Page 23 of Dirty Game (Broken Blood #1)

CHAPTER TWELVE

Varrick

The lobby is quiet as we make our way back downstairs.

I walk point, Rosalynn walking half a pace behind me, arms folded in and eyes flicking to every movement.

She’s nervous, but she’s here, and a strange pride fills me knowing she’s combating her fear for me.

Before we get to the front, I move Rosalynn slightly to my right, a half step in front of me. An equal.

My equal.

Mikhail is waiting, hands in his pockets, a sick sneer spread over his face.

Sienna’s at his elbow, looking every bit the cunt she always was, her lips drawn into a secret smile.

The boy stands between them, a living ransom note, with dark hair, loose at the crown, and the same eyes as the man he’s never met.

For a long second, nobody speaks.

Mikhail’s gaze slides over Rosalynn and lands on me. “You keep her in front, King. Smart. Most men put their queens behind. Easier to take out when there’s no eyes on them.”

I don’t blink. “I’m not most men. And I’m not playing chess.”

His mouth quirks, like he wants to laugh but doesn’t know how. Sienna cuts in before he can retort: “You remember our son, Varrick?”

The words hit with a fist, but I barely move.

The boy looks up at me… calculating, not scared.

Not quite. He’s weary.

What the fuck did she tell him about me?

Sienna’s hand drops to his shoulder in a gesture meant to comfort, but really, it’s a warning.

Don’t run. Don’t speak. Don’t trust.

Rosalynn sees the resemblance first.

Her pulse jumps under the skin at her throat, and I can hear her breath shallow, hands curling to white. But she says nothing.

Sienna keeps going. “Dante. Say hello to your father.”

He takes a step forward, stance squared, chin up. It would be comical if it didn’t rip me open.

“You’re the bad man Mama cries about,” Dante says, voice brittle.

I almost smile. Almost. “I’m the man who put your mother on this throne.”

Dante’s mouth tightens into the same line I see in the mirror every morning.

He takes another step, then stops, glancing at Sienna.

Waiting for the next command.

Mikhail makes a show of checking his watch. “We don’t have all night, King. The Bratva expects a timetable.”

“Cut the bullshit,” I say, stepping so I block Rosalynn’s line of sight to the Russians. “Tell me what you want.”

He grins, white teeth too sharp for the face he wears. “Vancouver. You get the ports, we get the rail.”

Rosalynn’s hand finds my arm, squeezing hard enough I almost wince. I let her.

“You’ll never get the city,” I say, voice low enough that Sienna leans in to catch it. “You think this is how you win?”

Sienna laughs, delicate as glass needles. “Win? We already have what matters.”

She nudges Dante forward again. He doesn’t resist, but he doesn’t look away from me, either.

Rosalynn’s grip slips, her hand hanging loose. She’s piecing it together.

Mikhail lifts a hand, and two of his men emerge from the shadows—one with a leather case, the other with a gun he doesn’t bother to hide.

“Family to family,” Mikhail says. “It’s tradition.”

“You’re not family,” I say, flat and final.

Sienna’s eyes flash, that old hurricane rage surfacing for half a breath. “No? I’m the mother of your heir. That makes me forever, Varrick.”

Rosalynn’s composure shatters. She turns, inhaling sharply, but fast enough that the movement draws every eye in the lobby.

Squaring her shoulders, she walks off.

I motion to one of my men, who slips after her, following her to make sure no one tries anything stupid.

I hate her being out of my sight, but it is what it is right now.

I watch until she’s out of the room before I say, “She deserved better than this circus.”

Mikhail shrugs. “Deserve is irrelevant.”

Sienna’s hand stays on Dante, but her gaze is on me. She’s looking for a crack, a tremor, any sign I’ll break. I don’t give her one.

“We’re moving here next week,” she says. “You can have visitation, if you like. Or you can leave us alone, and pretend you never made this mess.”

Dante finally looks at her, then at me. His mouth opens, closes, words dying on his tongue.

“Go to the car,” Sienna tells him, soft as velvet. “We’ll be out soon.”

Dante hesitates, then obeys. He walks with a guard away, and the door clicks shut behind them.

Sienna turns to follow, but Mikhail puts a hand on her arm. “Not yet. We finish business.”

She bristles but stands her ground.

Mikhail faces me square. “Shared territory. Or we change plans and I take the boy to Russia permanently.”

The words are sharp, but he’s making a power play.

I nod once. “You make the first move, I make the last.”

He laughs, and this time it’s genuine. “That’s what I like about you, King. No illusions.”

Sienna moves past him, brushing my shoulder as she goes. There’s a whisper of perfume, old memories, and the sound of a blade leaving its sheath.

When they’re gone, I stand alone in the room. The only evidence of the exchange is the faint trace of blood on my lip where I bit through it to keep from screaming.

I linger in the lobby after the Russians leave, watching my own reflection in the glass. Not the man I was an hour ago. Maybe not even the man who woke up this morning.

The phone vibrates in my pocket.

Message from Jensen:

She’s in the bathroom. Corner stall. Won’t come out.

I take the stairs, slow. Every step has the weight of regret.

The women’s restroom is all chrome and black tile, an echo chamber for private pain.

The lights are dimmed, the janitor’s cart abandoned near the door.

I push inside. The air smells like bleach and something saltier—grief or fear, I can’t decide.

She’s not in a stall.

She’s against the far wall, arms wrapped around her ribs, forehead resting against the tile.

Eyes red but dry now. Not the weak kind of crying. The kind you do after you’ve run out of hope.

She doesn’t look up until I’m two feet away.

She speaks first. “How much did you love her?”

Her voice is tiny, unsure of itself even as it speaks. The echo makes it sound louder, but I know the truth.

I want to lie. But I don’t.

“Completely.”

Rosalynn’s jaw works, like she’s chewing over the answer. Her fingers knead the fabric of her dress, twisting it into a tourniquet.

“And now?” she says, not quite able to look at me.

I move closer. Our reflections merge on the black tile. “Now I feel nothing for her.”

It’s true. I don’t have the capacity anymore. Sienna drained me dry years ago, and what was left went up in smoke tonight.

Rosalynn closes her eyes, but the lines of her mouth say everything. “But your son…”

“I’ll get him back,” I say, simple and final.

She snorts, a sound that’s almost a laugh. “She’ll never let you go.”

I could argue, but we both know it’s pointless. Instead, I pin her with my stare, every muscle in my body strung tight.

The need to claim her, devour her, eat her soul just to remind her who the fuck she is to me, overwhelms me.

Pulling her to her feet, I crowd her, letting the wall take her weight. The air between us crackles with everything we’re not saying.

I slide my hand to her waist. She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t yield either.

“You’re mine now,” I say, my voice scraping the edge of a whisper. “That’s all that matters.”

She doesn’t answer. Her lips part, her breath hot on my jaw, but the look in her eyes is pure disbelief.

I kiss her anyway—hard, rough, desperate to make her understand what words never could.

She lets me, and for a moment, I almost believe it myself.

We leave the gala and head back to the penthouse, both of us emotionally exhausted after the events this evening.

I don’t know where the time goes, but it’s after midnight, and the suite is pitch black except for the city lights hitting the walls in weird patterns.

Rosalynn walks in before me while I take a quick phone call, and when I find her, she’s perched on the edge of my bed, legs tucked under her, tablet balanced on her knees.

She doesn’t hear me enter.

The screen’s reflection shudders across her face, sharp and blue, and I see the tears have dried but left their stains.

I get closer. The video on loop is old. I know it before I even see the first frame.

Sienna, sprawled across these very sheets, in black silk and nothing else.

My own face leering down at her, the bodies a tangle of violence and sex, all teeth and claws.

The camera never stutters, always showing the angles that flatter her best.

She used to say you never really loved anyone unless you could stand to see yourself loving them.

The sound is off, but I remember the soundtrack.

I remember how she made pain look like a game, how she made pleasure an act of war.

Blood. All the blood.

Rosalynn doesn’t stop the playback when she notices me. She lets it run, eyes locked on the images.

Her lips are set in a straight line. The knuckles of her left hand are white around the tablet’s edge.

I stand in the doorway, arms folded. “Studying the competition?”

Her shoulders don’t move. “Learning what you like.”

Her voice is flat, but her throat flexes on the last syllable.

I watch her eyes flick from the screen to the reflection in the window, where I stand behind her.

Sienna in the video flips, crawls up my body, grinds against me like she’s trying to erase the space between us.

In real time, Rosalynn’s breath stutters.

I cross the room. Take the tablet from her hands, click the screen dark. Set it on the dresser.

She’s looking up at me now, expression unreadable. “You liked her better,” she says, not a question.

I shake my head. “I liked lies then. I love the truth now.”

She laughs, brittle. “You love a good story, is all.”

My hands grip her wrists, not gentle. “That’s what you think?”

She doesn’t answer.

I pull her to her feet, drag her to the wall by the window, where the city is a smear of fire and steel. The same position as in the tape—her back to the glass, my body pinning hers, the world watching.

I don’t undress her. I want her to feel every heated second.