Page 35 of Dirty Game
I understand enough.
He calls me the devil, or maybe just a devil’s son.
I press my boot to his throat until the sound stops.
Then I lift my leg and stomp, crushing his windpipe and along with it, any hope he may have had for survival.
The room is very quiet now.
The only sound is my breathing and the slow drip of blood from Rosalynn’s arm.
She’s still standing, still clutching the knife.
I cross to her, making sure to approach from the front, slow and open.
She flinches when I get close, but doesn’t back away.
I reach for her wrist—the one that’s bleeding.
She doesn’t resist, but she doesn’t let go of the knife either.
“You’re safe,” I say, and this time I mean it.
I grab the knife from her fingers, careful not to cut us both. Her hand stays in the gripping position, even after the blade is gone.
I drop the knife and pull a handkerchief from my pocket, wrap it around her wound.
It’s superficial, but blood always looks worse on her pale skin.
She watches me with a weary attention, watching every move.
I look around at the bodies, the carnage, the legacy of violence that I’ve inherited and improved.
“Sorry about the mess,” I say.
Outside, the hallway is empty except for the one guard crumpled on the floor.
“We should go get you checked out.” I wait for her to speak.
She doesn’t.
I watch the rise and fall of her breath, the tremor in her hand, and know that she will never forget what she saw here.
She finally shakes her head. “I couldn’t let them get in the safe.”
“Why?”
“Because… I wasn’t sure you’d come, and this all feels like a bad dream.”
Nodding, I open the door, and she steps back inside cautiously.
The first thing I notice when the adrenaline dies is how small she looks.
All the fight drained out, just a slip of a girl who was holding a kitchen knife like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.
Her hands are shaking.
The cut on her forearm is shallow but wide, beading red along the edge, but most of the blood isn’t hers.
