The Rules of the Game

The air between them was thick—heavy with the weight of everything unsaid.

She was still seated at the bar, back straight, fingers clenched slightly around her glass. Zaiyo had walked away, leaving her to sit with the echo of his words.

"I could make you forget him."

Cocky bastard.

She hated him. Hated how he got under her skin. Hated how his voice still lingered in her head, deep and smooth, like the taste of expensive whiskey. Hated that for the first time in a long time, she felt something.

And now?

Now, he was across the room, back at his table, the woman from before practically melting under his gaze. His hand rested lazily on his drink, fingers tapping against the glass in slow, calculated motions. He wasn't looking at her. Not anymore.

Good.

She wouldn't look at him either.

She wouldn't.

Except she did.

Just once. Just enough to see him smirk.

Shit.

She turned away too fast, heat rushing to her face. It wasn't even embarrassment—no, it was frustration. Frustration at herself for letting him get to her.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

She had spent years mastering control. Building walls. Making sure no one—especially him—ever got close enough to matter.

And yet here she was, gripping her drink like it had personally wronged her, heartbeat drumming a little too fast.

She hated him.

And he knew it.

That's why, not even five minutes later, he was at her side again, slow and smooth like he had all the time in the world.

"You looked," he murmured.

She exhaled sharply, forcing herself to keep her expression neutral. "I didn't."

Zaiyo chuckled, low and knowing. "Lying isn't your thing, is it?"

Her fingers tightened around her glass. "You're really full of yourself, aren't you?"

He hummed, considering. "Maybe."

He leaned in slightly, his scent—woodsy, clean, devastatingly masculine—curling into her senses. "But that's not what's bothering you."

She didn't answer. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

Zaiyo tilted his head, studying her like she was something to be figured out, unraveled. "Let me guess," he murmured, voice dropping just enough to make her stomach tighten. "You're telling yourself you don't want me to be here right now."

She turned her head, meeting his gaze dead-on. "I don't want you to be here."

His smirk deepened.

"You really don't know how to lie, do you?"

His fingers brushed against the inside of her wrist, barely a touch, but her pulse betrayed her.

She hated him.

She hated that he knew exactly what he was doing.

So she did the only thing she could. She pushed back.

"Still playing games, Zaiyo?" she said, her voice smooth, sharp. "Still collecting girls like trophies?"

His eyes darkened just slightly, a flicker of amusement mixed with something else. Something more dangerous.

"Only the ones worth winning."

She scoffed. "And you think I'm one of them?"

Zaiyo didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached for her drink—her drink—and took a slow sip, eyes locked on hers the whole time.

Heat flared in her chest. The audacity.

He set the glass down, thumb dragging idly along the rim. "I don't think, princess." He leaned in just a little closer, lips nearly brushing her ear. "I know."

Her breath hitched.

For a split second—just a second—her mind blanked, and that was all the opening he needed.

"See," he murmured, voice like silk, "you could've left by now. You could've walked away, pretended I don't exist."

His hand came to rest on the bar beside hers, not quite touching, but close enough to feel.

"But you didn't."

Her nails pressed into her palm. "That doesn't mean anything."

Zaiyo exhaled a soft laugh, shaking his head like he almost pitied her. "Lying really, really isn't your thing."

She hated him.

But god, she couldn't move.

She should. She should push him away, tell him off, leave.

But she didn't.

And Zaiyo?

Zaiyo had already won.

He just hadn't decided what to do with his prize yet.