Page 98 of Dirty Game
Then he pulls me against his chest, holding me like I might shatter or disappear.
I can feel his heart racing against my back, matching mine.
"She means nothing," he says into the darkness. "What we just did... that wasn't about her or competing with her. That was about us. About you trusting me with everything, even your fear."
I want to believe him.
God, I want to.
But there's still that voice in my head that whispers I'll never be enough. Never be the mother of his child. Never be the woman who marked him permanently. Never be his first love.
But maybe, a smaller voice suggests, being his last love matters more.
"Tell me about tomorrow," I say, needing to focus on something concrete. "How do we stop Mikhail's shipments?"
"We don't stop them." His voice turns calculating, strategic. "We let them continue, but we track them. Document everything. Build a case so airtight that when we move against him, he has nowhere to run."
"And Sienna?"
"Sienna made a mistake showing her hand. Now I know what she wants—to destroy what I've built, to take you from me, to use our son as leverage. But she doesn't know what you found tonight. Doesn't know that her partner just gave us the weapon to destroy them both."
"The weapons shipments."
"Your beautiful brain and its gift for seeing patterns. She always underestimated intelligence that didn't come with violence. That's why she'll lose."
We lie in silence for a while, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my skin. Then he speaks again, voice soft.
"I need you to know something. Dante—it doesn't change us. If anything, it makes you more important."
"How?"
"Because he's going to need someone who understands what real love is. Someone who knows how to heal instead of just hurt. Someone who can teach him that strength doesn't always mean destruction." His arms tighten around me. "He's going to need you."
The thought terrifies and thrills me in equal measure. "I don't know how to be a mother."
"You know how to love despite trauma. That's all any child really needs."
"The weapons," I say, circling back to safer ground. "We need to be careful. If Mikhail realizes we know?—"
"Later. Right now, you're mine."
"Just us," I agree, but even as I drift toward sleep, I can't stop thinking about green eyes and dark-haired boys and the woman who had him first.
She might not have him now, but she has his son. His blood. His legacy.
All I have is his present, and I can't shake the feeling that when forced to choose between his past and his present, blood will win.
It always does in families like ours.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Varrick
Rosalynn’s awake before me. I can feel her body pressed along my left side, the hair on her arms standing straight from the cold, even with the sheets wound tight around us.
She keeps her breathing shallow, like she’s afraid even her lungs might wake me.
I let her think I’m still out. You learn more from a woman when she thinks you’re not looking.
