Page 17 of Dirty Game
I nod. “Probably both.”
The ghost of a smile flickers across her face, bitter and precise. “Then I’m safer here.”
For a second, I want to say something, maybe offer a deal, a loophole, a promise that means more than the last one I made.
Instead, I just stand there, my fists useless at my sides.
“Let’s go,” I say. “This med room isn’t equipped for your injuries. I want to have you fully checked.”
She falls in step, like she’s always belonged here, adjusting her shirt back into place.
I walk half a stride ahead, hand hovering at the small of her back but never touching.
She knows I could force the issue, but I don’t.
Not with her. The difference between violence and care is consent, and I’ve always been a stickler for rules—at least the ones I write myself.
At the elevator, she presses the button.
Her fingers are unsteady, but she does it anyway.
I glance sideways, just in time to see her wince as she flexes her arm.
She catches me watching, and for the first time, she doesn’t look away.
“Thank you,” she says.
I nod, once. “You’re welcome.”
The doors open, drowning us in creaks and machinery.
Inside, we’re reflections of ourselves in the polished paneling, two survivors, each with their own set of scars.
I stare at her bruises, at the delicate structure of her wrist, and vow to remember every mark.
I intend to balance the books, one way or another.
My medical suite is three floors below the penthouse.
Clean, bright, never used for anything except patching up the wounds that shouldn’t exist.
The air smells like bleach and something sharper, astringent.
I hate it, but I trust it.
Rosalynn sits on the edge of the table, legs dangling.
She’s pale, paler than usual, and her hair hangs loose over her face like a curtain.
She holds her injured arm tight against her ribs, defensive even in safety.
Dr. Powell glances up at me, waiting for permission to proceed.
He’s been on my payroll for a decade.
Seen enough gunshot wounds and snapped fingers to know when not to speak.
“Do it,” I say.
