A Game of Hearts and Heists: A Steamy Lesbian Fantasy Romance (Girl Games Book 1)

There are two things I hate: playing games and Scarlett fucking Grey. I saw her this afternoon after I dropped a delivery to a client. She checked me out. The arrogance of her to think I didn’t notice. She turned her head to the bar window, but I caught her eyes in the reflection; noticed the tensing of her fingers into a fist when I didn’t give her any attention.

Her flare of irritation was perfection.

She wants to stab me as much as she wants to strangle me. It’s just unfortunate I seem to experience the same dilemma. Fury one day, furiously horny the next.

I sigh and scan my apothecary. It’s packed full of conical jars of herbs and ingredients. Shelf after shelf lined with a rainbow of ingredients, poisons, and potions. Everything lined precisely and accurately. Labels out, lids tight.

Everything in here is just so, except the back wall—also Scarlett’s fault. But before I can get annoyed, the apothecary shop door opens and a stream of amber light pours in. The room warms, wrapping afternoon heat around the shelves and poisons. I tut. The shop is cold for a reason. The herbs need a cooler room to stay fresh. This job would be the best if it weren’t for the customers.

I glance up from the journal I was reading to see a short man dressed in a butler’s uniform. He has an impressively bushy moustache and his eyebrows meet in the middle, not because he has a monobrow, but because they are that bushy. It’s distracting, and I can’t quite look him in the eye for wondering if they’ll crawl off his forehead.

“Can I… help you?” I say, forcing my eyes to meet his.

“Madam Lustra sends word of a delivery address,” he says in the poshest voice I’ve ever heard.

“I see, and where does her ladyship wish to meet?”

“The Velvet Mansion.”

I put the pen down and stare at him. He can’t possibly have said the Velvet Mansion. It’s practically a brothel or some such. I can’t go there. Not that I’m prudish. I love sex as much as the next person. But I’m a businesswoman and would rather keep business to more professional establishments.

“That’s… a joke?” I say.

“Not, in fact, a joke. You’re aware Madam Lustra owns the club?”

I wasn’t.

He continues. “She has other business in the club this evening and cannot afford the time to meet in a different location. Thus, she’s requested your presence at the Velvet Mansion.”

“But it’s a sex club.”

The butler blinks once. A long, slow blink. His eyebrows dip, wriggling like caterpillars. His face twitches. Is the posh bastard laughing at me?

“I’m not sure that’s quite the description her ladyship would use, but yes, there’s a certain sexual magic imbued in the Velvet Mansion. One for you to try, perhaps? A new Collection tattoo…?”

This time, his moustache twitches. He is laughing at me. Bastard. My blood fizzes and heats. I’ve a mind to shower him in poison and watch as he shits out his insides.

My feet shift on the spot, my lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m not sure what you’re insinuating, but I’ve no need for sex magic. I get ample, thank you. And this is a poisons apothecary.”

“I’m sure you do, dear.” He pats my hand.

Fucking pats it like I’m six-years-old. The condescending cunt.

Then he glances at his watch. “Well, I must be going. Her ladyship will see you at 9pm sharp this evening. Don’t be late.”

With that, he disappears out the door, the warmth from the setting sun vanishing with him.

“Bastard,” I growl after him. I take a deep breath, letting the air thread through my body and ease the rage. I roll my shoulders and turn back to the journal and the letter I was reading from my brother.

Dearest Sister,

I write with news. I wish I could tell you that things were getting better in the Borderlands, that things between mother and father were fixed, but I think we’re both old enough to accept that’s never going to happen. They just need to leave each other. It’s exhausting.

Father is up to something, I can feel it. There are soldiers everywhere and they’re training harder than ever. It feels like something is coming. I wish you could visit. Can you not find the time? You know father would love it. He’s… none of us have seen you for months. Plus, there’s only so much I’ll risk saying here.

Mother is as well as can be expected, though stricken with worry. I seem to have contracted some kind of flu sickness. I keep telling her it’s a cold and not to worry.

Tell me of your shop. How is business? How is that Assassin you keep battling with?

Thank you for the last care package you sent through with a Border Walker. I’d love to see you, but you know my heart is here in the Borderlands. So I’m grateful for what you send.

Yours in blood and bonds

Malachi

I scribble a short note back to him because I don’t have time to write anything longer. I have to make another delivery before meeting Madam Lustra this evening, and last time I went, the Velvet Mansion had a required dress code.

Dearest Malachi

Perhaps I could send a little more each month, but really, this is a conversation you need to have with father. He has more than enough Border Walkers under his finger. Surely he could smuggle anything you need in? I’ll see what coin I have left after I’ve paid taxes this month and if I can bundle something more useful together.

Have you any news on your voice? Did the books I sent shed any light on healing options? Or do we still think the Sanatio is the only viable solution? I’m trying to save to buy a leaf… it’s just… you have to apply, it’s not as simple as having the insane amount of coin you need. I don’t know if we’ll ever get a piece. There has to be another option. Keep looking.

In blood and bonds

Quinn x

Two years after I moved to New Imperium, my brother lost his voice in a random attack. He was sixteen. It’s a miracle he wasn’t killed. I almost moved home permanently when it happened because the damage to his voice was beyond healing. But Malachi wouldn’t hear of it. I was only an apprentice then. I had no chance of helping in any useful way, but I went back temporarily to try. Eventually, he started studying and writing spell work. One of the first things he did was spell this journal. He has an identical one in the Borderlands, and it’s the only way we can communicate. The journal is everything to me, especially since I see less of him than I’m happy about. I tuck the journal inside its pouch and into a chest box and lock it under the counter.

The shop door tinkles, and a young man with skittish eyes enters. He’s wearing grey magician training robes and has that puppy face expression despite his gangly height. Probably a new apprentice.

“I umm. I have a rash.”

Gods.

These young apprentices keep shagging each other senseless. Then they spread these hideous genital rashes and diseases derived from sex magic. Notoriously tricky to get rid of and rather painful, so I hear.

Not that I’d know. I don’t sleep around… Or at least, I haven’t been since… well, anyway. The Assassin and I have only slept together a few times, and each of those was a mistake. I simply got carried away with trying to kill her and instead we…

I don’t want to think about it.

It won’t happen again.

The young man’s hand slips to his groin and he scratches. My top lip twitches. I have to physically restrain the grimace.

“Middle shelf on the left, blue bottle. Three pills twice a day. You’ll want to stay off work the first day you take the medicine. It induces an intense headache and you’ll have a raging boner for at least thirty-six hours.”

He pales, his sharp Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“Th-thanks.” He picks up a vial and any remaining blood in his face pools to his feet as he cops an eyeful of the price.

Yes, well. What did he expect? He’s come to the best apothecary in town. I’m expensive, darling. Just the way I like it.

He reaches into his pocket, drops the cash on the counter and vanishes. The round coin reminds me of the hole in the back wall display.

The rear wall has a neat arrangement of knives, swords, and blades. It’s one part decor, poisons and blades go so well together. And the other part is because I often trade to Assassins. Well, the ones whose business I’m not stealing, anyway.

I purse my lips. There’s a gap in the middle of the display. Fucking Scarlett Grey. She stole a blade from me the first time she fucked me. But this particular blade was from my father. It has a stone in the hilt that matches a ring he wears. He gave it to me because he said one day his empire would be mine. It means a lot to me. And she stole it.

I pull a few bottles off various shelves and pull a pestle and mortar close. I pour ingredients in, mixing and grinding harder than necessary, trying to grind out thoughts of Scarlett.

Eventually, I find my rhythm. I could do this blindfolded now. Honestly, I’m tired. I want something exciting instead of this daily monotony.

New Imperium is filled with royals, duchesses, baronesses and the elite high magicians. All of them equally bored with their lives and husbands. Only instead of getting a divorce, they’d rather off their spouses—and not get caught so they can claim their fortunes. And that’s where I come in. As gifted as my brother is with spell work, I am gifted with mixing untraceable poisons. Which is exactly what I do out of hours, and I get paid a pretty penny for it too. The apothecary is a front now, although it didn’t start that way. Most of my money comes from the poisons.

But, gods, I’m bored.

The same poison, day after day.

The same requests.

The same housewives travelling from different realms to acquire my specialty. I used to be creative. Used to have to use my brain to think and create. Figure out problems, solve medical issues.

Now it’s poison after poison.

I finish mixing the solution and decant it into two bottles. I turn off the shop lights, check the journal once more before I leave, and lock the shop up. The sun has set. The evening air is still warm, though. It wraps around me like hot fingers and caresses.

The streets are already busy, the clubs and mansions opening for evening business. Before the realm tore in two, this city was an academic institution. Now it’s a debauch pit of desire and lust. Such a shame. I wanted to study here for as long as I can remember, and sure, I got the education I wanted, but… it feels… less.

I walk through the tight streets heading outward towards the suburbs. I drop the first vial in a public locker and then head home. I shower and shovel leftover chicken and rice. It’s dry and tasteless, but it’s food. Then I open my wardrobe.

“Fuck.”

I have nothing to wear. There is literally only one dress that isn’t summery in my wardrobe, and it doesn’t even belong to me. It belongs to Tessa, my ex. I swear she left it here to irritate me at this very moment.

“I cannot believe I am going to do this.”

I snatch the black dress out of the cupboard and shrug off my shop uniform. I pull the skin-tight cloth on and glance in the mirror.

It’s obscene. There’s a booster bra inside, so my tits are bulging out of the top. The back plunges so low you can practically see the top of my arse, and although it’s a floor length dress, there’s a slit to my hip. High enough, I can’t wear underwear.

“Fucking Tessa. Why couldn’t you have left something more demure?”

My curves are in full force today. I mean… I do quite like the fact I’m curvy, and tonight I’m seriously curvaceous. Especially because although I’m short, the slit makes my legs look long. I decide I’m pretty enough for a pair of heels. My ribs bear the Collection tattoos I’ve earned from all my studies. They’re as bright as the day I got them. I run my fingers over them, remembering the hot sting from the Collector’s tattoo gun, the strings of pearlescent magic flowing from the medical mansion walls and floor. Threads of magic poured into the gun, and subsequently, into my body. Each one pulsing and throbbing, filling me with power. When the horticultural castle collected me, its magic had a green tinge to it, never seen anything like it since. I think that was my favourite rite; it was midnight, a full moon. I got collected in the courtyard, so that the building and gardens could pour magic into the tattoo.

The clock in the corner chimes one, signalling a quarter after the hour. I need to hurry. I pull my curls up into a messy top knot and allow a couple of strands to hang free. A smear of mascara and the job is done. I catch sight of myself and tut. What am I thinking? I’m a professional on a job. I’m only going to be in the club for a few minutes. This all feels ridiculous.

I peer at the clock. Too late now, it’s 8:30pm already.

I grab the vial of poison and shove it down the side of the push-up bra and slip a small blade into the other cup. You’re not really allowed weapons in the Velvet Mansion. You’re not allowed them in any of the clubs in New Imperium—they’re pretty strict about it. Too much unfiltered magic, The Tearing ruined so many things. But looking the way I do, I want the protection, so I’m taking it, anyway.

This is all completely ridiculous if you ask me. But what madam wants, madam gets. She’s paying enough to cover my rent for three months. Who am I to quibble over the when and where’s of exchange?

Twenty minutes later, I’m pulling up outside the mansion and stepping out of the carriage.

I give the driver a coin tip and pet behind the horse’s ear before hobbling up to the mansion door. Shouldn’t have worn the heels. They might make my legs look great, but my feet already hurt.

To my surprise, I’m ushered to the front of the queue, but then the bouncer is an old client. I helped cure his nan of a nasty rash. And yes, it was that kind of rash, good for her, still shagging at her age. While poisons are my specialty, most of the medical magicians are useless in New Imperium, so I’ve ended up with half their trade as well as the Assassins’. I guess I have to do everyone’s jobs now.

“Thanks, Jack.”

“Welcome. Will you be requesting mansion magic this evening? The Collector is on a break currently and restarting bondings in half an hour.”

“No, that’s fine, thank you. I’m here to meet a friend.”

“Have fun,” Jack says, and then his eyes drop to my cleavage and bounce right back up, a hint of pink on his cheeks.

Bless.

Unfortunately for him, cock only ever does it for me if it’s strapped to a set of tits.

The woman at the front gives me a violent stare. I give her a ‘go fuck yourself, peasant’ sneer and enter the mansion.

As I step over the threshold, my body compresses. A fleeting squeeze of the mansion’s magic. It’s the same in all magical buildings. Only, here, the pressure isolates on my breasts and pussy. I suck in a breath as the pressure stimulates my clit. A heady scent assaults my nose. It tingles with sandalwood and burnt oak and a smidge of spicy clove. Gods, the mansion is on one tonight. As soon as I think it, the club door swings in and slaps me on the arse.

I whip around and glare at it.

“Fucking cheeky house.” I rub my ass as the door swings open, a creak in its hinges that sound suspiciously like a chuckle. I shake my head and move down the corridor. The hallway is dim. The walls are deep maroon and black, a filigree wallpaper that’s velvety under my fingertips. I step down into the club. There’s leather Chesterfield booth furniture around the edge of the main club room. The walls are all black velvet, plush and thick enough I’d like to rub my fingers down them. On the right, is the bar which is rammed three people deep. Great, no drink for me then. To the left is a giant black glass box with a sign saying ‘PRISON’. Weird. But the bulk of the club is made up of the dance floor and multiple poles with girls and boys dancing… and… right.

Also fucking, it seems.

One girl has her nipple pierced and is wearing lace panties. She flings her legs open into a split as another woman kneels between her thighs and swipes her tongue over the flesh.

I’m instantly wet. And I’m not wearing knickers thanks to Tessa.

Fucksake.

The woman doing the splits lifts herself up and twists upside down on the pole. I have to swallow down the rush of heat that throbs into my core as she slides her cunt down the pole.

On another podium, one man has his hand wrapped around another man’s cock, both of them pumping in rhythmic motions.

The dance floor is more of the same. There are people thrusting and grinding up against each other, some wearing clothes, others with scarcely a nipple covered.

One man? Woman? One person has a gimp mask on and latex suit. They’re being led by a collar and chain on their hands and knees by a woman in heels high enough they make my feet ache. There’s flesh everywhere: women fucking women, men fucking men, men and women fucking. I walk past a couple, a woman with her hand poised to touch her partner’s cock. “What’s your safe word?” she says, her fingertips millimetres from his hard flesh.

I don’t catch the word. I move past them and leave them to play in peace.

On the opposite side of the bar is a DJ booth, and behind I can just about make out glass rooms with more dancers and poles. Chains hang from the ceilings, along with cuffs, whips, and an assortment of other devices.

I resign myself to queuing and head towards the bar. If nothing else, my feet will thank me for drinking down a few wines before I find Madam Lustra.

My neck prickles like I’m being watched. I squint into the smokey darkness but see no one. As I reach the end of the queue, I spot Madam Lustra. She’s wearing a tight corset and skirt, only the skirt doesn’t have a front. She’s displaying fishnet tights and… that’s it.

“Mother of—” I force my eyes up and away from her very bald vagina.

“Quinn Adams, good evening,” she says.

I nod because I’m not quite ready to say anything else. Too busy trying to peel the image of her exposed lips out of my memory.

“Do you have my package?” she says.

I nod again, clear my throat and take a step closer. “Care to dance?”

She takes my hand and leads me to the dance floor. There are bodies everywhere, pressing against us. Skin, sweat. Now that I’m on the dance floor, I notice the threads of magic. They flow from the mansion walls, up from the floor. Silver and gold glistening ribbons, woven subtly enough between the smoke that if you’re not paying attention, you’ll miss them.

The threads wriggle around the bodies, weaving and flowing over limbs and flesh as the mansion chooses magicians to bestow its gifts upon.

Madam Lustra is older than me. In fact, she’s probably old enough to be my mother. But despite the fact she’s in her late fifties, she looks incredible. She has the skin of wealth. Wrinkle free and slightly too taut, as if it’s less flesh and more decades of cream and potion layers. Her eyes have that ocean-deep look that tells you she’s holding a thousand secrets. The secrets of her club goers, no doubt. She grabs my hands and pulls me into a spin. My back presses against her chest. My arm and neck prickles again, goosebumps crawling up my skin. Someone is definitely watching me, I know it. But when I scan the room, I can’t see anything through the haze of dance floor smoke and laser lighting.

“When I spin you around, slip it to me,” Madam Lustra says.

As she twirls me I grip her neck. Her bottom lip drops and she inhales as I slide my other hand out of hers, into my bra and across to her hip. I pull her close. She cups her fingers over mine and the vial passes between us.

We step apart. Her eyes glint under the dance floor lights. She curtseys as a silver shimmer floats up from the ground and flows through her. I move to pull away, but it’s too late. She grabs my hand and kisses my knuckles. Her lips are smooth, a ripple of strawberry and wood smoke filter under my nose, a kiss laced with magic.

Fuck.

I sigh, my inhibitions already shedding like snake skins as my veins pulse with the heat of her kiss. A tingly need moves to my groin. Maybe I don’t have to leave in such a rush. A couple more drinks won’t hurt.

“There’s a parcel for you behind the bar. And should you care to dance later, I’ll be around.” She smiles. It sets those secrets in her gaze on fire. She’s stunning. But not my type. I prefer the more commanding girl—a girl with weapons in her hands and murder in her heart.

No surprise that I find myself eyeing the Assassin academy every time I pass it. Who doesn’t like watching the girls flinging giant swords around and wrestling each other to the ground? Though I swear ninety percent of the reason I stare is because I’m hunting for Scarlett fucking Grey and hoping I get to watch as one of the apprentices shoves a blade between her ribs.

I head to the bar and nudge my way to the head of the queue. I’ll grab my package and—

I’m shoved against the bar as a tall, slender woman wearing an extremely tailored suit inserts herself next to me. Her back is to me, and she leans into the woman next to her.

Fucking rude.

Normally I’d let it go. Normally. But tonight, fuelled by Lustra’s kiss and the fucking mansion’s magic, I decide this queue-jumping wench needs to go fuck herself.

“ER, EXCUSE ME,” I bellow over the music and grab her—

Oh.

“You,” I spit. Rage instantly pouring into my chest.

You, I think, and as fast as the rage flows, so too does the hunger. Hot, needy, throbbing.

“Quinn,” her eyes glimmer.

“Scarlett. Fucking. Grey.”