Page 39 of Dirty Game

Old ones, from the way the edges curl and the colors have faded to sepia suggestions.

His hair is damp with sweat, chest bare, wearing only low-slung sweatpants that reveal more skin than I've ever seen on him.

Scars map his torso like a history of violence—some old and silver, others still pink and angry.

In his hand is a lighter.

"You should be sleeping," he says without looking up.

"So should you."

I move closer, and that's when I see what the photos are.

Not recent ones. Not business associates or enemies or any of the people who populate his current world.

These are pictures of a boy.

Dark-haired, bright-eyed, smiling with an openness that makes my chest ache because I know who he became.

"Who's that boy?" I ask, sinking to my knees beside him.

He holds one photo up to the light—the boy, maybe fifteen, standing in front of what looks like a church.

He's wearing an ill-fitting suit but grinning like he's won the lottery. "Someone who thought love meant something different."

The lighter flicks open. The flame dances, eager to consume.

I don't think. I just reach out, take the photo from his hand before he can feed it to the fire. "Don't."

His jaw clenches. "They're my memories to burn."

"He looks hopeful," I say, studying the boy's face. There's something in his eyes that the man beside me has lost—not innocence exactly, but a belief that the world might be kind. "What was he hopeful about?"

"Everything. Nothing. Does it matter?" He reaches for the photo, but I pull it back.

"Hope died," he says flatly. "That boy died. The photos are just evidence of someone who doesn't exist anymore."

"Maybe it's not dead," I say quietly, looking at teenage Varrick's smile. "Maybe it's just sleeping."

Something shifts in the air between us.

The temperature drops or rises—I can't tell which, only that everything suddenly feels charged, dangerous.

"Don't." His voice is barely a whisper.

"Don't what?"

"Don't look at me like that. Like I'm salvageable. Like there's something in me worth saving."

"Isn't there?"

He moves so fast I don't have time to react.

One moment I'm kneeling beside him, the next my back is against the wall, his hands braced on either side of my head, caging me in.

This close, I can see every scar, every imperfection, every mark that tells the story of how that hopeful boy became this dangerous man.

There aresomany scars.