Page 32 of Dirty Game (Broken Blood #1)

“Uno. Due. Tre. Cinque. Otto. Tredici—” Prime numbers, in Italian. A mantra. A shield.

Her hands are ruined.

Fingers swollen, twisted, nails split and bleeding.

I cut the cuffs, peel them off her wrists slowly so I don’t break more skin. She sags forward, body limp, but her voice keeps going, counting, counting, counting.

“Rosalynn,” I say again, louder.

Her gaze finds mine. For half a second, she doesn’t recognize me. Then she blinks, slow, and the fire comes back. She swallows, tries to form words.

“Didn’t… tell them,” she rasps. “Kept the books safe.”

I shake my head. “Fuck the books.”

She blinks, confused.

“You matter more than any of this,” I say, voice breaking for the first time since I was a kid.

She stares at me, tears pooling, then looks down at her hands. “They broke me.”

“No. Never.”

Korrin checks the hall, then signals all clear. “Time to go.”

I lift her, careful as I can. She weighs nothing. Just bones and blue eyes and pain.

She tries to stand, but her knees buckle. I hold her against my chest, blood soaking into my shirt. She doesn’t resist.

Her voice is so small I almost miss it. “I can walk.”

“You don’t have to.”

She presses her face to my neck, shivers. “Thank you,” she whispers.

“Don’t thank me,” I say. “Just stay with me.”

We move out, every step away from the chair a victory.

The corridors are empty now. Dead men everywhere, but none that matter.

When we reach the surface, the rain is still coming down, hard and sharp. Rosalynn turns her face up into it, lets it wash the blood away.

We make it to the car, and Cyrus opens the back door. He doesn’t say a word, just wraps her in a thermal blanket and offers her a water bottle, but she doesn’t want it.

Korrin peels away in the lead car, already laughing at the thought of the next fight.

I slide in beside Rosalynn, close the door, and hold her until the shaking stops.

She keeps her hand on top of mine, needing that kind of support.

Blood leaks slowly through the towel I wrap around her wrists. I can feel every tremor, every jolt in her body as we move.

She’s awake, barely. Eyes half-open, unfocused. Her breath saws in and out, every inhale a fight.

She’s shivering now. I wrap both arms around her, trying to share the heat, but she just curls up tighter. The blanket slips off her shoulder, revealing purple and yellow blooms all down her arm.

“You’re hurt,” I say, uselessly. What the fuck else could I say? They hurt my woman.

Revenge is sweet, but death will be sweeter.

She snorts. “No shit.”

Cyrus turns around from the front seat, eyes sharp. “There’s a safehouse ten minutes from here. Korrin will meet us there. You have to keep pressure on her hand.”

I nod, but Rosalynn is already fading. Her head drops to my chest, lips moving in a silent recitation.

I tilt her face up, make her look at me. “Stay with me, Rosalynn. Stay awake, my girl.”

She blinks, pupils huge. “Why?”

“Because I’m not losing you.”

Her mouth twitches, almost a smile. “You’re scared.”

“I’m never scared,” I say, but my voice shakes.

Her fingers dig weakly into my shirt. “Let me be weak,” she whispers, so soft I almost miss it. “So I can be strong again.”

It floors me. I’ve never heard her ask for anything.

She rests her head on my shoulder. The ride is rough, and every bump makes her flinch, but she never complains.

After a minute, she says, “You came for me.”

I answer, “I’d never leave you behind, little mouse.”

Her eyes close.

“You’re mine,” my voice is soft. “I protect what’s mine.”

She laughs, or tries to. It comes out as a cough. “Good. I need you.”

I could say more, but I don’t. I just hold her while the city blurs by outside.

Then her body tenses. She looks up at me, panic surging. “Dante?—”

I hush her, stroke her hair. “We’ll get him. I swear.”

She nods, trusting me, and lets go. Her head droops, body finally surrendering to shock and pain.

Cyrus says, “Two minutes,” and I count every second.

When we reach the safehouse, I lift her out. Her arm dangles, blood painting the sidewalk in fat drops.

I kick the door open and carry her inside, straight to the bathroom.

The light is bright, blinding. It reflects off every white tile, making the room a cell.

I set her down on the closed toilet. She sags, eyes rolling.

“Stay with me, mouse.”

She blinks, then smiles. “Mouse.”

I work fast, tearing gauze, taping the worst wounds, doing what I can for the fingers. The bones are shattered, but the bleeding stops.

She watches me the whole time. “You’re good at this,” she says.

I shrug. “You get practice.”

When I finish, she clings to my wrist. “Don’t leave.”

“Never.”

She pulls me in, forehead to forehead. Her eyes are raw, stripped of all defenses.

“I’m scared,” she says.

“Me too.”

And that’s the truest thing I’ve said in years.

She laughs, soft and tired, and before I know it, she’s asleep.

I carry her to the bedroom, lay her on the sheets, and sit beside her until the sun comes up.

Outside, the world is burning. Inside, all that matters is this.

Her.

For the first time since I can remember, I have something worth saving.

And I’ll kill anyone who tries to take her from me.