Page 13 of Dirty Game
Her hair is out of its bun for once, falling over her eyes in tangled knots.
Yet, there’s no struggle in her posture.
She’s perfected the art of going limp, making herself the least interesting thing in the room.
But her pulse gives her away.
I see it flutter in the hollow of her throat. Fear.
Marco sees me and bares his teeth. “KingBane. You really let yourself go, man. This place smells like a morgue.”
I take my time closing the distance.
My shoes are the only sound on the marble.
Click, pause, click, pause.
“Marco.” I don’t raise my voice.
I don’t need to.
He leans into Rosalynn, hissing something I don’t catch.
She doesn't flinch, just blinks slowly, like if she waits long enough she’ll wake up somewhere better.
“Let her go,” I say, calm as a corpse.
Marco’s grip tightens.
He holds her up like a trophy, twisting her wrist to display the bruising. “Just checking on the family investment. You know how it is.”
I smile.
It’s the same smile I wore the day I buried Marco’s uncle in five separate parcels across three counties. “You lost the privilege of family when your family used her to pay your father’s debt.”
He shrugs. “Yeah, well. Guess blood’s thicker than that shit you drink.”
That’s when I notice Rosalynn’s body turning towards me, a plea.
The way her shoulders draw in, defensive, but not from me.
From Marco.
“She will always be my sister, whore or not.”
I close the final two paces. “Take your hand off her, Marco.”
“Or what?”
The words hang there, daring me to finish them. But I don’t threaten. I promise.
I move faster than he expects.
My left hand closes around his wrist—his dominant hand, the one on her arm.
My thumb presses to the nerve under his watch strap, the same way I’d press a button to detonate a charge.
His fingers splay open, then lock up.
