Beast Gacha System: All Mine

Chapter 289: Bullying the Bride

The villa’s great room had been transformed. The long dining table had been pushed against the wall, replaced by a low circular table surrounded by mismatched chairs dragged in from every corner of the house. Lanterns hung from the ceiling beams, casting warm pools of light across the worn wood.

The cards were spread across the table, their bright colors garish in the lantern light, their edges worn from too many rounds of the desperate war.

Cecilia had found the deck in a drawer in the villa’s study, tucked between a worn copy of some novel and a stack of maps that smelled of salt and age.

She had held it up, triumphant, discovering exactly how they would spend their evening, and the men had groaned, and she had ignored them, and now—

Now, Eliam was winning.

The Golden King sat back in his chair, his arms crossed, his grin wide, his card face-down in front of him. One card. One single, solitary card, and he was looking at everyone like he had already won, and always known he would win.

"You have to be joking," Cecilia breathed.

Her hand was shaking.

Her hand was shaking because she had twelve cards. Twelve. She had started this round with a respectable hand, a manageable hand, a hand that had made her think, for one brief, beautiful moment, that she might actually survive.

Then the draw fours had come.

She had drawn. And drawn. And drawn. Each time she thought it was over, more would come stacked against her on the table. The pile grew higher.

The stack in front of her was a monument to her hubris, a tower of cardboard and shame that the men around her were finding hilarious.

"My luck can’t be this terrible—" She drew the last card. "Ah, just start the next turn!"

The laughter was immediate. Eastiel was the loudest, his head thrown back, his whole body shaking, his hand slapping the table hard enough to make the cards jump. He was somehow proud that his father was about to win, even though he still had four cards on him himself.

Eliam was laughing too. Although smug, his laugh was a quieter sound. He knew how to savor his victories and enjoy the defeats of others with equal pleasure.

Oathran grinned, as merciless as always, his eyes bright, joyfully watching his love suffer in a way that cost him nothing.

Even August had a smile tugging at his mouth, hidden behind his cards.

Arkai was the only one who tried to hide it, his hand pressed to his mouth, his shoulders shaking. Finally, his hand reached across the table to cover hers. "Cece, It’s just a game."

"Just a game?" She pulled her hand away, scandalized. "Arkai Dawnoro, I have billions of cards. You have—" She pointed at his hand. He had three. "Three. You have three."

Arkai shrugged. "I’m good at games."

Roarke, who had been silent for most of the round, his face carefully neutral, his cards held close to his chest, let out a sound that might have been a laugh or might have been a cough. Cecilia’s glare shifted to him.

"Don’t," she warned.

He held up his hands. "I didn’t say anything."

"You were thinking."

"I’m always thinking, Miss Araceli. It’s my job."

"Your job is to be on my side."

Roarke’s eyebrows rose. "Is it?"

"Yes. Arkai will give you a promotion."

He looked at Arkai and everyone else who was still trying very hard not to laugh and failing just as hard as before.

Then he looked back at Cecilia, and his smile was small, and his eyes were warm, and he said, very gently, "I don’t think that’s how this game works."

"You know what? Fine," she said. "Fine. Everyone is my enemy tonight." She reached for her cards, stacking them, organizing them, preparing for the inevitable. "This is a conspiracy. A coordinated effort to destroy my self-esteem."

Eastiel pointed out, "You were the one who shuffl—"

"Shut up! You guys are stronger than me with your magic. You think I won’t think of the possibility?" Cecilia accused.

"You’re the one with telekinesis power, the one that should be most useful for this kind of game," Oathran reminded her.

"Aaah, but I’m an honest person! Most of you are not!" Cecilia whined.

"Your turn, Father," Arkai said, turning to August.

August shook his head, his hand moving to the cards in front of him. He had been quiet all round, watching, waiting, letting the chaos unfold around him.

But there was something looser about him now, something that had been slowly, subtly shifting over the course of the evening.

Now he looked at the pile. At his hand. At the woman beside him. His daughter-in-law, his son’s beloved, the girl who had turned his household upside down and made him strangely grateful for it, who was pretending to be defeated, who was clearly, obviously, already planning her revenge.

He threw out a blue card. Number two.

"AH WHY BLUE AGAIN, FATHER-IN-LAW?!" Cecilia’s roar shook the lanterns. Her hands slapped the table. Her cards jumped.

August flinched. No one had ever yelled at him like this.

The sound that followed was not a laugh. It was a detonation.

"BWAHHAWHAHAWHAHHAW—"

Oathran passed away.

"Because we know you don’t have blue, Cece—" Arkai’s whispered laugh was strangled.

"dON’t CHangE tHE cOloR! DonT cHangE thcolrlpleasepffffttst—huuuu—" Eastiel’s face was red. His eyes were streaming. His hand was pressed flat against the table, trying to push himself upright, failing, sliding sideways.

"Roarke!" Cecilia pointed. "Change it to green! Imma kill you, change it to green!"

Roarke was trying to breathe. "Miss Araceli, I don’t have a number two green one, I’m sorrfffffttt—" He threw out a card.

Blue number four.

Cecilia’s head snapped to Arkai. "ARKAI CHANGE THE COLO—"

"Sorry, my love." His voice was gentle, tinged with laughter. He placed his card on the pile.

Blue number nine.

Cecilia’s eyes narrowed. Her voice dropped. Her whole body went very, very still. "Oathran." She said his name like a prayer. Like a threat. She had run out of patience and was about to start making demands. "No more kisse—"

Blue number seven.

Oathran threw out a card. His voice was reasonable. "Uno." He held up his remaining card. "Cecilia, I only had two cards left. I need to make the best choice for myself."

"Me too." Eastiel had finally recovered enough to sit up. His face was still red. His eyes were still wet. His voice was still shaking. He looked at Cecilia and her suffering just to grin.

He threw out blue number four.

And then Eliam placed his last card on the pile. Blue number five.

The room exploded.

"WOOOOO! FATHER YOU WON!"

"AAAAAAYYYYY!"

"WHOOOP—"

Cecilia stared at the pile. At the blue cards. At the blue cards that had been played against her, around her, above her, a coordinated assault, a conspiracy, a betrayal. Her hand moved. Her fingers found the deck. She drew.

She looked at the card.

It was red.

"FAHHHH!"

She screamed to the sky.

"Huhu—"

August finally laughed. The sound was rusty, unpracticed, the sound of a man who had forgotten, somewhere along the way, how to let himself be happy. He reached for his cards. Pulled one. Held it up.

Red number five.

"Uno, Daughter." He looked at her, and his eyes were warm, and his voice was almost gentle. "See, I changed the color for you."

Cecilia’s face was the color of the card in her hand.

"IT’S TOO LATE!"