Page 24 of Dirty Game
"You touched what's mine," Varrick says conversationally, still holding the broken wrist. "Do you know what I do to people who touch what's mine?"
"Please—"
Another crack.
Another finger or bone breaking.
Paulie is sobbing now, and I should be terrified, but instead I feel something else.
Something dark and warm unfurling in my chest.
"Anyone else want to test me?" Varrick asks the table. No one moves. No one breathes. "Anyone else want to discuss what they think she is? What they'd like to do to her? What they think I do to her?"
Silence.
"Good." He releases Paulie's mangled wrist. "But just so we're clear—she's not a whore. She's not entertainment. She's not available. She'smine. And I don't share."
He pulls out a roll of cash, drops it on the table. "For the damages and the medical bills."
Then his hand is on my elbow, pulling me up. "We're leaving."
I follow on shaking legs, aware of every eye tracking us.
Luigi is cursing through his broken nose.
Paulie is cradling his destroyed wrist.
Viktor is smiling like this is the best entertainment he's had all week.
Varrick guides me through the restaurant, his hand burning through the silk at the small of my back.
We don't wait for Jensen.
He hails a cab instead, pushes me inside, gives the driver his address.
The moment the cab moves, I expect an explosion.
The rage. The punishment for causing a scene, even though I said nothing, did nothing.
Instead, he stares out the window, jaw clenched so tight I can hear his teeth grinding.
"You didn't have to defend me," I whisper. "I'm used to it. I know what they think I am."
His hands tighten on his knees. "What they think you are?"
"Your whore. Uncle Enzo's payment. Something to be used." I keep my voice steady, clinical. "It's what I am. You didn't have to break his nose and his wrist over the truth."
The cab stops at a light.
Varrick turns to me, and the look in his eyes makes me press back against the door.
"The truth?" His voice is dangerously quiet. "The truth is, you're mine to protect now. Mine to defend. Mine to keep safe from men who think they have the right to discuss you like you're meat. To touch you without permission."
"But I am?—"
"You're mine." He cuts me off. "That's all you are. Not a whore. Not a payment. Mine. And I take care of what's mine. Get used to that instead of whatever bullshit your uncle taught you to accept."
"He touched me," I say quietly. "Paulie. His hand was on my thigh."
