Page 64 of Dirty Game

But then I remember the blood on my hands, the mess I am, the monster I am… and it makes me think of Sienna.

All of the blood on my body makes me think ofher.

I force myself to stop and pull back, breathing hard.

“Not like this,” I say, voice rough. “Not with blood on me.”

She blinks, confused. “I don’t care.”

“I do,” I tell her. “You deserve better than this.”

I can’t tell her that every time Sienna and I fucked, I almost always had blood on my hands.

She sits in my lap, hands still in my hair, eyes searching my face. For a long time, neither of us moves.

The desire between us is trying to destroy me from the inside out, crawling under my skin, but I hold it in check.

I lift her off my lap, stand, and pull her into my arms.

I hold her there, tight, as if I can squeeze all the fear and doubt out of her.

We stay like that for a long time.

Long enough for the blood on my hands to dry, and for the ache in my side to remind me that nothing good comes without a little pain.

I head straight into the shower, and no matter what I do, I can’t get the blood off.

No matter how many times I scrub, it clings in the lines of my palms, under the nails, at the base of the cut where the bullet grazed my ribs.

I stand in the shower, water blasting hot enough to raise steam, watching the pink swirl down the drain, and still it’s not enough.

I brace my hands on the tile, let the water beat down on my neck, and lean into the sting.

My breath bounces back at me, loud and animal. I scrub until my skin is raw, until the pain in my side flares with every movement.

Through the glass, I see Rosalynn’s reflection.

She’s watching, arms crossed, face unreadable. Her hair’s tied back.

She doesn’t look away, even as I turn to face her, water running down my chest.

“You can come in,” I say, voice echoing off the tile. “Or you can keep staring.”

She opens the door, steps inside, but doesn’t undress.

She stands there in the shirt and leggings, hair slicked from the humidity, eyes fixed on my hands.

“Why does it matter?” she asks. “My father never cared about blood. My brother thought it was a joke.”

“It matters to me,” I say.

“Why?”

I can’t explain it. Maybe because I know what it’s like to have your soul stained with things you can’t wash off.

Maybe because I want her to believe, for a second, that I’m not just a violent monster, but I am, and we both know it.

“Because you’re not meant for this,” I tell her. “You’re not meant for—” I can’t finish. I don’t know the word. I never learned it.