Page 82 of Dirty Game
The ballroom is all crystal chandeliers and gold leaf, filled with men in custom tuxedos and women dripping diamonds that could feed small countries.
I recognize some faces from the dinner at The Broken Crown—men who watched Varrick break bones for insulting me.
They don't look at me now.
Message received, loud and clear.
Varrick deposits me at our table like I'm a fragile package he's afraid to damage. "I have business to attend to. Stay here. Jensen will be close if you need anything."
Then he's gone, swallowed by the crowd of Chicago's most dangerous men, all pretending to be philanthropists for the night.
I sit alone, nursing champagne I don't want, watching him work the room.
He's magnetic in his tux, commanding attention without trying.
Men defer to him, women eye him with obvious interest, and I can't stop staring.
He owns every room he enters, but tonight there's an edge to him, a tension in his shoulders that wasn't there before the safe house.
Neither can he stop watching me, I realize.
Every few minutes, no matter who he's talking to, his eyes find me across the room.
But he doesn't come closer.
He won't come closer.
Like I'm something dangerous he needs to monitor from a distance.
Like if he gets too close, something might shatter.
An older woman at my table tries to make conversation about the cause, something about literacy programs that definitely don't exist, but I can barely focus.
All I can think about is the last time Varrick looked at me with heat instead of distance, when his hands mapped every inch of my body like he was memorizing me for a test he couldn't afford to fail.
I'm so focused on him that I don't notice her approach until she's standing right beside me, expensive perfume announcing her presence like a calling card.
"You must be the new pet."
The voice is smooth as aged whiskey, sharp as a blade.
I look up to find a woman who makes the word devastating seem inadequate.
She's poured into a black dress that looks painted on, every curve deliberately displayed.
Her dark hair is swept up in an elegant twist that probably costs more than most people's rent.
Her cheekbones could cut glass, her lips are painted blood red, and her eyes are the kind of green that makes you think of poison. Beautiful poison.
She's on the arm of a severe-looking Russian man with scarred knuckles and dead eyes.
He's handsome in a brutal way, but it's the child with her that stops my heart.
A boy, maybe five, with dark hair carefully combed and wearing a tiny tuxedo that makes him look like a miniature adult.
But his eyes—God, his eyes are exactly like Varrick's.
Dark and intense, seeing too much, holding secrets too heavy for such a young face.
