Page 25 of Dirty Game

"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."

"Everythingabout 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.