Page 6 of Dirty Game (Broken Blood #1)

Paulie's hand squeezes my thigh, and I can't breathe.

I can't move.

I'm frozen like I used to freeze when Marco would come into my room drunk, when Uncle Enzo would let his creditors get too close.

"Maybe we should test that," Luigi suggests. "See how well-trained she really is. Bane's been gone for five minutes. We could?—"

The sound of impact cuts him off.

Varrick's hand is on the back of Luigi's head, having slammed his face into his dinner plate with enough force to shatter the porcelain.

Blood pours from his nose, mixing with the pasta sauce in a grotesque painting.

The man tries to rise, but Varrick's hand keeps him pinned, grinding his broken face into the mess.

"Say another word about her," Varrick's voice is soft, pleasant even. "Please. Give me an excuse."

Paulie's hand disappears from my thigh so fast he knocks over his wine.

The red spreads across the white tablecloth like blood.

The restaurant has gone silent.

Even the waiters have frozen, recognizing the moment before violence truly erupts.

"It was just talk," Paulie says carefully, hands raised in surrender. "We didn't mean?—"

"You meant every word." Varrick releases Luigi, who collapses back in his chair, clutching his destroyed nose. "And you touched her."

"I didn't?—"

Varrick's hand shoots out, grabs Paulie's wrist—the hand that was on my thigh.

The crack of breaking bone is loud in the silence.

Paulie screams.

"You touched what's mine," Varrick says conversationally, still holding the broken wrist. "Do you know what I do to people who touch what's mine?"

"Please—"

Another crack.

Another finger or bone breaking.

Paulie is sobbing now, and I should be terrified, but instead I feel something else.

Something dark and warm unfurling in my chest.

"Anyone else want to test me?" Varrick asks the table. No one moves. No one breathes. "Anyone else want to discuss what they think she is? What they'd like to do to her? What they think I do to her?"

Silence.

"Good." He releases Paulie's mangled wrist. "But just so we're clear—she's not a whore. She's not entertainment. She's not available. She's mine . And I don't share."

He pulls out a roll of cash, drops it on the table. "For the damages and the medical bills."

Then his hand is on my elbow, pulling me up. "We're leaving."

I follow on shaking legs, aware of every eye tracking us.

Luigi is cursing through his broken nose.

Paulie is cradling his destroyed wrist.

Viktor is smiling like this is the best entertainment he's had all week.

Varrick guides me through the restaurant, his hand burning through the silk at the small of my back.

We don't wait for Jensen.

He hails a cab instead, pushes me inside, gives the driver his address.

The moment the cab moves, I expect an explosion.

The rage. The punishment for causing a scene, even though I said nothing, did nothing.

Instead, he stares out the window, jaw clenched so tight I can hear his teeth grinding.

"You didn't have to defend me," I whisper. "I'm used to it. I know what they think I am."

His hands tighten on his knees. "What they think you are?"

"Your whore. Uncle Enzo's payment. Something to be used." I keep my voice steady, clinical. "It's what I am. You didn't have to break his nose and his wrist over the truth."

The cab stops at a light.

Varrick turns to me, and the look in his eyes makes me press back against the door.

"The truth?" His voice is dangerously quiet. "The truth is, you're mine to protect now. Mine to defend. Mine to keep safe from men who think they have the right to discuss you like you're meat. To touch you without permission."

"But I am?—"

"You're mine." He cuts me off. "That's all you are. Not a whore. Not a payment. Mine. And I take care of what's mine. Get used to that instead of whatever bullshit your uncle taught you to accept."

"He touched me," I say quietly. "Paulie. His hand was on my thigh."

"I know." His voice goes even quieter, which I'm learning means even more dangerous. "I saw everything, little mouse. That's why his wrist will never heal right."

"You were watching?"

"I never left. I stood where I could see you, see them. I wanted to know how far they'd go. How far you'd let them go." He turns to face me fully. "You just sat there. Let him touch you. Why?"

"Because that's what I do. What I've always done. When Marco would come into my room, when Uncle Enzo would let his friends get too close, when men would grope me all over—" I stop, swallow hard. "I learned not to fight. Fighting makes it worse."

Something shifts in his expression. "Your brother came into your room?"

I look out the window. "Sometimes. When he was drunk. He never... he didn't... he just liked to hurt me. The cigarette burns. Other things."

"Other things?"

"It doesn't matter."

" Everything about you matters." The words are fierce, possessive. "Every scar, every fear, every person who's ever hurt you—it all matters because you're mine now, and I need to know what damage I'm working with."

The rest of the ride passes in what I can only describe as tense silence.

I stare at my hands, at the red nails like blood drops, and try to understand what just happened.

Varrick Bane didn't just break someone's nose for insulting me.

He broke bones.

He drew blood.

He declared ownership in front of the most dangerous men in Vancouver.

Back at the penthouse, Varrick disappears into his office without a word.

I escape to my room, eager to shed this dress that makes me feel too visible, too much like what those men said I was.

But when I reach for the zipper, I realize it's beyond my reach.

Maria had to zip me into it this morning.

I struggle for several minutes, pride keeping me from asking for help.

My skin feels too tight, like I need to claw it off.

I can still feel Paulie's hand on my thigh, still smell his cologne, still hear their laughter.

Finally, there's a knock at my door.

"You haven't eaten."

I open the door to find Varrick holding a tray.

He's removed his jacket and tie, sleeves rolled up, blood spatter still faint on his white shirt.

He looks less like the king of Vancouver and more like a dangerous man trying to be domestic.

"I ate at the restaurant."

"You pushed food around your plate." He enters without invitation, sets the tray on my dresser. "That's not eating."

The smell hits me—soup, fresh bread, something chocolate I can't identify.

My stomach clenches with actual hunger, not the nervous nausea I've been fighting all night.

"I'm fine."

"You're shaking." He moves behind me, and

I freeze. "The zipper?"

I nod, unable to speak with him this close.

His fingers find the zipper, but he pauses. "You let him touch you," he says quietly. "But you flinch when I get close."

"You're different."

"How?"

"You're..." I struggle for words. "You matter."

His breath catches.

Then, slowly, he draws the zipper down.

The silk parts, cool air hitting my spine, and I clutch the front of the dress to keep it from falling.

His fingers ghost over my exposed back, not quite touching, and goosebumps rise everywhere.

"There's a robe in the bathroom," he says, voice rougher than before. "Put it on and eat."

He turns his back while I grab the robe, and I quickly shed the dress and wrap myself in terry cloth that smells like the expensive detergent Maria uses.

When I turn back, he's seated in the chair by my window, watching me with an expression I can't read.

"Sit. Eat."

I perch on the edge of my bed, pull the tray onto my lap.

The soup is perfect—not too hot, seasoned with things I can't name but that make my mouth water.

I take a small spoonful, then another when he doesn't stop me.

"You don't eat enough," he observes.

"I eat what I need."

"You eat like you're afraid someone's going to take it away." He leans back in the chair, studying me. "Or like you think you don't deserve it."

I don't answer, just focus on the soup.

It's easier than meeting his eyes, than trying to understand why he cares whether I eat.

"The bread too," he orders when I only touch the soup.

I tear off a small piece, dip it in the soup.

It's good—really good.

Warm and filling in a way I'd forgotten food could be.

"Here." He stands suddenly, picks up something from the tray—a chocolate-covered strawberry. "Open."

I stare at him. "What?"

"Open your mouth."

My lips part automatically at the command in his voice.

He steps closer, holds the strawberry to my lips. "Bite."

I bite.

Chocolate cracks under my teeth, then the burst of sweet fruit.

Juice runs down my chin, and his thumb catches it, wipes it away slowly. We both freeze at the contact.

His thumb traces my bottom lip, and I can't breathe, can't think.

There's chocolate there too, and he wipes it away with deliberate slowness, his thumb dragging across my lip in a way that makes my whole body go hot.

"You have no idea, do you?" His voice is rough, dark. "No idea what you look like. What you do to me."

"I don't understand."

"I know." His thumb presses slightly against my bottom lip, and my mouth parts involuntarily.

"That's what makes it worse. You sit there and take their abuse because you think you deserve it.

You let them reduce you to parts—mouth, cunt, the space between your thighs.

But you don't even know what those parts are for. What they could be for."

"I know what I'm for," I whisper against his thumb. "Uncle Enzo made it very clear. I'm currency."

"No." He cups my face with his whole hand, thumb still on my lip. "You're not currency. You're not payment. You're mine. And that means something different than what your uncle taught you."

"What does it mean?"

He leans closer, and I can smell him—whiskey and blood and that dark cologne. "It means I protect you. Defend you. Break anyone who tries to hurt you." His thumb traces my lip again. "It means you eat when I tell you to eat. Sleep when I tell you to sleep. It means you're safe."

"And what do you get?"