Page 93 of Dirty Game

Pulling out, I turn her to face me and yank her onto the bed. I lay beside her, stroking her skin, steadying my breathing for the confession that comes next.

Then I press her hand to my chest, right over the place where my heart should be. “See? You’re nothing like her. You’re everything she could never be.”

Her eyes fill again, but this time it’s not from pain.

She closes them, lets out a breath, and finally—finally—believes me.

I hold her there, the two of us reflected back in the glass.

All the mirrors in the world, and she’s the only thing that doesn’t lie.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Rosalynn

I can't stop comparing myself to her.

It's been two days since the gala, since Sienna Cross walked back into Varrick's life with his son in tow, and I've become obsessed with cataloging our differences.

Not just the obvious ones—her dark hair to my blonde, her poisonous green eyes to my ice blue, her curves that command attention versus my delicate frame that's learned to disappear.

It's deeper than that.

Sienna is elegant violence.

I've done my research, spent hours combing through files Jensen pretended not to notice me accessing.

She was trained from childhood in the Cross family business—weapons, warfare, and manipulation.

She speaks six languages fluently.

She can kill a man seventeen different ways with her bare hands.

Hell, she turned her family's pain into power, transformed every beating her father gave her into fuel for her empire.

Her father was known for his brutality, even among brutal men.

The stories I found made my stomach turn—public executions of disappointing soldiers, creative tortures that lasted for days, a complete lack of mercy even for family.

Especially for family. Sienna survived that, thrived in it, became it.

I'm just broken.

Where she took her trauma and forged it into armor, I'm still bleeding from wounds that should have healed years ago.

I still flinch when doors slam. I still check corners before entering rooms. I still wake up sometimes thinking Marco is standing over me with a lit cigarette, asking if I'm ready to cry yet.

Where she learned to weaponize her sexuality, using her body as another tool in her arsenal, I'm still learning what desire means.

Still discovering that my body can feel pleasure instead of just enduring pain. Still surprised every time Varrick touches me with reverence instead of ownership.

She gave Varrick a son. A legacy, an heir, proof of their connection that will last forever.

The thought of pregnancy terrifies me.

Not the pain of childbirth, but the vulnerability of it. Nine months of being swollen, slow, unable to run if I needed to.

A lifetime of having something that could be used against me, the way I was used against Uncle Enzo.