Page 30 of Dirty Game
That I exist to be used by whatever man owns me.
But Varrick Bane doesn't look at me like I'm currency.
He looks at me like I'm his to protect, his to defend, his to keep safe.
His to feed strawberries to. His to call "good girl." His to want, if that darkness in his eyes meant what I think it did.
The thought should terrify me.
I'm already his property, bought and paid for with my father’s debt.
Adding desire to that equation should feel like another cage closing around me.
Instead, it feels like the first time I've ever wanted to be touched.
I press my thighs together, trying to ease the ache there, but it only makes it worse.
Makes me think about his hands, his mouth, parts of him touching parts of me in ways I don't fully understand but suddenly, desperately want to.
I dream of him coming back.
Of what might happen if he did.
Of learning what this heat means, what this ache is becoming, what my body is trying to tell me.
I dream of belonging to someone who breaks bones for my honor.
Who notices when I don't eat.
Who touches me like I'm something that might shatter, but also like he's fighting not to grasp me tighter.
Tomorrow, I'll pretend none of this happened.
But tonight, in the dark of this too-soft bed in this too-safe room, I let myself admit the truth.
I want Varrick Bane to touch me again.
And that terrifies me more than all his violence ever could.
Because being violent is simple. Predictable. It has rules.
But this feeling? This warmth, the desire I don't have words for?
This could destroy me in ways Uncle Enzo never could.
And I think I might let it.
CHAPTER FOUR
Varrick
She sits at my father’s desk, which has become my desk, which is now hers, at least for the hour.
Rosalynn, in a pale blue blouse with a stain at the cuff.
Ink, not blood, though with her it could go either way.
She’s buried beneath ledgers that predate both of us, books so dense with rot I can smell the mildew from across the room.
