Badass in Disguise (Shadow) novel Chapter 278

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Chapter 278

The female guest serving as our neutral dealer took the cards with trembling fingers. The crowd around our table had grown larger, drawn by the sight of Hunter’s blood–stained handkerchief wrapped around his forearm. Her eyes darted nervously between Hunter’s rage–filled face and my impassive expression as she shuffled the deck.

The woman’s hands shook visibly as she dealt the cards. Hunter had forced his date Cynthia back into the chair across from me. He gripped her shoulder with enough force to make her wince, his fingers digging into the bare skin exposed by her evening gown.

“Play,” he hissed into her ear.

Cynthia reluctantly accepted her cards: a ten of diamonds and a four of clubs. Fourteen points. Her mascara had smudged beneath her eyes, leaving dark shadows that matched the fear in her gaze.

“Hit or stay?” the dealer asked, her voice barely audible.

Cynthia hesitated, looking up at Hunter. He nodded sharply, his jaw clenched.

“Hit,” she whispered.

The dealer slid another card across the table. Nine of clubs. Twenty–three. Bust.

“Fuck!” Hunter shouted, clutching his injured arm. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool air of the ballroom. “Show your cards,” he demanded, glaring at me.

I flipped over my cards without changing my expression. Ace of spades. King of hearts. Perfect blackjack. Twenty–one.

The crowd gasped collectively. Hunter’s face contorted with rage, veins bulging at his temples. His breathing became rapid and shallow, the kind of hyperventilation that precedes violence. The elegant guests nearest to our table stepped back instinctively, sensing the impending eruption.

He suddenly grabbed a silver dinner knife from a nearby table and, before anyone could stop him, plunged it into his thigh.

Several women screamed. A man in a military uniform stepped forward but stopped when Night raised his hand slightly. Blood immediately soaked through Hunter’s expensive tailored pants, the dark stain spreading rapidly against the light gray fabric.

“Another round,” Hunter growled, shoving Cynthia so hard she nearly fell from her chair. “I’ll play myself this time.”

I gathered the cards and handed them back to the dealer, my fingers brushing against hers deliberately, offering silent reassurance. “Would you like to continue with Blackjack?” I asked, my voice steady as if I were merely asking about the weather rather than watching a man stab himself twice in the span of five minutes.

–

“Yes,” Hunter spat, pushing Cynthia aside. She stumbled backward, caught by a concerned guest who guided her away. Hunter took her seat, his face pale but determined, a maniacal gleam in his eyes. The blood loss was beginning to affect him his movements were becoming jerky, and a sheen of sweat covered his forehead despite the room’s perfect temperature.

The dealer, visibly disturbed, dealt two cards each. Hunter picked up his cards carefully, his movements deliberate despite the blood seeping from his leg. A smile spread across his face as he examined his hand.

“Twenty,” he announced triumphantly, flipping over a ten of diamonds and a jack of spades. “Almost unbeatable.” He raised his champagne glass in a mock toast, the golden liquid sloshing over the rim as his hand trembled slightly.

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Night moved to turn over my cards, but I shook my head slightly. Chris also reached forward, but I stopped him with a subtle gesture.

1 examined my cards without revealing any emotion.

‘Show your cards, Hunter demanded impatiently, reaching across to flip them himself, desperation evident in his bloodshot eyes.

Ace of hearts. Ten of hearts. Another perfect blackjack.

The ballroom erupted in murmurs. Two blackjacks in a row. The odds were astronomical. Glasses froze midway to lips, conversations halted mid–sentence, and all eyes focused on our table.

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Hunter stood up so quickly his chair toppled backward with a loud crash against the marble floor. “She’s cheating!” he shouted, pointing a trembling finger at me. “Nobody gets blackjack twice in a row!”

Night laughed, the sound cutting through the tension. “The cards were dealt by a neutral party, and you turned them over yourself. How exactly would she cheat?”

A middle–aged man in an expensive suit–presumably our host–approached cautiously. “Mr. Whitmore, perhaps we should tend to your injuries. This game has become… excessive.” His eyes darted nervously between Hunter’s bleeding leg and the growing audience of horrified yet fascinated guests.

“Mr. Whitmore isn’t a sore loser,” Night remarked, sipping his champagne with casual elegance. “He’s already stabbed himself twice. What’s one more? Or I wonder how his reputation in Russia will hold up after this display.”

Hunter’s eyes darted around the room, taking in the staring faces of Moscow’s elite. With a sudden movement, he grabbed a fruit knife from a dessert tray and drove it into his other thigh. Blood immediately soaked through the fabric, but he seemed beyond feeling pain now, his face locked in a rictus of fury and humiliation.

He jabbed the bloody knife into a pastry on the table and fixed us with a venomous stare. “You’ll regret this,” he snarled, his voice low and threatening. “All of you.”

Two men in dark suits–his security detail–rushed forward to support him as he limped away, leaving a trail of blood droplets on the polished marble floor.

As the crowd dispersed into clusters of excited conversation, Night, Chris, and I moved to a quiet corner of the ballroom.

“That was entertaining,” Night chuckled, loosening his tie. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a card–the king of hearts I’d supposedly been dealt.

Chris smiled despite his still–healing wrists, producing his own card–the ace of hearts. “Sleight of hand never fails.” He twirled the card between his fingers, the motion fluid despite his injuries.

I held up the real cards I’d kept hidden: a six of clubs and a four of diamonds. “He never stood a chance.” The three of us had orchestrated the swap during that brief moment when they’d both reached for my cards.

Night’s phone appeared in his hand, and he showed me the screen. “Got some excellent shots of you. You look positively glacial.” The photos showed me at the blackjack table, face impassive as Hunter raged, blood dripping onto the pristine tablecloth.

‘Send them to me,” I said.

“Already done.” Night’s smile widened. “I have a collection of your photos saved on my phone. Want me to send those too? For nostalgia’s

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Chapter 278

sake?”

“Yes,” I replied simply. Zach would enjoy seeing those.

I pulled my phone from my clutch and checked my messages. Night had indeed sent several photos. I selected one where I looked particularly unbothered while Hunter was mid–tantrum and sent it to Ethan Haxton.

Immediately after sending it, I had second thoughts and tried to recall the message.

A reply came instantly.

Ethan: Saved it before you could take it back. You look stunning. And dangerous.

Ethan: More photos?

I selected three more and sent them without overthinking.

Ethan: At a party?

Jade: Yes. Russian Deputy Prime Minister’s anniversary.

Ethan: With Jensen and Night?

Jade: Yes.

There was a pause before his next message arrived.

Ethan: Have fun.

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