Page 21 of Dirty Game (Broken Blood #1)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Rosalynn

Four days.

It’s been four days since we returned from the safe house.

Two days since Korrin—Varrick's brother, I learned—dealt with the Corsini problem in a way that left Luigi with a permanent limp and Paulie missing three fingers.

The message was clear: touch what belongs to Varrick Bane, and you'll be lucky if you only lose digits.

The story Jensen told me was brutal, vulgar, and downright insane.

Korrin had walked into the Corsini compound alone, dressed in an expensive suit like he was attending a business meeting.

Twenty minutes later, he walked out with blood on his cuffs and their submission secured.

Luigi would need a cane for the rest of his life, while Paulie would never properly hold a gun ever again.

And now everyone in Vancouver knew that the Bane brothers protected their own.

Still, since all of this has happened, Varrick’s barely looked at me.

He brings me coffee in the morning—two sugars, no cream, just how I like it.

He ensures I eat, watching until I've had at least half of whatever Maria prepares.

He checks my work on the financial reports, leaning over my shoulder close enough that I can smell his cologne, but never actually touches me.

He doesn't kiss me, doesn't run his fingers through my hair the way he did at the safe house, and he doesn't pull me against him in the night when nightmares wake me.

Something isn’t right. He won’t even hold my gaze for more than a second before finding something urgently requiring his attention elsewhere.

It's like the safe house never happened, like he never showed me what pleasure could be, like he never took my virginity.

I've convinced myself I did something wrong.

Maybe I wasn't good enough—too inexperienced, too eager, making the wrong sounds or moving the wrong way.

Maybe I was too clingy afterward, too emotional, too needy.

Maybe he regrets touching me at all.

Maybe now that he's had me, the mystery is gone, the challenge conquered, and I'm just another obligation tied to my uncle's debt.

Maria tells me I'm being ridiculous. "Men get weird after emotional intimacy," she says, finding me staring out the penthouse window this morning. "They feel things they don't understand and panic. Give him time."

But time feels like sandpaper against my skin, each hour of distance scraping me raw.

Tonight's charity gala is mandatory—a who's who of Vancouver's criminal elite pretending to care about orphans or cancer or whatever cause launders their money best this year.

Varrick told me about it this morning, barely looking up from his phone. "We leave at eight. Maria has your dress."

That was it. No explanation of what to expect.

No preparing me for who would be there.

No touch, no kiss, not even a brush of fingers when he handed me my coffee.

The dress is stunning—red silk that pours over my body like liquid fire, clinging to curves I've learned to appreciate, dipping low in the back to show the delicate line of my spine.

The front is modest enough for a charity event, but cut in a way that suggests rather than reveals.

Maria pins my hair up in an elegant twist, leaving a few tendrils to frame my face.

The makeup she applies makes my blue eyes look enormous, my lips look bitten and full.

"You look like a million dollars," she says, stepping back to admire her work.

"Six million," I correct quietly, remembering my price.

"No," she says firmly. "You look priceless. He won't be able to keep his eyes off you."

She's half right.

When Varrick sees me descending the stairs, he stops mid-conversation with Jensen.

His eyes track over me slowly, taking in every detail from my silver heels to the diamond earrings he left on my dresser earlier without a word.

Something hungry flashes in his expression, there and gone so fast I might have imagined it.

But all he says is, "You look appropriate," before offering his arm, careful to keep fabric between our skin.

The ride to the gala is silent except for Jensen occasionally speaking into his earpiece, coordinating security.

Varrick stares out his window, I stare out mine, and the space between us in the backseat might as well be an ocean.

The Whitmore Hotel is a fortress of luxury, a place so exclusive most people don't even know it exists.

The ballroom is all crystal chandeliers and gold leaf, filled with men in custom tuxedos and women dripping diamonds that could feed small countries.

I recognize some faces from the dinner at The Broken Crown—men who watched Varrick break bones for insulting me.

They don't look at me now.

Message received, loud and clear.

Varrick deposits me at our table like I'm a fragile package he's afraid to damage. "I have business to attend to. Stay here. Jensen will be close if you need anything."

Then he's gone, swallowed by the crowd of Chicago's most dangerous men, all pretending to be philanthropists for the night.

I sit alone, nursing champagne I don't want, watching him work the room.

He's magnetic in his tux, commanding attention without trying.

Men defer to him, women eye him with obvious interest, and I can't stop staring.

He owns every room he enters, but tonight there's an edge to him, a tension in his shoulders that wasn't there before the safe house.

Neither can he stop watching me, I realize.

Every few minutes, no matter who he's talking to, his eyes find me across the room.

But he doesn't come closer.

He won't come closer.

Like I'm something dangerous he needs to monitor from a distance.

Like if he gets too close, something might shatter.

An older woman at my table tries to make conversation about the cause, something about literacy programs that definitely don't exist, but I can barely focus.

All I can think about is the last time Varrick looked at me with heat instead of distance, when his hands mapped every inch of my body like he was memorizing me for a test he couldn't afford to fail.

I'm so focused on him that I don't notice her approach until she's standing right beside me, expensive perfume announcing her presence like a calling card.

"You must be the new pet."

The voice is smooth as aged whiskey, sharp as a blade.

I look up to find a woman who makes the word devastating seem inadequate.

She's poured into a black dress that looks painted on, every curve deliberately displayed.

Her dark hair is swept up in an elegant twist that probably costs more than most people's rent.

Her cheekbones could cut glass, her lips are painted blood red, and her eyes are the kind of green that makes you think of poison. Beautiful poison.

She's on the arm of a severe-looking Russian man with scarred knuckles and dead eyes.

He's handsome in a brutal way, but it's the child with her that stops my heart.

A boy, maybe five, with dark hair carefully combed and wearing a tiny tuxedo that makes him look like a miniature adult.

But his eyes—God, his eyes are exactly like Varrick's.

Dark and intense, seeing too much, holding secrets too heavy for such a young face.

"I'm Sienna," the woman continues, her smile predatory, showing too many teeth. "The one he actually loved."

I can't breathe.

The S.C. carved into his hip seems to burn in my mind, those raised letters I traced with my fingers just days ago. "You're..."

"The mother of his son. His first love. The one he let live when he should have killed me." She laughs, the sound like breaking glass. "And you're the virgin payment for daddy's debt. How... quaint. Tell me, did he at least wait a week before fucking you, or did he take what he bought right away?"

The cruelty is so casual, so precise.

She knows exactly where to cut to make it hurt most.

The boy stares at me with those familiar dark eyes, too serious for such a young face.

There's something hollow in his expression, something broken that no child should possess. "Are you my daddy's friend?"

The innocent question breaks something in my chest.

Before I can answer, before I can process that Varrick has a son, that this woman who betrayed him kept this secret, the temperature in the room drops twenty degrees.

"Sienna." Varrick's voice is a death-given sound.

He stands behind me, and I can feel the violence radiating from him like heat from a forge.

His hand settles on my shoulder, possessive and protective at once, the first time he's touched me in days.

"Hello, lover," Sienna purrs, not even flinching at his tone. "Surprised? You shouldn't be. You always did like to leave your mark on things. Well, here's the mark you left on me." She pushes the boy forward slightly. "Time to meet your son."

The boy looks up at Varrick with wonder and fear. "Daddy?"

The word hangs in the air like a grenade with the pin pulled.

I watch Varrick's face, see him catalog every feature that marks this child as his.

The eyes are obvious, but there's more—the shape of his jaw, the way he holds himself even at five, a certain intensity that's purely Bane.

"His name is Dante," Sienna says, enjoying the chaos she's creating. "I thought about naming him Bastard, but that seemed too on the nose."

I can't stay. Can't breathe. Can't process this.

The room is too hot, too crowded, too full of eyes watching this drama unfold.

I stand on unsteady legs, the red dress suddenly feeling like it's suffocating me.

"Excuse me," I mumble. "I need air."

"Rosalynn—" Varrick's hand tightens on my shoulder, but I pull away.

"I just need a moment."

I flee, hearing him call my name, but I don't stop. Can't stop.

The crowd parts for me—or maybe for the expression on my face.

I catch glimpses of myself in mirrors as I run: pale skin, wild eyes, red dress like a wound against the golden ballroom.

The elevator is closing when I see him pushing through the crowd, see the desperation on his face, but the doors seal between us before he can reach me.

I hit the button for the roof with shaking fingers.

Need air. Need space. Need to feel something other than this crushing weight in my chest.