Page 26 of Dirty Game (Broken Blood #1)

Was it passion or possession? Love or violence? Both?

"You're thinking so loud I can hear it," he says without looking away from his screen.

"Did it hurt?"

"Everything with Sienna hurt. That was the point. Pain was our language. We didn't know how to be gentle with each other, didn't know how to exist without drawing blood—literally or figuratively."

"And now?"

"Now I know the difference between intensity and intimacy. Between possession and love. You taught me that."

I sit up, decision made. "I'm ready."

He looks at me then, closes his laptop. "For?"

"Everything. All of you. Before she takes you back."

His face darkens, something dangerous flashing in his eyes. "She will never have me again."

"Prove it."

The word hangs between us, challenge and plea combined. He studies my face for a long moment, then stands, pulls me to my feet.

"You're sure?"

"I need to be yours completely. In every way. Need to know that you've claimed all of me, that there's no part she's had that I haven't given you too."

He kisses me, soft and searching. "You know, there are things we haven't done. Things that might?—"

"I trust you."

"This isn't about trust. This is about you being ready, not trying to compete with a ghost."

"Maybe it's both." I pull my nightgown over my head, stand before him naked and vulnerable. "Maybe I need to stop being afraid of my own body. Maybe I need to know that you want me enough to claim every part of me. Maybe I need to prove to myself that I can give you everything and survive it."

He traces my collarbones with gentle fingers, down between my breasts, over the tattooed coordinates on my ribs. "You have nothing to prove."

"Then teach me. Show me. Make me yours in ways she never was."

Something shifts in his expression—desire winning over restraint. "Turn around."

I do, and feel him move closer, his chest against my back, his arms coming around me. One hand splays across my stomach, holding me steady. The other traces my spine, from the base of my neck down to my lower back.

"There are ways I've wanted you," he says against my ear, his voice rough. "Ways I've imagined claiming you that have nothing to do with her and everything to do with how perfectly you fit against me, how responsive you are, how you trust me even when you're scared."

"Show me."

He walks me to the bed and bends me over the edge gently. I hear a drawer open and close. Then his hands are on me, spreading me, and I understand what he's asking for. What I'm offering.

"This might hurt," he warns, his fingers gentle as they begin preparing me with something slick and cool. "We go slow. You say stop, we stop."

"I know." But my voice shakes because this is territory I never imagined exploring, a vulnerability I never thought I'd offer anyone.

He takes his time, working me open carefully, and I focus on breathing, on relaxing, on trusting him. One finger, then two, patient and thorough. The intrusion is strange, not painful exactly, but overwhelming in its intimacy.

"Talk to me," he says. "Tell me what you're thinking."

"I'm terrified," I admit, my voice muffled by the sheets. "Not of pain but of being disposable after. Once you've had me in every way, will I still matter? Or will I just be conquered territory?"

He stops preparing me, turns me over so I'm on my back, making me look at him. His eyes are fierce, almost angry.

"You mattered before I touched you," he says, each word deliberate. "You mattered when you were just a payment for your uncle's debt. You mattered when you found that first discrepancy in my books. You'll matter after I'm dead, because loving you has changed me in ways that can't be undone."

"Promise?"

"I swear on my son's life. On my mother's grave. On every scar on my body. You will always matter."

He kisses me then, deep and desperate, and I taste truth in it. When he turns me back over, I'm ready. Not just physically, but emotionally, spiritually, every part of me ready to give him this last piece of myself.

He positions himself carefully, one hand on my hip, the other rubbing soothing circles on my lower back. "Breathe. Push back against me when you're ready."

The first press of him is impossible. Too big, too much, my body trying to reject the intrusion.

But he's patient, working himself in millimeter by millimeter, letting me adjust. The pain is there, but minimal compared to what I expected—a stretching burn that walks the line between discomfort and something else.

"You're doing so well," he murmurs, his voice strained with the effort of going slow. "So perfect. Taking me so well."

When he's fully inside me, we both pause, breathing hard. The fullness is overwhelming, feeling him in places I didn't know I could feel. Then he starts to move, shallow thrusts that make sparks shoot up my spine.

His hand comes around to find my clit, circling it with perfect pressure, and suddenly the discomfort transforms into something else entirely. Pleasure, dark and deep and unlike anything I've experienced before.

That's when I start crying.

He freezes immediately, panicked. "I'm hurting you. We should stop?—"

"No!" I reach back, grab his hip to keep him in place. "No, you're not hurting me. You're healing me. I didn't know it could be healing."

"Baby—"

"Every other touch I've known has been about taking—my uncle taking my dignity, my brother taking my safety, buyers taking my worth. But you... you give even when you take. You make me feel whole even when you're breaking me apart. Please don't stop. Please."

He moves again, slower now, reverent.

We find a rhythm that feels like prayer, like war, like peace. Like we're meant to fit together exactly like this, two broken pieces making something complete. His fingers work my clit as he moves inside me, and I'm climbing toward something vast and terrifying.

"Mine," he growls, his control finally slipping as his thrusts become harder, deeper.

"Yours," I gasp, pushing back to meet him. "Always yours. Only yours."

When I fall apart, it's with his name on my lips and tears on my cheeks.

The pleasure is so intense it borders on pain, so complete it feels like rebirth.

He follows me over, his arms coming around me, holding me through the waves that seem endless.

I understand now why wars are fought over this—this connection, this claiming, this complete surrender that somehow feels like victory.

After, he cleans us both with infinite gentleness, warm washcloths and soft touches, murmuring praise against my skin.

Then he pulls me against his chest, holding me like I might shatter or disappear.

I can feel his heart racing against my back, matching mine.

"She means nothing," he says into the darkness. "What we just did... that wasn't about her or competing with her. That was about us. About you trusting me with everything, even your fear."

I want to believe him.

God, I want to.

But there's still that voice in my head that whispers I'll never be enough. Never be the mother of his child. Never be the woman who marked him permanently. Never be his first love.

But maybe, a smaller voice suggests, being his last love matters more.

"Tell me about tomorrow," I say, needing to focus on something concrete. "How do we stop Mikhail's shipments?"

"We don't stop them." His voice turns calculating, strategic. "We let them continue, but we track them. Document everything. Build a case so airtight that when we move against him, he has nowhere to run."

"And Sienna?"

"Sienna made a mistake showing her hand. Now I know what she wants—to destroy what I've built, to take you from me, to use our son as leverage. But she doesn't know what you found tonight. Doesn't know that her partner just gave us the weapon to destroy them both."

"The weapons shipments."

"Your beautiful brain and its gift for seeing patterns. She always underestimated intelligence that didn't come with violence. That's why she'll lose."

We lie in silence for a while, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my skin. Then he speaks again, voice soft.

"I need you to know something. Dante—it doesn't change us. If anything, it makes you more important."

"How?"

"Because he's going to need someone who understands what real love is. Someone who knows how to heal instead of just hurt. Someone who can teach him that strength doesn't always mean destruction." His arms tighten around me. "He's going to need you."

The thought terrifies and thrills me in equal measure. "I don't know how to be a mother."

"You know how to love despite trauma. That's all any child really needs."

"The weapons," I say, circling back to safer ground. "We need to be careful. If Mikhail realizes we know?—"

"Later. Right now, you're mine."

"Just us," I agree, but even as I drift toward sleep, I can't stop thinking about green eyes and dark-haired boys and the woman who had him first.

She might not have him now, but she has his son. His blood. His legacy.

All I have is his present, and I can't shake the feeling that when forced to choose between his past and his present, blood will win.

It always does in families like ours.