Page 53 of Dirty Game

Jerome hits the floor, blood pouring from his nose.

Varrick stands over him, knuckles already split.

"You're done," he says simply. "Twenty-four hours to transfer every cent you stole, or I start taking payment in flesh."

"You can't?—"

Varrick's foot comes down on Jerome's hand, and I hear bones crack.

Jerome screams, high and pathetic.

"Twenty-three million buys a lot of pain, Jerome. I can keep you alive for months, breaking one bone at a time. Would you like me to show you the math on that? How many bones in the human body versus how much you stole per bone?"

Another crack. Another scream.

"Or you can transfer the money and disappear. Your choice."

"I'll transfer it! I'll transfer everything!"

"Good." Varrick steps back, pulls out his phone. "Jensen, escort Mr. Watts out. Make sure he understands the timeline."

Jensen appears as if from nowhere, hauls Jerome to his feet.

The older man is cradling his broken hand, blood still streaming from his nose, but he manages one last venomous look at me.

"You think you're special? You're just another whore who?—"

Varrick's hand shoots out, grabs Jerome's throat. "Finish that sentence.Please.Give me the excuse to skip the twenty-four hours and go straight to the killing."

Jerome wisely stays silent.

Jensen drags him out, and then we're alone.

"My office. Now."

I follow on shaking legs, hyperaware of how exposed I am, how his shirt rides up with each step.

He closes the door behind us, locks it, and then I'm pressed against it, his hands on either side of my head.

"You're wearing my shirt," he says, and I can't tell if it's approval or accusation.

"My clothes are in the laundry."

"You're practically naked in my kitchen, arguing with my business partner about embezzlement."

"I was handling it."

"You were." His eyes are dark, unreadable. "You're learning to fight back."

"He was insulting me. Insulting you by extension."

"You defended yourself."

"You said I belong to you." The words come out stronger than I feel. "Doesn't that mean I represent you? Your reputation? Your standards?"

Something shifts in his expression, something raw and hungry. "Say it again."

"I represent?—"