The sun broke across his face, hot and insistent, dragging him awake. Brock's eyes slit open, heavy with sleep, the room swimming into focus in slow pieces. He lay sprawled on top of the sheets in nothing but boxers, the fabric cool against his back, every inch of him anchored by the weight curled into his side. Harper was there, bare skin pressed to his, her head resting against his collarbone so each breath brushed warm over his chest. One arm draped across him, her fingers spread just beneath his throat; the other wrapped around her own stomach, pinned between them. Her breasts flattened against his ribs, her body fitted close. His palm cupped her hip where the ink of the coiled viper wound beneath his thumb, holding her tight to him. One of her legs was thrown over his, hooking him in, the heat of her pressed into his thigh, searing and impossible to ignore.
For a long moment he stayed that way, letting her weight keep him pinned. His hand never shifted, thumb tracing idle circles over the edge of her hip bone, skin warm and smooth beneath the ink. She didn't stir; her lips were parted just barely against his chest, each breath feathering soft over him. Sunlight spilled across them in bright bands, catching on her bare skin, and every scar she carried turned to pale silver. Dozens of them, thin and brutal, cut across the curve of her ribs, the flat of her stomach, the line of her thigh—marks that seemed to glow in the morning light, every one of them a story carved into her body.
One scar pulled his focus more than the rest, stark in the wash of daylight. A pale line, three inches long, cut straight through the skull of the viper inked on her shoulder—his mark as much as hers. Proof of the first time their paths had crossed, when a bullet from his rifle had carved her there. Back before names, before trust, when they were nothing but enemies set on collision. He could still see it: their fight at the fence, her body driven hard into the ground beneath him, his finger tightening on the trigger. He'd been a breath away from ending her, from putting a round through her skull, until her name stopped him cold and turned the whole course of his life.
He blinked hard and tried to scrub the memory away. Her name had rerouted everything. Last night, the same way it did every night, he'd spoken it over and over, rough in his throat, a prayer he couldn't keep from breaking loose when he was inside her. He worshipped that scar the way he worshipped all of them, mouth and hands tracing each brutal mark with the same reverence he gave the rest of her, as though every wound carved into her skin was another piece of her he owed his devotion to.
He dipped his head and pressed a slow kiss into her hair, lips lingering in the strands. The shift of his chest against her seemed to rouse her; she stirred faintly, leg tightening around his as her hips dragged closer. The friction pulled a rough breath from him, heat riding his thigh, the slick drag of her enough to make him groan low in his throat before he could stop it.
Her hand twitched against his chest, fingers flexing once before a tiny whimper slipped from her. Her body stiffened, arching in a slow stretch that dragged against him before she settled again. Brock's mouth curved, a low chuckle breathed into her hair. "I love the little sounds you make," he murmured. She answered with a muffled, half-asleep sound, burying her face into the side of his neck, nose scrunching as she tried to hide there and pretend she hadn't made a sound at all.
He laughed softly again, the sound rumbling against her before he shifted, easing his weight to roll on top of her. His mouth found hers in a slow, unhurried kiss, lips brushing with a tenderness that belied the heat still coiled in him. Her lashes fluttered, eyes cracking open at last, squinting against the sun spilling over them. He pulled back just enough to watch her face, a small grin tugging at his mouth. "Good morning," he murmured, voice low and warm.
Her lips curved under his, voice rough with sleep as she muttered, "Good morning." She blinked up at him, lashes heavy, eyes half-shut against the spill of sunlight creeping through the blinds.
"Why are you such a morning person?" she mumbled around a yawn, voice dragging, the question half accusation, half complaint.
He only shrugged, unbothered, his gaze sweeping over her, committing the way she looked spread out bare beneath him to memory. "Because I get to wake up with you curled against me every morning," he answered, matter-of-fact, the only truth that had ever made sense to him.
She rolled her eyes, letting out a low, put-upon sigh as she let her head fall back into the pillow, hair spilling across it in dark tangles. The sound was muffled, reluctant, a little too cute for the scowl she tried to pull off.
"Mmm," he hummed, amused. "More cute noises." His hand slid firmer over her hip, holding her in place as he leaned down. "Let's see if we can get more of those out of you."
He lowered his mouth to the curve of her neck, slow at first, letting his breath warm her skin before pressing a kiss there. The faint shiver that went through her beneath him made his grin widen against her throat.
She answered him without words. Her back arched, pressing her chest into his, her hips shifting under his weight in a restless, searching drag. Her lip caught tight between her teeth as she tried to swallow down the sound threatening to escape. His eyes caught it, the way she fought herself, and his mouth curved against her skin. He nipped playfully at her neck, voice rough with a mock scold.
"Don't hold back on me."
His lips trailed lower, leaving heat down the line of her sternum. He shifted, bracing his weight with one arm while the other slid higher, his mouth finding one breast, then the other. His tongue flicked against her nipples in turn, teasing until they pebbled under his touch. She squirmed beneath him, shoulders pushing into the mattress, heels sliding against the sheets as her chest rose to meet his mouth, a soft, broken sound slipping free despite herself, spilling into the space between them.
"That's more like it," he murmured against her skin, satisfaction threading through his voice. His mouth drifted lower, laying a trail of kisses down her belly, slow and deliberate. Each one made her twist under him, muscles in her stomach jumping, hips jerking in tiny, impatient jolts that dragged her body against his. He paused when he reached the jagged scar carved deep across her abdomen—the mark Kato's knife had left in her. His lips lingered there, reverent, before pressing firm against it, the weight of the kiss a useless attempt at mending what had been carved open. She writhed under him, caught between the urge to push him away and pull him closer, but his hands slid to her hips, holding her steady, fingers digging in just enough to remind her she wasn't going anywhere.
Her breath caught, a half-formed protest slipping out, his name soft on her lips—"Brock…"—thin with need more than objection. He silenced it with a low shush, the sound firm, certain, a promise that he had her. His body slid further down the bed, his grip leaving her hips only to find her thighs. Strong hands pressed to the inside, urging them apart, and she yielded, legs falling open under his touch. The muscles there trembled, fighting the instinct to snap shut again, and the struggle only made him hungrier for every bit of control she gave him. The shift made her hips jerk up instinctively, chasing his mouth even as she tried to hold herself still, heat jumping between them in a pulse he felt all the way to his chest.
His mouth found the inside of her thigh, lips pressing slow, deliberate kisses into the sensitive skin. Each one made her jolt, a little shock that ran through her and left her toes curling, knees quivering against his grip. A small, helpless whine slipped past her lips. Her hands tangled in his hair, nails grazing over his scalp before she tugged him closer, unable to stop herself, dragging him exactly where she needed him. He finally dipped his head between her legs, her heat meeting his tongue, the first taste of her crashing through his senses and tearing at his control. The reaction was instant—her whole body arched off the bed, a loud, raw sound ripping out of her. His grip tightened on her thighs, pinning her down as she writhed beneath him, the steady pull of his mouth dragging one trembling, desperate sound after another out of her, every one of them thrumming against his skin and sinking straight into him.
** ** **
The war room carried the muted weight of mid-afternoon, blinds drawn tight against the sun so the fluorescents ruled instead, flat light pooling across the table, bleaching the maps and manifests stacked in ordered rows. The air smelled faintly of coffee left too long on a burner and the acrid edge of marker ink from the boards along the wall. Vex stood at the head, jacket buttoned, one hand spread on the table as he scanned the group with practiced steadiness. Cole sat forward with his forearms on his knees, gaze steady on the papers in front of him. Nolan sprawled against the wall in deliberate carelessness, one boot hooked over the other, picking at the split in a knuckle. Brock kept to the corner, broad shoulders braced, silence carved into his posture. Beside him, Harper sat with her back straight and hands folded loose in her lap, eyes fixed on Vex.
When Vex spoke, his voice cut into the quiet without effort. "The Maw are running poker nights. Basements, back rooms, nothing flashy. It's how they keep cash moving off the books and how they measure rank. Who gets a seat, who pays in heavy, who walks out with a thicker roll than they walked in with—that's where you see the power shifts. I want those faces logged, those patterns noted. That's what this job is."
He straightened, eyes sweeping the table. "One of our brokers runs the buy-in. He skims both sides, so he can walk a pair of ours through the door without raising questions. You'll sit as outsiders, just two strangers with money to burn. While the Maw play, you watch. The value's not in cards; it's in who talks, who pays, who the others defer to."
His attention landed on Cole. "You'll play. Keep your head down, lose light, win enough to stay credible. Don't chase pots. Don't stand out."
Then on Harper. "You'll go with him. A woman at the table shifts the air—they'll look at you before the cards, and some of them won't be able to help running their mouths. That's what I want. You don't need to play, but you listen. You let them talk. Anything you hear, any name, any slip—you bring it back."
Brock's posture in the corner tightened, shoulders drawing in. Nolan caught it, mouth quirking faint, already hearing the protest building even if Brock hadn't voiced it yet.
Vex didn't miss it. His gaze cut once toward the corner, then back to the table. "You two stay outside," he said, voice flat. "In the car, close enough to come through the door if it turns. But you will not sit that table. You're too familiar. Maw sees either one of you across the felt and the night ends there."
Nolan gave a lazy shrug, as though he'd expected nothing else. Brock said nothing, jaw set, the weight in his silence heavier than any argument.
Cole only nodded, steady and unbothered. Harper felt the knot in her stomach pull tight but forced her shoulders back, meeting Vex's eyes without flinching.
"The game runs late," Vex said. "You move at dusk, go in clean, come back cleaner. I want names, I want the shape of the room, and I want to know who leaves with pockets fatter than when they walked in. Nothing else." His gaze lingered on Harper for a heartbeat. "Don't give them more than they're already looking for."
Nolan broke the quiet with a low hum, his eyes sliding to Harper. "Guess that's our evening entertainment sorted. Try not to stack the deck, Firefly."
Vex closed the file at his hand, the sound final. "Dismissed."
Chairs scraped against the floor, the shuffling weight of bodies filling the silence. Cole pushed to his feet first, and Harper rose beside him. Brock fell into step as they turned for the door, the set of his shoulders unyielding, Nolan trailing after with a half-smirk that didn't reach his eyes. The room emptied, leaving Vex alone at the table, pen already in hand to mark the next piece on the board.
** ** **
The Subaru crouched low at the curb, paint dulled with road grit, nothing in its lines to hint at Syndicate muscle. The WRX hummed, a car that could belong anywhere—delivery shifts, night runs, backstreet lots—forgettable in a way the Syndicate's armored SUVs never were. Brock drove, sleeves pushed to his elbows, street clothes plain and dark, the weight of his sidearm hidden beneath a hoodie. Nolan slouched in the passenger seat, ball cap pulled low, pistol tucked under his jacket, the casual set of his shoulders at odds with the way his eyes kept sweeping the mirrors.
In the back, Cole and Harper rode quiet. Cole wore a button-down rolled at the sleeves, collar open, the kind of man who could sit at a poker table without standing out. A plain watch caught dull light on his wrist—enough to read like he had cash to lose, not enough to draw suspicion. Harper sat beside him in a dress cut to flatter, dark fabric clinging close from waist to hip, hem brushing mid-thigh when she crossed her legs. The neckline plunged low enough to draw eyes, but the long sleeves covered her shoulders, fabric hiding the ink coiled beneath her skin. Her hair was left loose, a soft frame against the severity of the dress, the kind of contrast that shifted the air in a room before she ever spoke.
Brock eased the car against the curb, one hand loose on the wheel. He glanced once at the mirrors, then turned just enough to look into the back seat.
"Keep your heads," he told them, voice low. "Cole, stay quiet. Don't let them bait you. If a hand feels wrong, fold and let it go. You walk out whole by leaving chips behind if you have to." His eyes cut to Harper. "They'll look at you first. Let them. You don't rise to it. You decide what they get and what they don't. You sit there, you hold your line, and you walk back out when Cole tells you. If it starts to tilt, you excuse yourself—say you need to make a call—and you call me. That's the signal. We'll come in."
Nolan smirked faintly at the windshield. "Romantic," he muttered.
Brock didn't look at him. "Practical," he replied, voice flat.
Cole gave a single nod, steady as stone. "Got it."
Harper held Brock's gaze a moment longer, the knot in her chest pulled tight, but her voice stayed even. "Understood." Her fingers smoothed once over the line of her dress, then stilled.
Brock studied the two of them, reading more than their words, then gave a short nod. "All right. Go."
Cole pushed his door open, night air folding in around them, and Harper followed, heels striking pavement as she climbed out after him.
She glanced back once at the WRX, catching Brock's gaze through the windshield, the look landing with a weight that said everything he didn't. Then she turned to Cole and matched his pace down the sidewalk, her arm brushing his as he set an easy line toward the glow of backstreet lights. They walked close, natural in the way they leaned toward each other, his hand light at her back, her head angled just enough to sell the part. To anyone watching, they were only another pair headed in for a night at the tables.
The backstreet narrowed into a row of shuttered shops and low warehouses, most gone dark for the night. A single bulb burned over a steel door halfway down, paint flaking, the spill of light catching on a man leaned against the frame. Thick shoulders under a leather jacket, arms crossed, a weight that marked him as more than a doorman.
Cole felt Harper's posture tighten beside him and shifted his hand at her back, thumb brushing once against the fabric, a quiet signal to stay with him. She eased into it without breaking stride, the line between them tightening into something that would read as natural from the outside.
The bouncer's eyes flicked over Cole, then lingered on her, tracking from the fall of her hair to the line of her dress before coming back to him.
"Buy-in's covered," Cole said, voice even. "We're expected."
The man let the silence stretch, then pulled the door wider. "Names?"
"Dawson," Cole answered without hesitation. "And Lilly."
The bouncer grunted, apparently satisfied. He stepped aside, gaze sliding back to Harper, a look that settled on her and stayed there too long, then jerked his chin toward the stairwell behind him.
Cole guided her through first, the pressure of his hand steady as the door thudded shut behind them.
The stairwell dropped narrow and steep, concrete steps slick in spots where damp crept through the walls. The air grew heavier as they descended, thick with cigarette smoke and the stale bite of spilled beer. Voices carried up from below—low laughter, the scrape of chairs, the clatter of chips on wood.
The room opened at the bottom, a basement with ceilings too low and walls stained with years of smoke. A scarred table sat at the center under a bare bulb, green felt dulled and frayed at the edges, stacks of chips and wads of bills scattered across it. Four men sat in, cards loose in their hands, a haze of smoke blurring their outlines. A fifth man stood off to the side, sleeves rolled to the elbow, shuffling the deck with practiced rhythm—house dealer, not a player, eyes quick enough to catch anything that moved. Folding chairs ringed the table, ashtrays heavy with butts, the air so close it clung to skin and the back of the throat. A sixth chair waited empty, the one Cole had been bought into.
They looked up as the door thudded shut behind Cole and Harper. Closest on the left sat a broad man with a shaved head, forearms thick with ink, bulk built in yards and back alleys. His gaze tracked Harper openly, slow to slide back to his drink. Beside him, a thinner man in a gray sport coat shuffled cards with restless fingers, pale eyes flicking over them both, measuring what they were worth. Across the table, a heavyset man in a sweat-darkened shirt leaned back with a cigarette at his lip, grin curling as he looked Harper over. The last stayed quiet, cap pulled low, chips stacked with neat precision, glancing up only once before dropping his attention back to his cards.
The heavyset one blew smoke, grin widening. "Broker didn't say anything about you bringing company. She's welcome, though. She can take my lap."
Harper smiled sweetly, unbothered. "I can stand."
The man in the sport coat snorted and dragged a folding chair from the wall, snapping it open beside Cole. He dropped it with a clatter. "Sit. Standing's bad for the view."
Cole shifted his hand at Harper's back as he eased her down, the pressure light but anchoring, then took the empty chair beside her, chips already stacked from the buy-in. Harper smoothed her dress as she sat, crossing one leg over the other, posture easy though she could feel every eye still on her. The cards moved slow across the felt, the dealer sliding them out with a practiced flick.
The heavyset man with the cigarette gave a laugh that rumbled deep. "Guess we oughta make it friendly, since broker vouched you in. Name's Russo." He tapped ash into the tray, smoke curling lazy toward the ceiling.
The broad, ink-heavy one lifted his chin. "Mack." His voice was gravel, his stare still fixed more on Harper than the cards.
The man in the sport coat twitched a smile that never touched his pale eyes. "Call me Denton." His fingers kept riffling chips as he spoke, restless, hard edges under every movement.
The last, the one in the cap, didn't look up. He pushed a stack forward, voice flat. "Ike." Then he went back to his cards.
Cole leaned back in his chair, unbothered. "Dawson. This is Lilly."
Russo gave a low laugh, smoke spilling from the corner of his mouth. "Lilly, huh? Pretty name. Bet you smell like one too." His grin widened, cigarette bouncing as he chuckled. "Careful, Dawson, might not get her back if she sits too close."
Harper's smile didn't falter. "Then it's a good thing I'm sitting here," she said lightly, crossing her leg a little slower this time, letting the comment roll right off her.
The dealer swept the deck into his hands and snapped it into a blur, cards sliding out in practiced rhythm. Chips clinked as Russo tossed in an easy blind, smoke spilling from his grin. Mack followed, sliding his forward without comment. Denton stacked his neat and precise, pale eyes darting toward Cole and Harper before flicking back to his cards. Ike pushed his in last, head bowed under the brim of his cap. Cole matched them with steady hands, movements unremarkable, designed to be forgotten. Harper folded her hands in her lap and let her gaze drift, cataloging every twitch of fingers, every lean of shoulders, every glance that said more than their cards.
Russo leaned forward, voice rough. "Look at the fresh face. Broker must've felt generous." He tossed in a stack rich for the size of the pot, the slap of plastic on felt deliberate. "Let's see if he's here to bleed or bite."
Mack pushed across his call without looking up. Denton's fingers twitched before committing, his pale eyes cutting at Cole, hungry for a tell. Ike stayed wordless, just added his neat stack with the same unhurried precision as before.
Cole glanced at his cards once, unreadable, then folded them down. "Not my hand." His tone stayed level, no challenge in it, nothing to hold onto.
Russo snorted, raking in the pot as he dragged on his cigarette. "Smart boy. Might even last the night."
The dealer kept the cards moving, hands stacking one after another, chips clinking into the center. Russo filled the room with noise, laughing at his own jokes and pressing every pot louder than it needed. Denton twitched through his chips, always counting angles. Mack stayed steady, his presence heavy in its silence. Ike barely spoke at all, sliding bets forward with that same unhurried precision.
Harper let the smoke sting her throat as she tracked them one by one. Russo talked too much, Denton was restless, Mack a wall, Ike unreadable. The cards were only cover; the tells were in the men.
The night stretched with the shuffle and clatter, drinks pouring, laughter swelling, the pot climbing in fits and drops. Time blurred in the haze, marked only by the slow drift of ash and the steady rhythm of chips across felt.
Russo dragged the next pot in with a booming laugh, tipping his glass toward Harper. "You're too quiet, Lilly. Pretty thing like you oughta have a drink in your hand." His eyes lingered as he poured, the weight of his stare crawling over her skin, holding too long on the line of her dress.
Harper kept her smile easy, though her chest tightened, every nerve alive to the way he watched her. She gave a small shake of her head. "I'm fine, thank you."
Russo chuckled, not moving the glass. "One won't kill you."
Her pulse ticked faster, but Cole shifted beside her, his hand leaving the stack of chips long enough to settle on her thigh under the table. The squeeze was quick, steady, a reminder that he was right there. His voice stayed calm, level. "She said she's fine."
For a moment the table stilled, smoke hanging in the thick air. Then Russo sneered, dragging on his cigarette. "So that's it—your girl. Thought so. Pretty thing like that, you better be ready to share if you bring her in here."
Cole's eyes stayed on his cards, voice even. "Not on the table." He slid a chip forward, movements smooth, refusing to give Russo anything more to grab onto.
Denton gave a thin laugh, restless fingers riffling his chips. "Don't mind Russo—he thinks volume counts as charm." His pale eyes flicked to Harper, trying for a smile that didn't quite reach. "Place like this isn't exactly built for good company. Surprised you'd waste a night down here."
Harper tilted her head, letting the smile soften. "I like to watch."
Denton's fingers stilled for a moment, his gaze narrowing. "Then you'll see plenty. Some people don't know when to keep their cards down—or their mouths shut." He leaned back, stacking his chips neat again, as if the slip hadn't mattered.
Harper let a light laugh spill, sweet and easy. "Sounds like you've seen that happen a few times."
Denton's mouth twitched, a smug flicker ghosting across his face. "Let's just say the Maw like to test their own. Some boys push higher than they should. Couple weeks back, one of 'em couldn't cover the table, and it didn't end well. Not for him, not for the people waiting on him." He snapped a chip against the felt, restless again, but his gaze lingered on her. "You'd be surprised what gets said when the stacks run out."
Harper widened her eyes just a fraction, letting her voice slip light, almost curious. "The Maw?" She leaned closer, head tilting slightly, as if embarrassed to even ask. "I don't even know who that is."
Russo snorted around his cigarette. "Course she doesn't."
But Denton leaned in, hungry to be the one to enlighten her. "They're the only ones that matter down here," he replied, almost smug. "Every chair you're looking at, every bill on this table—runs through them one way or another. Keep your ears open, Lilly. You'll figure out fast who's climbing and who's bleeding."
Harper let her smile brighten, tilting her head, letting the words seem fascinating instead of frightening. "Good thing I've got someone to explain it to me, then."
Denton's pale eyes sparked at the attention, shoulders drawing a little straighter. "Most of these guys won't tell you half of it. But me? I watch. I notice." He flicked a glance at Russo, smirk tugging. "They don't realize how much they give away when they're too busy trying to be loud."
Harper laughed softly, leaning closer as though sharing a secret. "So what have you noticed?"
Denton spun a chip between his fingers, satisfaction curling in his grin. "Couple crews bleeding dry since that warehouse went up. You hear about boys coming in here trying to patch the hole in side pots, and it's only a matter of time before they can't. Maw doesn't forgive debts. They use them." He dropped the chip back with a click, pale eyes still on her. "That's how you spot who's climbing."
Russo noticed. He leaned across the table, cigarette hanging from his lips, eyes cutting between Cole and Harper. "What's this? Your girl getting cozy with Denton while you sit quiet? Thought you had a tighter leash than that." He chuckled, smoke spilling from his mouth. "Maybe she's just looking for a better seat."
Harper's laugh came light, easy, sliding between them like smoke. "I don't do leashes," she said, sweet as sugar. Her smile curved slow as she leaned back in her chair, tongue tracing along her teeth before she caught her lip between them. "Settling down's boring."
Russo leaned in at once, grinning wide. "Boring, huh? Then you're at the right table. I can give you a night you won't forget." He blew smoke across the felt, eyes raking over her.
Denton cut in before she could answer, voice loud enough to slice through Russo's laugh. "Christ, Russo, you think every girl's just waiting to fall into your lap? You're all bark." He turned his pale eyes on Harper, smile thinner but steadier. "Some of us know how to keep things interesting without shouting about it."
Russo chuckled, but his jaw tightened as he dragged on his cigarette. Mack slid chips into the pot without looking up. The dealer kept the cards moving, hands steady while the table thrummed with heat beneath the shuffle and clink.
She let her gaze linger on Denton just a fraction longer than necessary, then slipped it back to Russo with a look that kept them both hooked.
Cole stayed silent, steady, fingers brushing her knee under the table to remind her he was right there, the anchor beneath the current she'd just stirred.
Chips clattered back into the center, the rhythm of the game dragging them forward. Russo leaned hard on every pot, his laugh too loud. Denton played tighter, twitching with each move, eyes flicking to Harper, clearly waiting for another scrap of attention. Mack remained steady, Ike unreadable in the haze. Harper sat sweet and still, letting the men think the cards had her focus when it was really their faces she was watching.
The dealer snapped the deck into a blur, cards whispering around the table. Harper leaned back, her smile easy, looking only half engaged with the game. Then she tilted her head, catching Denton's eye.
"You mentioned earlier," she said lightly, "about someone who couldn't cover his play. The one who got in trouble." She let a little laugh slip, almost apologetic. "Who was that? I'm still learning who's who down here."
Denton's pale eyes sparked—he'd been waiting for her to ask. "That was Everett," he said, pride curling his mouth. "Sat heavy last week, lost his stack in under an hour. Been begging the wrong people ever since."
Russo barked a laugh, smoke spilling from his grin. "Everett is a dead man walking. Maw's already picked his bones clean. Better pray you're not tied to his crew." He blew a stream of smoke straight across the felt, grinning wider. "That's what happens when you play higher than your station."
Mack slid his chips forward, silent, but the look he cut across the table landed heavy. Denton's fingers twitched over his stack, restless again, but Harper only let her smile brighten, treating Everett as nothing more than gossip worth passing along.
Harper let the name roll off her tongue, casual, empty of weight. "Everett," she repeated softly, smiling as she tucked it away. Then she leaned in, lowering her voice just enough to make it feel like a private question. "So if he's sinking… who takes his place?"
Denton's pale eyes caught hers, restless fingers stilling for once. Triumph flickered across his face. "Vance's been circling. He's covered buy-ins for more than one boy lately, and the Maw don't hand out favors for free. Man like that doesn't throw chips unless he's buying himself a better seat." He smirked, flicking his chip neat into the pot. "You watch. Couple more weeks, he won't just be sitting here—he'll be running the room."
Russo let out a rough chuckle, smoke leaking from the corner of his mouth. "Vance is a fool with plenty of pocket and not nearly enough sense. He'll play himself under same as Everett, and I'll be here to rake it in when he does."
Mack pushed in his call, still wordless, but Harper caught the way his jaw tightened before he looked back to his cards. A reaction worth remembering.
She let her smile stay bright, eyes wide like it was just another story for later. "Guess I'll have to pay more attention."
The game slowed as stacks dwindled, chairs creaking under the weight of hours. The dealer's shuffle lost some of its snap, smoke hanging low and heavy, drinks watered down to amber dregs. Russo leaned back from the table, bragging loud about hands already played, while Mack gathered his last pot with steady hands.
Cole pushed his cards back toward the dealer, stacking his chips neat. "That's me." He rose, voice calm, forgettable.
Russo jeered, but the noise rolled past Cole.
Harper shifted to stand with him, but Denton's chair scraped back. "You don't have to run off yet," he said, pale eyes cutting to Cole before sliding back to her. "Let him settle up. Stay a minute."
She glanced at Cole, pulse tight, waiting for the smallest sign. His hand brushed the back of her chair—steady, deliberate. Permission.
Harper let her smile brighten, turning it on Denton. "One drink," she said lightly. She rose with a grace that looked casual but kept her angle, just enough to keep Cole in her line of sight at the table.