My gaze drops to its mouth—a pouty pucker that looks harmless, though I’ve seen them stretched. Seen how many teeth those things pack.
Enough to chomp off an arm with a single crunch.
Seems fitting that these highfliers have the company of such a rare and coveted creature, given the fact that octimars can weave promises upon flesh, binding them to blood, body, and soul.
Each of the fae garnishes me with narrow-eyed perusals, one pulling on a pipe, blowing rings of ruddy smoke. His stare spears past me to Pyrok, and his mouth curls into a sly grin. “Looks like our Little Flame is not so little anymore.”
Pyrok’s energy stiffens.
The male draws another deep puff, blowing a second ring of smoke into the air. “Come to play with us, have we?” He gestures to the table adorned with a Skripi spread, crystal cups of amber liquid, and wiggly stacks of gold coins gathered in piles. “You know how much I love it when you have debts to pay …”
The other three males chuckle.
I cut another glance over my shoulder, but Pyrok’s stare is pinned to the male smoking the pipe, his cheeks ablaze as he white-knuckles his flute of Moonplume’s Breath.
The tips of my fingers itch.
“Not him,” I say, whipping my head around and swaying toward the Skripi table with a pep in my step.
All the laughter snips, five pairs of eyes trailing my every move as I settle into the vacant seat, set my glass on the table, loosen the drawstring on Pyrok’s sack of gold, and empty its contents.
Gold coins puddle before me.
“Finish your game, then deal me in.”
Silence prevails while I busy my hands, stacking Pyrok’s coins into tidy piles somewhat smaller than the mounds packed before each of the leering males.
The one to my right settles his hand on my arm, and I still, looking past his mask to bold brown eyes. “Sweet thing, although I admire your enthusiasm, your tiny pile is only large enough to buy you in,” he croons, one of the octimar’s tentacles slithering out and wrapping around my gold, tugging every coin from me in a clattering commotion. “Whatever will you bet with?”
I pinch the tip of his finger, peeling it from my arm. “I’m not sweet, and I’m certainly not a thing.” I flick the male’s hand back toward his own allotment of personal space, then look to the octimar, palm up. “Buy me in with a favor owed. To each of the other players.”
“Raeve—”
Pyrok charges forward, not reaching me before the creature’s tentacle scribbles upon my skin, leaving a tickling trail.
“Fucking—Fuck!” He pelts his flute at the icy pillar, glass shattering, blue liquid seeping down the sides with a tumble of fog. His squinn is the next to sail through the air, the eggshell smashing, spraying the floor with a litter of fried treats quickly lost beneath the reconverging fog. “I need to go and find—”
“Wait,” I say, a request in my hard stare for him to stay right here.
For him to watch.
I mouth a silent please, and he stills, taking in the males now polishing off their game, the octimar cutting their winnings and gathering shards.
Lips a thin line, Pyrok clears his throat, then leans against the pillar, arms crossed as he offers me a small nod.
“So lovely of you to stay,” the male with the pipe drawls, sliding Pyrok a slimy look that makes my hackles rise. “I can’t wait to show you how real males play with pretty females who have too much confidence and not enough sense.”
I laugh, scanning my opponents from atop the fan of illustrated creatures staring back at me.
The octimar’s tentacles spear out, slicing into the stacks of gold before each of my opponents—collating a mighty, toppling sum that makes my brows rise.
Guess my favors are a rather worthy pledge.
Good for me.
“Does the pretty thing want the first roll?” another male drawls, and it’s an effort not to choke that title from his throat, wondering how he’d feel if I gave him a derogatory name that whittled him down to nothing more than a well-cut piece of meat.
“Course not.” Gaze cast on my shards, I reorder my hand. “Then you’ll contribute my win to the advantage, and we can’t have that.”
He chuckles, holding my eye contact as he picks up the crystal mug and shakes it, the contents rattling. “Your confidence is beguiling, however ill-spent,” he spits out, then tosses the dice.
Islap my Moonplume on the final stomp of shards, flashing the four seething males a smile so wide it makes my cheeks ache. “Are you all sick of me yet?”