Page 19 of Dirty Game (Broken Blood #1)

CHAPTER TEN

Varrick

The sheets are still twisted around her thighs.

My sweat drying on her chest, her own blood smeared in faint lines at the crease of her hip.

She’s shivering, even though I can feel the heat pouring off her.

I prop myself on one elbow and watch her.

She’s in the place between panic and peace. Body limp but wired, her mind scrambling. I know that place.

I spent my youth there, on the wrong side of every closed door, learning to slow my breathing and wait for the danger to pass. She’s not waiting for danger.

She’s waiting to see what I do.

I trace the length of her spine with my fingertip, watching the micro-tremors chase my touch down to the small of her back.

She doesn’t flinch.

She moves further back, grinding her ass on me.

“You’re still here.” Her voice is small.

She only says it because she’s surprised.

I smirk and reach for the pack of cigarettes on the bedside table. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

She tugs the sheets higher, a hand covering her mouth as if she just said something obscene. “I thought… I assumed?—”

“You assume a lot, Rosalynn.” I light the cigarette and exhale over her shoulder, fogging the air between us. “You thought I’d use you and vanish.”

The back of her neck turns red, right to the hairline.

I watch the color spread as she flips over to face me.

She’s soft, in every way, except where it matters.

That’s where she’s steel—hidden, burnished, almost invisible until you cut yourself on her.

“I don’t—” She stops, searching for a way to backpedal. “I didn’t mean?—”

I trace patterns on her back, feeling each vertebrae, memorizing the dips and ridges.

“Regrets?” I ask because I know she has them.

She bites her lip, teeth denting the pink until it almost bleeds. “I didn’t know it could be…” She stops, eyes wet. “That you would…”

I wait, patiently.

I can out-silence anyone.

She shakes her head, presses her face to my chest, and lets herself be held.

She’s asleep in minutes, all tension bled from her muscles, her body slack and vulnerable in my arms.

I lie awake, counting the seconds until dawn, wondering which version of her I’ll meet in the morning.

I bet she’ll run.

But I’ve been wrong before.

The only thing I can’t plan for is her.

She’s gone before I wake. Sheets cold, the outline of her head still pushed into the pillow.

Well, fuck.

I sit up, flex my hands. Sore knuckles, cuticles torn.

I scrape the taste of cigarettes from my tongue and take stock of the room—nothing missing, no sign of a struggle, not even a note.

She’s gotta be in here somewhere.

I work my way through the safehouse in order.

Bathroom: empty, mirror still fogged from her shower.

The steam is faint, already dying, but I can smell her soap.

Kitchen: untouched.

The living room is last.

She’s there, sitting on the couch with her back to the door, pen moving so fast across the paper I can hear the scratch.

There are three ledgers open, two laptops propped on the coffee table, a grid of color-coded sticky notes climbing the wall.

Her hair’s shielding her face, but I see the way her shoulder blades shudder every so often, like she’s fighting off a chill.

I let the door click behind me.

She hears it, keeps writing, doesn’t look up.

“Rosalynn,” I say it soft, but not kind. The kind of voice that would make a body freeze mid-step, every instinct screaming danger.

She sets the pen down, finally, but her hands stay planted on the laptop.

Nails bitten to the quick, the wrist tight with faded scars.

Her spine stays curved, like she’s trying to hide.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” she says, voice smaller than last night. She won’t look at me. “I couldn’t sleep.”

I cross the room, slow and deliberate, never taking my eyes off her.

“What are you working on?”

She shrugs, the motion so small it’s almost invisible. “Just making sense of your numbers. Cross-referencing some inconsistencies in the casino transfers. It’s... it’s nothing.”

“Can we talk?”

She closes her eyes, lips pressing together like she’s sewing them shut. “I need to process.”

For a second, I want to drag her off the couch and shake the answer out. But that’s not how this works. Not with her.

I rest my hand on her back, my shadow swallowing her whole. She wants space? Fine.

“Sure.”

She swallows hard, throat jerking, but doesn’t answer.

I straighten, hand hovering at the door before I force myself to leave.

The urge to stay, to watch, to dissect every flicker of her nerves is almost stronger than the urge to breathe. Almost.

I head into the makeshift office here in the safehouse and barely sit down before my phone goes off.

My phone vibrates exactly four times, the custom ring for international calls.

The name on the screen is enough to spike my blood pressure: Kazimir, Mikhail.

Russian bratva, old world meets new, always with the games.

I answer, but not with words. Whoever speaks first loses. I make sure the call is recording, too, because you never know when you’ll need the evidence.

He doesn’t wait. “Varrick Bane. Or do you prefer ‘King’ these days?” His English is clean, barely a trace of accent.

“I prefer not to waste time, Kazimir. Why are you calling?”

He laughs, ice scraping metal. “Direct as ever. It’s a dying art, you know.”

I don’t bother replying.

“I have something of yours,” he says. “Or should I say someone .”

On his end, there’s a background sound—a woman’s voice, muffled, but clear enough to make my teeth grind.

Sienna .

She’s talking, not screaming. I can’t make out the words, but her tone is calm, even bored. Typical.

“If you’ve touched her, you’ll need a new set of hands.”

He chuckles again, this time with genuine pleasure. “She’s fine. For now. She has a sharp tongue, this one. Very difficult to tie down.”

There’s a thud, like a chair hitting the floor, and then the unmistakable sound of Sienna telling someone to fuck off, in Russian.

I know the word, recognize the cadence.

She’s stalling, not pleading.

I picture her: eyes bright with calculation, wrists already testing every knot for weakness.

Kazimir returns to the line, voice softer now, almost intimate. “Actually, I have two someones. Her and a boy. Interesting child. Looks just like you.”

My heart stutters, just once. I hate him for knowing it.

“I suggest you come collect your lost property, King. Before I decide to... monetize them.”

The line goes dead. I stare at my reflection in the black glass of the monitor, letting the threat bloom behind my eyes.

For the first time in years, I almost lose control and snap the phone in half.

I breathe. In, out. Slow.

The door opens behind me.

Rosalynn stands there, her hand twisting the hem of her oversized sweater.

Her eyes flick from my face to the phone, then back again.

“Everything all right?” she asks, trying for casualness, but her voice wobbles on the last syllable.

I force my expression to be neutral. “Business.”

She nods, stepping into the room with the slow caution of a bomb squad. She knows better than to prod.

I reach for the whiskey bottle on the side table. Pour a finger’s width into the glass, not offering her any.

My hands are steady, but only because I will them to be.

She backs out of the office, silent. When the door clicks shut, I let myself sink into the chair, rubbing the bridge of my nose until the world blurs.

Kazimir knows exactly how to bait a trap.

I just have to decide if I’m willing to step in with both feet.

The phone buzzes again—one new message, no caller ID.

I open it, already expecting the worst.

There’s a photo.

Sienna, smiling with a boy. My boy.

I can’t sit around any longer.

I don’t say goodbye to Rosalynn. I don’t have to.

I leave her with the numbers, the safety of being in this house where the Corsinis don’t know where to look, and the implicit threat that if she leaves, she’ll likely be killed.

I head straight out the door with Jensen and the Bentley purrs to life before my ass hits the seat.

He drives today because if I do, I’ll end up hitting someone.

I’m that riled up.

Every block is packed, every intersection a potential ambush. It takes forty minutes to get to The Black Crown, to the meeting with my brothers.

It’s already packed, but that’s not my issue.

The back room is what matters.

No windows, just a stainless-steel table bolted to the floor, six folding chairs, and weapons in drawers, just in case.

Korrin’s there already, one boot up on the table, knife out, like usual.

He grunts when I walk in.

Cyrus is in the far corner, suit crisp, glasses off, analyzing a stack of photos.

I throw my phone on the table, hit play, and let Kazimir’s voice fill the room.

I watch my brothers, not the screen.

Korrin’s lips peel back from his teeth on the first threat.

When he hears Sienna, the knife stops spinning.

By the time Kazimir mentions the boy, his hand is white around the blade.

Cyrus doesn’t move at all.

He just cocks his head and lets the audio wash over him, fingers tapping out code on the table in Morse.

When the call ends, my brothers are vibrating.

Korrin slams the knife point-first into the table. The steel bites the wood with a satisfying thunk. “We kill him tonight.”

“Doesn’t work like that,” Cyrus says, not looking up. “If we breach, he’ll have kill-switches on them both.”

“We can breach before he expects.” Korrin’s jaw flexes. “He’s not expecting us. Not this fast.”

Cyrus lifts his eyes, studies me. “He’s expecting us to act emotionally. Which means he’s already mapped out the first two moves.”

I sit, drag a chair out with more force than necessary, and pour myself a stiff drink. My hand shakes, just a little.

Most men wouldn’t notice, but Korrin sees it.

He says nothing, but his stare is sharp and assessing.

Cyrus eyes the photo again. “Yours, obviously.”

I glance at the photo.

“Yep.”

Korrin’s eyebrows go up. “Fuck.”

“Complicates things,” Cyrus murmurs, but he doesn’t sound put out. If anything, he’s intrigued.