Page 13 of Dirty Game (Broken Blood #1)

CHAPTER SEVEN

Rosalynn

I wake to absence.

Not just the absence of him—though his side of the bed is cold, the sheets barely rumpled like he left hours ago or maybe never really slept at all.

It's the absence of what happened last night, erased as thoroughly as if it were a dream.

Except my body remembers.

My lips are still swollen.

I stretch in the empty bed, and my muscles ache.

I force myself out of bed before the dream of being able to stay here takes over me.

The shower doesn't wash away the memory of his hands on my body, of his mouth against mine, the way he didn't take my virginity despite how desperately I begged.

My skin is oversensitive, yearning for him, aching for what I want.

By the time I make it to breakfast, dressed in one of his shirts because all of mine are in the laundry, I've almost convinced myself that last night changed everything.

That we've crossed a line we can't uncross.

That this morning will be different.

I'm wrong.

He's already there, reading something on his tablet, coffee black as his expression.

"Morning," I say, testing.

"There's food on the counter. Maria made eggs." His voice is perfectly neutral. Professional. Cold.

I stand there, wrapped in his shirt that smells like him, that falls to mid-thigh and leaves my legs bare.

"Varrick—"

"I have meetings all morning. Jensen will drive you if you need to go anywhere." He still doesn't look up.

The dismissal is clear.

Last night was last night.

This morning, we're back to what we were before—owner and property, creditor and payment.

The distance hurts more than any of Marco's cigarette burns, any of Uncle Enzo's backhands.

Because those were meant to hurt. This feels like he’s erasing our connection.

"Did I do something wrong?"

That makes him look up, and for a second, I see heat flash in his eyes.

His gaze tracks down my body, lingering on my bare legs, on the way his shirt gaps at the collar to show the mark he left on my throat from his stubble.

His knuckles go white where he's gripping his tablet.

Then it's gone, locked away behind walls I thought we'd started breaking down.

"Eat your breakfast, Rosalynn."

He leaves before I can respond, taking his tablet and his indifference with him.

But not before I catch the way his hand shakes slightly as he reaches for the door.

Not before I see him adjust himself in his pants, evidence that he's not as unaffected as he pretends.

I sink into a chair, appetite gone, trying to understand what the hell is going on.

Maria bustles in, takes one look at my face, and makes a soft sound of sympathy.

"Men," she says, like that explains everything. "They get scared when they feel too much. Makes them stupid."

"He doesn't feel anything," I mutter, pushing eggs around my plate.

She laughs, actually laughs. "Child, that man has been walking into walls since you got here. Never seen him so twisted up. Just this morning, he burned his hand on the coffee pot because he was staring at the doorway, waiting for you."

"Then why?—"

"Because feeling something and knowing what to do with it are different things." She pats my shoulder, then pauses, her eyes catching something.

She tugs the collar of my shirt—his shirt—aside slightly, revealing the mark on my neck.

Her eyebrows rise. "Well, well. Finally made a move, did he?"

Heat floods my face. "Maria?—"

"About time. That man's been watching you like a starving wolf watches a lamb for weeks." She fixes the collar, hiding the mark again. "Though from the look of you this morning, you're no lamb."

"He won't even look at me now."

"Of course not. He's terrified." She starts clearing plates. "Men like him, they know how to handle violence. Know how to handle business. But a woman who makes them feel? That's scarier than any gun or any amount of blood."

"I don't make him feel?—"

"Girl, that man would burn this entire city down if someone hurt you. You think that's just about a debt?" She shakes her head. "I've worked for Mr. Bane for ten years. Never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you when you're not watching."

"How does he look at me?"

"Like you're salvation and damnation all rolled into one." She pauses at the door. "Give him time. He'll figure it out. Or you'll make him figure it out. Either way, this story isn't over."

But I don't have time to process her words because the penthouse elevator chimes, and someone walks in who immediately makes my skin crawl.

The man is maybe fifty, wearing a suit that costs more than most people make in a year, with silver hair slicked back and eyes like a calculator—always adding, subtracting, finding the profit in everything.

He's soft in the way men get when they make their money behind desks instead of with their fists, but there's something sharp about him too, like a knife hidden in silk.

"You must be the payment," he says, looking me up and down with obvious distaste.

His gaze lingers on my bare legs, on the way Varrick's shirt hangs loose on my frame.

"Though I can't imagine you're worth six million.

Even with inflation. Maybe six thousand if you clean up nice and know how to keep your mouth shut.

Well, know when to keep it shut and when to open it. "

The innuendo is clear, and my stomach turns.

"Jerome." Maria's voice is sharp. "Mr. Bane is in his office."

"I'm not here for him. I'm here for the books. Someone's been making changes to my system." His eyes land on me again, and now I see calculation mixed with the disgust. "Unauthorized changes. Playing with numbers that are beyond their understanding."

I stand straighter, pulling the shirt down as far as it will go.

I know who this is now—Jerome Watts, one of Varrick's business partners and a former accountant.

The one whose "mistakes" I've been finding and correcting for weeks.

The one who's been bleeding the organization dry while thinking he's too smart to get caught.

"You mean the ten million dollars in tax savings I found? Or the four shell companies that were bleeding profits?" I keep my voice steady, professional, even though I'm standing here in nothing but a shirt and underwear.

His face goes red. "Little girls who spread their legs for their uncle's debts shouldn't play with numbers they don't understand. Stick to what you're good at—lying on your back and counting ceiling tiles while real men handle business."

The words hit like a slap, but I don't flinch.

Not anymore.

Something about last night, about the way Varrick touched me like I was precious, has given me strength I didn't know I had.

"I understand that you've been skimming two percent off the top of every international transfer for three years.

" I pull out my phone from where I left it on the counter, show him the spreadsheet I've been building.

"I understand that you've hidden millions of dollars across forty-seven different accounts.

I understand that you thought you were too smart to get caught, but you didn't count on someone actually checking your math. "

The red drains from his face, leaving him pale as paper.

"That's slander. You can't prove?—"

"The Cayman account opened March 2021, initial deposit of 1.

2 million. The Swiss holdings under the name JW Enterprises— really creative, by the way.

The shell company in Delaware that exists only to funnel money from the Chicago operations to your personal accounts.

" I scroll through the data, watching him get paler with each revelation.

"Did you really think no one would notice?

Or did you just assume Varrick would be too distracted by his new toy to pay attention? "

"You little bitch." He steps toward me, and I step back instinctively, suddenly aware of how vulnerable I am, essentially naked except for the shirt.

"You think because you're warming his bed, you can make accusations?

You're nothing but a payment plan. A hole for him to use until the debt's cleared.

Six million dollars for virgin pussy—though I doubt you're even a virgin anymore.

Probably spread your legs the first night, eager to please your new owner. "

"Actually, she's my forensic accountant." Varrick's voice comes from the doorway, deadly quiet. "And she just saved me the trouble of proving what I've suspected for months."

Jerome spins. "Varrick, you can't possibly believe?—"

"The Cayman account. The Swiss holdings.

The shell company in Delaware." Varrick moves into the room with predatory grace, and I notice his eyes track over me—taking in the bare legs, his shirt on my body, the way Jerome has me backed against the counter.

Something dangerous flashes in his expression.

"She found them all, didn't you, little mouse? "

I nod, my voice stolen by the ice in his tone.

"This is ridiculous. I've been working with you since before you took over after your father.

You're going to take the word of some nobody over mine?

" Jerome's voice is getting desperate now.

"Everyone knows you bought her for her cunt, not her brain.

Just because she can spread her legs doesn't mean she can understand the complexity of financial?—"

The sound of impact is wet and sudden.

Jerome hits the floor, blood pouring from his nose.

Varrick stands over him, knuckles already split.

"You're done," he says simply. "Twenty-four hours to transfer every cent you stole, or I start taking payment in flesh."

"You can't?—"

Varrick's foot comes down on Jerome's hand, and I hear bones crack.

Jerome screams, high and pathetic.

"Twenty-three million buys a lot of pain, Jerome. I can keep you alive for months, breaking one bone at a time. Would you like me to show you the math on that? How many bones in the human body versus how much you stole per bone?"

Another crack. Another scream.

"Or you can transfer the money and disappear. Your choice."