Sipping With The Enemy Novels & Stories

“Always using traffic as an excuse.” He snapped his fingers above his head, and a man dressed in a chef’s uniform appeared, whisking away his empty plate. “What do you care for?” he asked. “Whiskey. Neat.” The chef hurried off and returned minutes later with glasses for both of us. “So,” Iscan began once the chef was gone. “You’ve acquired more enemies, is that what you’re telling me?” “I haven’t acquired new enemies,” I corrected calmly. “They’ve always been here. They only chose now to reveal themselves.”

Or the danger we presented. I eyed the last man to enter the private room, holding back a vicious sneer at his swagger. "You're late." I swirled the tumbler, concentrating on the way the melting ice clicked against the thick glass. This wasn't my first drink of the day nor would it be my last. We had business to conduct, brutal business. Decisions we made tonight would consume the lives of our enemies.

Silas doesn't even blink. Just leans back like he's hosting some goddamn cocktail hour while the world burns down around him. He opens a drawer, pulls out a second glass, and uncorks something amber and expensive. "To the end of the Reapers," he says, lifting it toward me with a smirk. In this world, refusing a drink is asking to get shot next. So I step forward, take the glass, and knock it against his with a hollow clink. Then down the whole thing in one burn.

The controlled facade wavered for a moment, revealing a spark of unpredictability beneath. "As you requested," I replied, my tone tinged with the subtle defiance that had become my shield. "Would you like a drink?" he offered, the question hanging in the air, a deceptive semblance of normalcy amidst my captivity. "Why not?" I responded, carefully gauging his reactions for any signs of my misstep. Nodding to one of the soldiers, Victor signaled for a drink. The soldier, seemingly aware of my preferences, poured red wine into a crystal glass. The familiarity struck a dissonant chord—a surreal acknowledgment of the intricacies he had woven into my captivity.

"In a war, Marcus, you do not bring 'enough' ammunition. You bring all of it." " Is that what we're doing?" Marcus asked. "War?" "With Isabella Voss? Yes. It is total war." Sophia walked around the island. She opened the wine fridge—because of course there was a dedicated wine fridge—and pulled out a bottle of Sancerre. She poured two glasses without asking. She slid one toward him. "Drink," she commanded. "You look like a structural collapse waiting to happen." Marcus took the glass. He usually drank beer. Cheap beer. But the wine was cold and crisp, and it cut through the taste of stale coffee in his mouth.

After filling my stomach up a little, I dropped my fork and grabbed the wine, staring at it it felt like it was the same blood they were drinking, I dropped it and drank the glass of water. “So, I found out something interesting,”Helion said. He straightened up, clamping his hands together as he cold gaze swept over the guests. “One of you has been ratting me out to the enemy” A sharp, terrified gasp cut through the sudden silence.

On the glass coffee table lay a single, well-thumbed copy of “The Strategist’s Dilemma: Game Theory in Modern Conflict.” “He’s talking to us,” Mimi said, her voice cold. “He’s not a mercenary doing a job. He’s a player. He’s studied us, and now he’s announcing his pedigree. This is a game to him.” The psychological contours of their enemy sharpened, becoming more terrifying.

Something worse? Chapter 98 reveals THE ENEMY!