Page 120 of Dirty Game
She rests her head on my shoulder. The ride is rough, and every bump makes her flinch, but she never complains.
After a minute, she says, “You came for me.”
I answer, “I’d never leave you behind, little mouse.”
Her eyes close.
“You’re mine,” my voice is soft. “I protect what’s mine.”
She laughs, or tries to. It comes out as a cough. “Good. I need you.”
I could say more, but I don’t. I just hold her while the city blurs by outside.
Then her body tenses. She looks up at me, panic surging. “Dante?—”
I hush her, stroke her hair. “We’ll get him. I swear.”
She nods, trusting me, and lets go. Her head droops, body finally surrendering to shock and pain.
Cyrus says, “Two minutes,” and I count every second.
When we reach the safehouse, I lift her out. Her arm dangles, blood painting the sidewalk in fat drops.
I kick the door open and carry her inside, straight to the bathroom.
The light is bright, blinding. It reflects off every white tile, making the room a cell.
I set her down on the closed toilet. She sags, eyes rolling.
“Stay with me, mouse.”
She blinks, then smiles. “Mouse.”
I work fast, tearing gauze, taping the worst wounds, doing what I can for the fingers. The bones are shattered, but the bleeding stops.
She watches me the whole time. “You’re good at this,” she says.
I shrug. “You get practice.”
When I finish, she clings to my wrist. “Don’t leave.”
“Never.”
She pulls me in, forehead to forehead. Her eyes are raw, stripped of all defenses.
“I’m scared,” she says.
“Me too.”
And that’s the truest thing I’ve said in years.
She laughs, soft and tired, and before I know it, she’s asleep.
I carry her to the bedroom, lay her on the sheets, and sit beside her until the sun comes up.
Outside, the world is burning. Inside, all that matters is this.
Her.
