but we've attracted some attention."

Of course, both Chris and I immediately turned to look. A well-dressed couple was approaching our table - who had been the center of attention at the party until we arrived.

"Hunter Whitmore," Chris murmured. "Senator Whitmore's son."

I studied Hunter as he approached. His suit was Armani, but it hung on his frame like it was borrowed. The woman beside him wore diamonds that looked too heavy for her thin neck.

The man and his companion stopped at our table. Hunter's eyes lingered on me, particularly on my fingers as they deftly shuffled the cards. His gaze was intrusive, almost predatory, sliding from my hands up to my face with an entitled appreciation.

"I wouldn't stare if I were you," Night said, his voice casual but carrying an unmistakable edge. "It tends to cause problems."

Hunter's smile didn't waver. "I couldn't help noticing your game. Looks entertaining. Mind if I join?"

"Your date can entertain you," Night replied, nodding toward the blonde woman who shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.

Hunter's smile turned smug. "I think I'd find your new companion more entertaining. Perhaps she could teach me a thing or two?" His eyes remained fixed on me, challenging Night.

Night's fingers tensed around his glass, and I could sense his restraint wavering. "Only if you're prepared to lose more than money," Night's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Your technique doesn't look up to par."

The tension between them crackled like electricity. Around us, other guests began to notice the confrontation, conversations quieting as attention shifted to our corner. I decided to intervene before Night decided to carve a new smile into Hunter's face.

"I'll play with you," I said, meeting Hunter's gaze directly. His eyes widened slightly, surprised by my forwardness.

"Excellent," Hunter pulled out the chair opposite me, sitting down without invitation. His cologne—too much of it—wafted across the table. "What shall we wager? Strip poker is always fun - lose a hand, lose an article of clothing."

I let out a cold laugh. "How juvenile. I have a better idea." I set down the deck of cards and leaned forward. "I'll play you at Blackjack. If you lose a hand, you stab yourself."

The table fell silent. Hunter's confident façade faltered for just a moment before he recovered. A nervous laugh escaped his throat.

"Whatever you say, beautiful," he finally replied.

Night motioned to our host, who promptly brought over a small, ornate dagger and placed it on the table. The blade caught the light, its edge visibly sharp. The blonde woman went pale, her heavily made-up eyes widening in horror.

"Hunter, maybe this isn't—" she began, but Hunter cut her off with a dismissive wave.

"Actually," Hunter said, his voice slightly higher than before, "Cynthia will play for me. If she loses, I'll take the penalty."

The woman looked horrified, her red lips parting in shock, but she didn't dare refuse. She shot a pleading look at Hunter, who ignored her completely.

I nodded to a female guest to serve as a neutral dealer. She took the seat at the head of the table, nervously taking the cards I handed her.

"Standard rules," I explained. "Dealer stays on 17 or higher. Closest to 21 without going over wins. Tie goes to the dealer."

The crowd around us had grown, curious whispers circulating. The dealer's hands trembled slightly as she dealt the cards. Cynthia received a ten and a nine. Nineteen—a solid hand. After a moment's hesitation, she looked at Hunter who nodded encouragingly.

"Hit me," she said, her voice barely audible.

The dealer slid a third card across the table. Nine. Twenty-eight. Bust.

A collective gasp went up from the onlookers. Hunter's face drained of color.

My cards: an ace and a jack. A perfect blackjack.

"Natural blackjack," I announced calmly. "You lose."

Hunter's face went from confusion to disbelief to anger in the span of seconds. Some nearby guests had noticed our game and were watching with undisguised fascination.

"What are they betting?" I heard someone whisper.

"Why does Mr. Whitmore look so upset? It can't be that serious, can it?"

I fixed my gaze on Hunter. "Time to pay up."

Hunter forced a laugh, his face now regaining some color. "You can't seriously expect... I mean, you're beautiful, but surely you don't actually want to see something so violent and bloody?"

"Don't flake now," Night said loudly enough for nearby guests to hear. "Unless the senator's son doesn't honor his debts?"

The surrounding crowd grew quiet, awaiting Hunter's response.

Hunter leaned close, lowering his voice. "Do you know who my father is?"

"Do you know how little I care?" I replied, matching his quiet tone. "A bet's a bet. Unless you're admitting you're all talk?"

The crowd around us had grown. Trapped by his own arrogance and the witnesses, Hunter reluctantly took the knife. With shaking hands, he pressed the blade to his forearm and made a quick slash.

Blood immediately welled up, creating a thin crimson line against his pale skin. Several female guests gasped, covering their mouths. His date turned ghostly white, frantically pulling a silk handkerchief from her purse to wrap his arm.

Hunter pushed her away roughly, his face contorted with pain and humiliation.

"Another round," he demanded, slamming his good hand on the table. "Now."