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

“Wake them,” I mouth. “Keep them quiet.”

They’re here.

I know it. I can’t see the militia, but I can sense them. The Assassin master used to call it our knowing. It’s how he could tell the High Assassins from the mediocre. He said I was born with a knowing that was unparalleled. Too bad they stripped me of my Collection tattoos. Sure, I have my residual talent left, but it’s nothing like it was.

My arms tingle. A crawling sensation that’s creeping over my skin like silk and thorns. I know they’re watching. I just need to find them.

I’m at the edge of the dome with a decision to make. Step out, risk being attacked. Stay inside and leave us sitting ducks.

I pull Chance out, rub her ridged edges, the gilded words.

“Don’t fail me.” I flick her up. She slams down and I drop her onto the back of my palm.

Yes.

She confirms what I already know: I can’t stay put. It’s the bigger risk. I need to break the dome and go on the offensive. If the militia are here, they’ve figured out we are here too. The only tactical move I have is to get out and get ahead of them. I crawl out of camp and sit just far enough out of the way I can reach the team, but I’m hidden from the militia, tucked under a shrub, camouflaged by leaves and forest detritus.

This is the dangerous part, using the team as bait. But it’s the best tactical move, draw the militia in and slaughter them all. Quinn is the first to realise I’m gone. Her face splits. Terror widens her eyes.

I’d never leave you, Quinn. Have faith in me.

Quinn starts, but only makes it a few paces before Stirling grabs her arm, fury drawing lines in her face.

“I need a piss,” Quinn snaps, shucking Stirling off.

Stirling raises her arms. “Fine, but don’t go looking for Scarlett. She knows what she’s doing.”

They’re being too loud. Far louder than they should be given the circumstances. Which means Stirling must have caught on to what I’m doing. She knows they’re the bait. So why be quiet?

Stirling grabs Quinn’s hand and pushes it onto the hilt of Quinn’s blade. Quinn nods, and then says far too loud, “Won’t be long.”

She parts from the group, and my breathing shallows. Adrenaline shoots through my system, making my muscles tighten. I know she can look after herself, but I’m not rational when it comes to Quinn. I want to leave, to run to her side and slay anyone that comes near. But if I do that, we lose our tactical advantage. I have to believe that she will handle herself. Hell, she’s put me down enough times.

I hesitate.

But Stirling turns out to the woods, staring off into the distance. Looking for me, I suspect. She flicks her head in Quinn’s direction, draws a knife and stashes it up her sleeve. Morrigan comes into view now, rubs her hands and stretches her fingers. Remy and Jacob draw their own weapons. They turn their backs on each other, each one facing a different direction, forming an inverted circle.

Makes sense. There’s more of them. They protect the kit; I protect the girl.

I skirt around the edge of our camp, careful not to snap any twigs, to keep my feet light and my wits sharp. I stay low to stop my figure from breaking up the shrubs on the forest floor.

When I reach Quinn, she really is peeing.

Gods, woman.

She’s crouched down, her knickers round her ankles, a stream of water flooding the forest floor. I look away, trying to give her privacy, seeing as she doesn’t know I’m here. The stream of water stops, there’s a rustling and then…

Quinn gasps.

My body tenses. My vision tunnels and focuses. She’s standing. A man holding a blade to her throat.

I lift my chin and flex my fingers around my Katana. A familiar calmness weaves through my mind, fire and flames stitching into my muscles.

The knife at Quinn’s neck is at least five inches long, sharp too. I can see that from here. Quinn’s jaw is hard, her eyes burn the same fury stitched into mine. She’s not afraid. She wants blood.

“Move,” he barks.

My chest shudders under the pressure of suppressing my breathing and the adrenaline coursing through me.

He moves her towards the group. Two more figures appear from behind trees and surround the group. There’s a clink and grind of metal, leaving a sheaf, and then six more bodies join the militia. We’re outnumbered.

But I take a minute to assess. Although clothed, all of them are edges and points, clothes hanging off boney shoulders and hips. Their cheeks are hollow, eyes filled with haunted shadows.

They’re not dangerous because of their numbers, they’re dangerous because they’re desperate.

That makes them unpredictable.

The man holding Quinn is directly in front of me now. The fool didn’t bother checking his surroundings.

There might be more of them, but they’re not strategic. We can win this. The man holding Quinn hasn’t noticed me.

“The rucksacks,” he growls. “Give them over like a good little girl, and you don’t have to die.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Stirling says.

The man holding Quinn sniffs out a laugh. “Ballsy little cunt, aren’t you? You really willing to risk this little bitch’s life for a poxy rucksack?”

He pulls the blade tighter up Quinn’s throat, and she inhales sharply. My teeth grit. This is it.

I inch my way out.

Directly behind him.

Silent, swift.

He dies now.

I hold my sword to his neck vertebrae. “You touch her again, motherfucker, you die.”

He stiffens and the rest of his group twitch. All of them noticing me for the first time.

“Pat, mate…” one of them says. “Easy lad.”

Pat spits on the ground, and his hand jerks, nicking Quinn’s neck.

Oh, that was silly.

I slam the palm of my hand on the hilt of the sword. It slices through skin and cartilage right to Pat, here’s, spinal cord.

He goes rigid, standing bolt upright. You’d compliment the posture if it weren’t for the fact he was a dead man standing.

I rip out the sword and a fountain of claret sprays my face, my nose filling with the sweet tang of iron. Gods, I’ve missed killing.

I smile, look up at the rest of the militia, my eyes darkening as Pat falls and thuds to the forest floor.

Quinn swipes her fingers over her neck, smearing the blood.

“Cunt,” she screams and kicks his body, spitting on the carcass.

I crick my neck, left, right. Roll out my shoulders.

The remaining militia freeze. Their leader lying motionless on the floor, no one sure of the next move.

But I am. It’s playtime.

“Stay down, Quinn,” I say.

“Fuck that,” she snarls, and something inside of her snaps. She draws out a blade, kicks him hard in the face, and then sinks the blade into his chest. She yanks it out, screaming obscenities.

Over and over she plunges the blade hilt deep into his chest.

They say that love happens slowly.

That falling is really the slow knitting and meshing of souls and lives. Of heart beats finding a rhythm to share for eternity.

But in this moment, right here, as Quinn reaches for her raw power, her inner rage. As she shows me exactly who she is, the darkness in her soul, I know I’d lay down and die for her.

I’d cut open my chest and deliver my dripping heart in open hands.

My soul yearns to feel her rage, to let her take me and make me bleed for her. I need to taste her fury, to drink it, devour it.

Falling in love doesn’t happen slowly, it happens in moments of clarity and revelation. In fleeting sparks of action and displays of our true selves.

It happened right there.

At the same moment, the forest erupted in an explosion of metal clashing on metal. A crescendo of violence tearing through the night.

The team leaps out, swords swiping and jabbing. Bolts of pearlescent magic slamming into bodies and trunks, splinters of bark filling the air.

Jacob lunges for one of the militia, Remy at his back veering the other way. Jacob delivers a vicious sword through the man’s neck. There’s no time for me to stand and admire the team. Three men charge at Quinn.

I drop, swiping a leg out, knocking one instantly to the floor. I whip out a second blade, plunge it into his chest as I raise my longer blade to block a blow driving down on me.

The clang and ricocheting tings of blades a melody of death sung for the forest. Iron fills the air, bitter, sweet and delicious.

My favorite.

The smell of victory.

The smell of grit and power.

The smell of games won and lost.

I glance up. I’ve been separated from Quinn. Shit.

She throws her arms out. Blocks a brutal lashing. Her legs are trembling, the rage from the attack subsiding, leaving her exhausted. She won’t be able to keep him off for long. Fights like these aren’t about strength, but stamina. How long can you push through the baking heat in your muscles, the charring exhaustion that rips through arms and thighs?

The man now attacking Quinn feints left and drops a savage punch to her gut. I’m up, my legs powering me across the shrubs. I jump, kick, and land a savage metal-toed boot to the temple. He drops to the floor unconscious, but not before the arm he’s swinging slices through my bicep.

I hiss. Blades always hurt, but this is nothing compared to some of my wounds. I reach down and help Quinn up. She’s coughing and red-cheeked, but she’s okay.

She bats me off and pants, “Help the others.”

The mossy forest floor is splattered in red. Morrigan has a man levitated in front of her, his face swollen and purple. Pearlescent ropes hang him by the throat. His veins bulge and darken, his eyes bloat, and then, nothing. He hangs limp.

Satisfied, Morrigan drops him to the floor, joining his comrades in death.

The six of us stand in silence, save for the heavy breathing. Each of us smeared in moss and dirt, blood and sweat.

“We good?” I say, eyeing each one of them.

“I’m good, minor cuts, but I’ll live.” Jacob nods and wipes his face. “How the fuck do you move that fast?”

“I guess I was born this good,” I grin. It’s total bullshit, of course. I mean, yes, I’ve always had a natural affinity for Assassin skills. But equally, I still have some residual Assassin magic, much to the guild’s irritation. They can remove the Collection tattoos, but they can never truly sever the connection. Not once a house has chosen you. Not once it’s accepted you. Unless you piss the house off, that is. But that’s a whole other barrel of problems.

“Remy, you okay?”

She nods and stretches her arm out. “Twinged something in my back, few bruises, but I’m okay.”

“I’m fine,” Morrigan adds.

And Stirling gives me a thumbs up. We gather our kit, Quinn patches up Remy’s cuts and then the slash on my bicep while Jacob, Morrigan and Stirling haul the bodies into a pile. Morrigan draws flames up from the earth and sets light to them. Remy creates a boundary around the bodies so the flames won’t spread to the trees, and we leave them burning.

When the team is ready, only Quinn remains standing by the fire. I take her hand, and she jumps.

“You okay?” I say.

“Yes, sorry. It’s…” Her eyes fall to the face of the man closest to us.

“I… I knew him.”

I frown. “Pardon?”

“That man there.” She points at his face as it’s swallowed by orange flickers. “He was… well, he worked with my family a long time ago. I knew him, not very well. But I didn’t expect he would turn and become militia. It’s unexpected, is all.”

We move through the forest in silence. Everyone lost in their own thoughts. The reality of the mission we’ve taken on sinking in. Dawn drifts in the air, the faintest hint of warmth chomping at the icy night. The canopy above us mottles, beams of soft light drifting through, shining on undergrowth and shrubs. Illuminating the mess we’ve made of our clothes and faces.

After two hours, as we reach the edge of the Never Woods and the trees grow sparser, the gaps longer between the leafy arms of giants, morning light hits our faces as Jacob speaks.

“Can we clean up?”

Everyone mumbles agreement.

“There’s a lake off the main road about five hundred meters from the entrance to the forest. I saw it when I was appraising the exit routes. If it’s still there, and not toxic, then we should be able to use the water with no problems,” Stirling says.

“I can check the water toxicity,” Morrigan says. “I studied in a botany mansion for a while. With a bit of luck, I should be able to parse out most toxins.”

We move in a slow grinding thud, thud, thud. The silence is still thick between us. When we break through the forest and onto tarmac, the team visibly sags. As if the density of the forest was suffocating, as if smoke and death clung to the leaves and shrubs. And now that we’re out, we can finally breathe.

“I’ve never killed anyone,” Remy suddenly says as we cross the road and head down an empty street. “I’ve robbed mansions, stolen magic, drained dying castles. But I’ve never actually…”

“It gets easier,” I say, and rub her shoulder. “It was them or you. Were you willing to die for them?”

“Never.” Her eyes are fierce. “If I die for a cause, it will be a noble one. One of my choosing.”

I squeeze her shoulder again. I feel that drive deep in my soul, the grinding yearn to live a noble life, fight for a worthy death. I realise how far we’ve come. The fact the first time I met Remy, I genuinely considered slicing her throat in her sleep. I don’t wear jealousy well. Never have.

“The raw horror of this morning will fade. Whether you let what you did define you is up to you.”

She gives me a weak smile, and we continue in silence. As we near the lake’s shore, the bulbous grey clouds open, and rain splatters the surface, dappling it with pretty round rings. Somewhere in the distance, lightning flashes and the sky roars an angry song.

Morrigan’s hands hover over the water. She bends and contorts her fingers into strange shapes, pearlescent ribbons lancing the surface and powering through the lake.

A few moments later, she smiles. “Bath time, ladies.”

“And gentleman,” Jacob protests.

Remy, Morrigan and Jacob strip fast, throwing their clothes in a giant pile and running into the water. Their gasps and shrieks rip through the morning air.

Quinn undresses more slowly, her hands and legs shaking as she attempts to peel off her blood spattered clothes. When I can’t stand the sight of her pitiful body trembling any longer, I tut, and make my way across the mud.

I hold out my hand. She hesitates, but accepts, her fingers curling around my palm. The soft pressure as she uses me as a counterbalance. I hold her steady as she pulls off a boot, but then she fumbles with the buckle of her belt, her fingers too unsteady to detach it.

“Stop. Just stop. Let me help.”

“I’m exhausted, and it’s freezing.”

“I know, it’s okay,” I say and help her out of her trousers.

When she’s in her underwear, she mumbles, “Thanks.” And then heads to the shore and tiptoes in.

Stirling’s at my shoulder. There’s a heaviness in the way she breathes. Gods, I know what’s coming. I step forward. I’ll get in the water fully clothed before I have this conversation.

“Don’t. Even. Think. About. It. Sister. You’ve given up the game, then?” Stirling says, as her nails dig into my shoulder and drag me back. Her voice is low although the others are too far out to hear anyway. They’ve drifted further into the lake and are throwing a soap bar between them.

“Yes, no more games.”

“So you’ve told her how you feel?”

I toe the ground. “Not exactly.”

Stirling sighs.

“What do you want me to say? I don’t have all the answers.”

“Well, you better find some, because what happens when our titles are reinstated and you’re drawn back into the guild? How will you run your business and hers without some kind of territory war?”

I open my mouth to answer. But I don’t have any. So I shut it again. I don’t want to hear this; I don’t want to hear any of it.

“Leave it, Stirling. We don’t even know if we will make it out of here alive. Let’s concentrate on the fucking task at hand, shall we?” I glare at her and rip off my top, boots, and trousers and jog into the freezing water.

“Mother of fuck,” I hiss as I drop my waist and shoulders into the frigid water. “It’s so cold I’m pretty sure my pussy just shrivelled itself into celibacy.”

Remy erupts, laughing so hard she kicks her head back. Jacob, too, as he wipes a tear from his eye. I glare at them. It’s not even slightly funny.

“Payback for the plunge pool,” Jacob wheezes.

Morrigan, bless her sweet soul, is the only one decent enough to throw me the soap.

Quinn, still quiet, still lost in what happened, I suspect, trudges back out of the water. She doesn’t meet my gaze, and I lean toward her, wanting to go to her, to wrap my arms around her hurt soul and pull her in. Tell her it’s going to be okay. That we’re going to get through this. It breaks me seeing her look like this. Seeing her shrink into herself.

A few weeks ago, I’d have loved it. Knowing something I—or anyone—had done had pushed her into a pit. I’d have lauded it over her, one nil to me. I knead my temples. I don’t know how to do this version of us.

It—us—we were always meant to be a game. Meant to fuck each other as much as we fucked each other over. When the hell did we get to caring how the other felt?

I wash the rest of the blood off my hands and sink my face into the icy water. When I surface, I realise I’m the last one left. So I get out and dress as fast as I can.

We wander through the city, hour after hour of deserted streets, broken buildings and desolation. Miles upon miles of abandoned city.

“What happened here?” I don’t realise I’ve said the words out loud until Quinn responds.

“The Tearing was bad. As the ground and buildings shook, there were physical places ripped instantly in half. The places worst affected, we left. Too many ghosts, death in every corner.”

Street after street is derelict. Buildings crumbled into piles of ash and dirt. Others remain partially standing or with holes and gouges in the sides. Streets littered with the aftermath of years of decay. Broken bricks, metal, abandoned toys half rotten in the road. We pass another street and a dolly lays death-still on the path, neglected, like the arm hanging off it.

I shudder. It’s a war zone, only no war ever happened. For a split second, I understand what the Border Lord did, why he was pushed to take such drastic measures.

“How many died?” I ask.

Quinn’s voice is barely above a whisper. “Thousands. Ten. Twenty? The shaking lasted for three days. The weather never quite returned to normal. We have vicious storms here, snow that falls eight feet high. Sun that burns the tarmac and scorches skin until it blisters.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. And for the first time, I really mean it. “The Border Lord… I don’t condone everything he’s done. But I understand why.”

Quinn nods, her face solemn. “He was trying to keep his people alive.”

Hours pass. We walk through miles of abandoned streets. The rain continues to pour, thunder booms, echoing around the empty streets, and lightning tears the sky apart. Quinn explains that the majority of the city is empty save for a few industrial buildings they continued to use to help manufacture what they needed to live. Most of those left living here moved into the centre of the city, claiming homes that were vacated during The Tearing.

Stirling pulls us to a stop late in the afternoon.

“We should make camp. Tonight is the last night before we attempt the palace. We should eat and try to sleep as much as we can. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

She studies the map for a while longer and then folds it away and heads off. A few minutes later, we pull into another deserted street. I’ve seen so many I can’t tell the difference anymore. They all look identical.

She peers into the window of what looks like it used to be a cottage and smears dirt off the glass.

“It’s empty,” Quinn says. “They all are.”

“Just being safe,” Stirling answers, squinting through the dirt. She jimmies the door, and after a moment, it creaks and groans, but with a shove, opens. The door frame is matted with cobwebs. Stirling visibly shudders as she wipes the sticky white threads away and pushes the door open for the rest of us.

The house smells musty. Like ancient paper and earth. There’s a rotten L-shaped sofa on one side of the room and a door to a kitchen on the right.

Stirling and Remy are marching in and out of each room checking for Gods knows what. The only thing we’ll find in here are skeletons and shadows.

When they’re satisfied, they reappear. “There’s one bed in the back room and the sofa. Two can use the bed, two on the sofa, and the other two take sentry duty,” Remy says.

Stirling has bags under her eyes. I hadn’t realised how tired she’d gotten as scout. But now we’ve stopped, the toll is obvious.

“You and Stirling sleep first,” I say. “Morrigan and Jacob, you’re on the sofa. Quinn and I will swap out after a few hours.”

Stirling doesn’t even attempt to protest. She nods and vanishes into the back room, followed by Remy.

Quinn and I busy ourselves in the kitchen. Nothing works, but Morrigan creates a false gas hob, using the original oven and some elemental fire magic. Jacob cooks up some supplies of chicken broth and tea—he’s taken on the mantle of keeping us fed. Most of his work won’t happen until we leave him and enter the palace. I guess he wanted to be useful.

When it’s time, I wake Stirling and Remy and show them the broth, which, thanks to Morrigan, is still warm for them. Despite the food, or maybe because of it, exhaustion has eaten into my bones. Quinn looks as wrecked as I feel, and the two of us make our way to the bedroom in the back. I close the door and stare at the bed.

It’s a single.