Page 8 of Dirty Game

But I pull the watch off, extend my wrist.

Five perfect circles, a constellation of cruelty mapped on pale skin.

His fingers hover over them, and I hold my breath.

The almost-touch is excruciating, intimate.

I can feel the heat from his skin, see the fine lines on his palms still stained faintly pink from blood he didn't quite wash away.

His thumb traces the air above each burn, learning their pattern without making contact.

"Your father?" His voice is soft, dangerous.

"Uncle Enzo. He wanted me to cry, but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. So, he kept trying."

"He's still alive."

"He's my uncle."

"That's not an answer."

I pull my wrist back, but he catches it—gentle but firm.

His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist, just below the scars, and I gasp at the contact.

It's the first time he's deliberately touched my skin, and it feels like being branded all over again, but different.

Not pain.

Something else entirely.

"These are old," he comments, thumb still resting on my pulse.

He must feel how fast my heart is racing.

"But this one." His other hand hovers over a now faint bruise on my upper arm, visible where my cardigan has slipped. "This is recent."

"I ran into a door."

"Try again." His thumb moves in a small circle on my wrist, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.

"Jensen. When he brought me here. He wasn't rough, just... firm. It's nothing."

Varrick's eyes darken further, if that's possible. "Jensen put hands on you?"

"To guide me. To make sure I didn't run. It's nothing," I repeat, but my voice comes out breathless because he's still touching my wrist, and his other hand has moved to my chin, tilting my face up to his.

"Everything is something when it comes to you," he says, and I don't understand what that means, but I can't think when he's this close, when I can see the gold flecks in his dark eyes, when his thumb is pressing against my pulse like he's memorizing its rhythm.

"Why?" The question escapes before I can stop it. "Why do I matter?"

"Because you're mine." Simple. Possessive. Final. "And I take care of what's mine."

He releases me suddenly, stepping back, and I sway slightly without him to anchor me.

My wrist burns where he touched it, my chin tingles where his fingers were.

"You're not what I expected, little mouse."