Page 16 of Dirty Game
The color of innocence.
Her skin is already blossoming, purple veins spidering under the translucent surface.
Marco’s handprint is perfect, a signature in flesh.
I reach out, slow enough for her to calculate every option—flee, freeze, fight.
I catalog the damage.
Forearm: swelling, probably a hairline fracture, but nothing displaced.
Shoulder: old bruise, weeks healed.
I spot a newer mark at her collarbone, more delicate, placed carefully.
Something in me hardens.
I’ve seen this pattern before, mapped it on victims and enemies alike.
Marco’s not the only one leaving marks.
His team might be taking a turn with her.
Her breathing shifts—faster, not from pain, but anticipation.
She’s waiting for me to break something.
Maybe her. Maybe myself.
“I’ll kill him next time,” I say, and the words are so soft I almost don’t hear them. “I’ll make sure he never touches you again.”
She shakes her head, just once, but it’s final. “Please don’t.”
That stops me. I’ve seen bullets do less damage.
I lift my hand. “He broke your arm, Rosalynn.”
“It’s long healed. They always heal.” She swallows. “He’s still my blood.”
The logic stings.
Loyalty is simple to me: you pick a side, you stick to it, or you die.
Blood is only the first debt you owe, not the last.
I study her, all her nerves and quiet defiance, and wonder if she’s braver than I am, or just more broken.
“You don’t owe him anything,” I say. “You’re here because they traded you to me. You’re Bane property now, and you have been since your uncle made the deal.”
Her lips part, then close.
The words are there, but she’s not ready to say them.
I read the silence instead: it’s a ledger of pain and survival, of debts paid in flesh and never settled.
I pull back, careful not to crowd her. “If you want out,” I say, “say so now.”
She looks up, finally meeting my eyes. “Out to where?” Her voice is barely above a breathy whisper, but it carries all the gravity in the world. “He’d find me. Or his enemies.”
