Page 20 of Dirty Game (Broken Blood #1)

I take another drink, this time steady. “Kazimir wants leverage. He doesn’t know how much yet, but he’s gambling I’ll move before I think.”

“He’s not wrong,” Korrin says.

I snort before looking at them. For the first time, there’s a sliver of doubt in their eyes. Not about the plan—about me.

“You good?” Korrin asks, voice low.

I don’t answer right away. I let the silence do the talking.

Finally, I say, “Rosalynn isn’t just payment anymore.”

Korrin scowls, the old scars on his knuckles going white. “That’s a mistake.”

“Mine to make, brother.”

Cyrus frowns, but changes the subject back to Sienna. “She’s not acting like a hostage,” he says.

“No,” I agree. “She’s not. She was also talking real polite to him for someone who is supposedly kidnapped. That’s what we think, right? She’s kidnapped… or is she? Sienna likes to play games, always has.”

I watch their reactions, cataloging every flick of their eyes. Korrin’s jaw ticks, a tempo I know from a hundred bar fights—he’s holding back the urge to break something, or someone.

Cyrus drums two fingers on the table, thinking faster than he can speak.

“Well… shit,” Cyrus asks.

“We don’t go in heavy,” I say. “Not at first. Sienna’s always got an angle. She wants to see if I’ll bite.”

Korrin’s eyes narrow. “You think it’s a setup?”

“Maybe. I think Kazimir is her cover. She wants leverage. She’s always wanted leverage. Unfortunately, she’s got my kid, so I can’t fucking ignore this.”

There’s a pause while the words settle in.

Cyrus leans back, laces his hands. “And Rosalynn?”

My throat closes for a split second. “What I feel for her is different. Sienna was chaos. Rosalynn is... something else.”

Korrin barks a laugh. “Something soft?”

“No,” I snap. “Something alive. She wants out, not in. She’s not playing the game, she’s trying to survive it.”

Korrin grins, full of teeth. “Maybe you like them breakable.”

I let it pass. No point sparring when the enemy’s outside.

Korrin sheathes the knife, getting the point. “Just say the word, brother. We’re with you. Even if you fuck it up.”

I can’t tell if he’s joking or threatening. Probably both.

“Just one thing, Varrick. She comes back here, she will use your girl as leverage. Be warned.”

“I know, Cyrus. We will just have to make sure that doesn’t happen.

Jensen drives us back to the safehouse with the windows down, letting the city air strip me raw.

The sky is starless, too many lights, too much pollution burned into the clouds. It’s after midnight when we finally get back.

The moment the door’s open, she’s there.

Rosalynn, cross-legged on the leather couch, wearing a nightie… something I didn’t buy her, then again, she did ask for my credit card last week to order something.

Maybe this is that something.

Her hair’s down for once, falling haphazardly around her face.

She’s staring out at the city, but I know she heard me the moment I stepped in.

I toss my keys on the marble counter and wait.

She doesn’t turn, doesn’t ask where I’ve been.

The clock ticks loud enough to break a man.

Finally, she speaks, voice rasping. “Is it done?”

“Not yet,” I say. “Business complications.”

She turns, standing, tugging the shirt down over her thighs, and studies me like she’s weighing options.

For a second, I see the woman she could have been if she’d been born into a different world. Not softer, just less brittle.

Dinner is already on the table. She made pasta, the good kind, but it’s gone gummy from sitting too long.

Waited for me to come home, just like a good girl.

She twirls the noodles, never brings them to her mouth. I force down three bites, more out of spite than hunger.

“You should sleep,” I say, after a while.

She looks up, eyes sharp. “Will you?”

“Later.”

She nods, stands, and clears the table. The whole thing feels staged, like we’re actors in a play neither of us wanted to audition for.

She lingers by the sink, running water over her hands long after the dishes are clean.

When she finally leaves for the bedroom, I stay in the kitchen.

Pour a drink. Two, then three. The burn doesn’t register.

I watch her silhouette move through the hallway—pause at my door, then continue to the guest room.

I wait until the booze has numbed my mind. Then I walk the perimeter of the safehouse, checking locks, setting alarms, making sure every line of defense is armed and ready.

She’s asleep when I check on her. Curled into a coma, clutching the pillow like it might save her life.

I watch for a minute, long enough to see her breathing steady, her hands unclench.

I could stand here all night, memorizing the way she fits into my world. But there are too many threats now. Too many ways this can end.

I leave her door cracked, just enough to hear if she screams.

Back in my own room, I stare at the ceiling. I picture Sienna—alive, defiant, plotting her next move.

I picture the boy, mine. I picture Kazimir, and all the ways I’m going to take him apart.

But most of all, I picture Rosalynn, asleep and unguarded, trusting me not to ruin her.

In the dark, I make a promise I know I can’t keep.

It’s all going to burn.