17. Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

L ash

“It’s pretty basic,” I explain as I shuffle.

We’ve cleared the kitchen table, and, at Zoya’s suggestion, I’ve moved it into the living room so we get the benefit of all the light streaming through the windows. I must admit, it’s better than being in my tiny kitchen, which is more like a cave than a room.

“It’s more about fast reflexes than higher thought.” I give her my most feral grin, letting her know what she’s in for. I doubt even a human Olympic-level athlete could match my average wolven reflexes. That’s one of the reasons Others aren’t allowed to play professional sports.

I explain the rules, finishing with, “And if we both have a match to the top card on the pile, whoever shouts ‘zim-zam’ first gets to slap the other’s hand.” Before she has time to panic, I say, “Here, set your hand on the table, palm down. I’ll show you how hard I’ll slap. Don’t worry.”

It takes her a moment to follow my instructions, but as soon as she lays her hand down, I give it a barely-there touch. It’s so soft, it doesn’t make the satisfying slapping sound I used to enjoy when playing this with my friends as a kid.

“You okay with this?” When she nods, I add, “As a bonus, you can slap this big, bad wolf as hard as you want.”

I don’t know what’s more surprising, that I called myself a wolf, which wolven never do, or that she seems unhappy with the offer.

“Here. Slap me.”

After I set my hand on the table, she taps me as lightly as I just tapped her. Okay, I guess this is going to be the kinder, gentler version of zim-zam. It will still be fun.

Half an hour later, we’re laughing so hard my sides ache. Did I really think I’d easily win because of my superior reflexes? I’m so distracted by Zoya’s happy smile and her unabashed attempts to cheat, that we’re tied, four to four.

“How about whoever wins the next game is declared the ultimate victor?” I’m feeling confident because I have a new strategy I want to break out.

She appears to be deep in thought, then nods.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you…” When she pauses, I realize I’ve never seen this expression on her face before. Is she confident? No. If I had to put a name on it, I’d call it diabolical.

“Zimzam is also a Ukrainian vord.” Her accent is thicker now. Though it usually indicates that her anxiety is rising, it doesn’t appear she’s upset.

“Yeah? What does it mean?”

“Kiss.”

Although sometimes she can’t hold my gaze, even when we’re having a lighthearted conversation, she manages to spear me with her piercing blue eyes.

“Kiss?”

“Yes. Instead of slap, this game should be vith kiss.”

Her gaze is still connected to mine, her only tell that she’s not sure of herself is that her Ws have turned into Vs.

I try to play it cool, giving it far more thought than necessary, because I want to jump out of my chair, run to the window, yank it open, and announce to all the Zone that Zoya is going to kiss me.

After stroking my chin thoughtfully, I use all my considerable effort to refrain from enthusiastically agreeing. Instead, I reluctantly say, “Okay. If that’s what you want.”

Our last few games had become what they were meant to be—speed rounds of slapping cards and slapping hands until one of us exhausted our supply of cards in our stacks and won.

This game, though, is slower, more thoughtful. Thorough, with far more eye contact as we navigate the game, following the rules, both of us waiting for the moment we can shout zim-zam and get a kiss.

Finally, a five hits the top of the pile, which is the card we both need for zim-zam. I shout it first—far too loudly I might add, because I’m so excited.

“You get to kiss me.” Her words hang in the air, more of a challenge than a statement. Her eyes dare me to take the next move.

Shit. Is she serious? My heart races as I try to decipher her intentions. Does she want a real kiss or is she expecting a peck on the cheek like the flying kiss she gave me last night? Just the memory of her soft lips brushing against my skin sends a jolt of excitement flowing through my veins.

After remembering that there are usually at least five or six zim-zams per game, I decide to start small. I don’t want to freak her out. I’ll test the waters before I dive in.

As she leans forward, licking her lips seductively, I go for the safe bet and lift her hand to my mouth. Keeping my gaze locked with hers, I press barely there kisses to each knuckle, savoring the scent, the warmth, the softness of her skin. Then turning her hand over, I place teasing kisses along her palm before nibbling on it lightly.

My boldest move is flicking the tip of my tongue against the center of her palm, sending a jolt of electricity through me. Her sharp intake of breath tells me she felt the carnal zap, too.

“Zim-zam,” I murmur, just as I would after slapping her hand when following the other set of rules.

Normally, play resumes immediately after the triumphant shout of “zim-zam” concludes the slap, or in this case, the kiss. Instead, she remains perfectly still, gazing into my eyes with a hunger that matches my own. She sits perfectly still, except for her little pink tongue slipping out to lick her lips.

Through my peripheral vision, I see goosebumps marching along her upper arms. The jolt it gives me, knowing my chaste little kisses affected her that way, is like a power breaker just surged on the electric grid.