Page 34 of Broken Deal

I choose to ignore his comment, tilting my head toward the poker table where he had been sitting instead. “What were the stakes?”

He glances at the table for a moment, his jaw tightening as a flicker of something unreadable flashes in his eyes. Then he turns his gaze back to me. “You.”

His comment is like a bucket of ice water, snapping me back to reality. If there’s one thing men have, it’s the fucking audacity. Really. Society has let men get away with entirely too much, making them believe they can step in and do whatever thehell they want.

“I’m not some toy you get to bet for,” I snap.

“Trust me, I did you a favor. You don’t want to get mixed with Julian,” he retorts very matter-of-factly.

“Who I mix myself with isnoneof your business. You’re not my keeper.”

He scrubs his face, groaning in frustration. “Forgive me for caring about you.”

That word knocks the wind out of me. Men don’tcareabout me. They mostly want to use me for my body and for a good time. All I am is the pit stop before they meet the woman of their dreams. And that’s fine with me.

Yeah, if you say it enough times, maybe you’ll believe it.

Someonecaringfor me is a concept I’m not familiar with. How could I be? I’ve never known what that feels like. I mean, my mom cared for me in the best way she knew how. But amanhasn’t cared about me, ever. Not that I need it, though.

“I got involved with you, didn’t I? How much worse can it get?” I fire back.

His gaze locks onto mine, and I can feel the color drain from my face as the realization of what came out of my mouth hits me. This is my pattern: I’m loud, hot-headed, and often speak before thinking. But honestly, what’s an appropriate response to being told I was the prize in a bet?

Before I can open my mouth to say something, maybe to even apologize, he bursts into laughter.

“You’re a feisty little thing, aren’t you?” he asks, a knowing smile on his lips.

Confusion creases my face. “You’re not offended?”

“No.” He shakes his head, stepping into my space.

He lightly brushes his knuckles against my cheek, and his cologne, strong as always, captivates me. I fight to hold back a small whimper from the tempting aroma. Istraighten up and lift my chin, trying to show him he doesn’t affect me. Fake it ’til you make it and all that.

“I like you just like this. Unfiltered and all.” His voice drops an octave.

“One of these days we’re going to sit down and talk about those boundaries I keep telling you about,” I manage to say, panting slightly. I’m trying my best to ignore the sudden need I feel between my legs. The way his knuckles feel against my cheek makes me wish he was grazing any other part of my body.

He slides his hand into his pocket, taking his warmth away as he casually shrugs. “I don’t think you mean that.”

Yeah, I’m not too sure I mean it either.

“You sure love to keep assuming things,” I point out then turn around to start walking to Aria and Damian’s table. Before I can get too far, he grabs my arm, gripping it softly.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” he asks.

“None of your concern.”

His eyes gleam with that familiar playful glint as he bites his lip softly and shakes his head. Lorenzo’s gaze is always intense, and when he looks at me like that, my body reacts. It’s completely involuntary—or so I keep telling myself. He places his hand on my waist, guiding me to the table. I try my best to watch my steps, but my body is too entirely focused on his hand, where it’s placed and how it feels. The burning sensation is relentless and charged, and it does nothing to help ease that achy sensation between my legs.

“Saw you playing with Molina. Did you win?” Damian asks.

Lorenzo brings out a chair and nods at it for me to sit. “Of course, I won. I’m quite offended you even had to ask,” he replies with a scoff.

I glare at the chair then at him. “I don’t need you to get a chair for me. I have arms, you know?”

“Like I’ve said before, Bella?2, my chivalry will never allow something like that.”

I raise an eyebrow, meeting his gaze with a silent challenge. I’m not sure why I do this. I always try to find a way to spar with him. That’s who I am—I can never make things simple. It’s ironic, given how complicated my life has always been. In a twisted way, I keep returning to those patterns.

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