Page 44 of Dirty Game
"Stop telling me what I want." The words come out sharper than I want them to. "Everyone my whole life has told me what I think, what I feel, what I want. Uncle Enzo told me I wanted to be sold. Marco told me I wanted to be hurt. You're telling me I don't know my own mind. But I do. I knowexactlywhat I want, Varrick Bane."
"And what's that?"
"You." The word hangs between us, simple and complicated all at once. "I want you to stop treating me like I'm going to break. I want you to stop deciding what's best for me. I want you to teach me what comes after kissing, and I want you to stop looking at me like wanting me is a crime."
He's across the room before I finish speaking, his hands on either side of my face, holding me still.
"You don't understand what you're asking for," he says, his voice rough. "I'm not gentle. I'm not patient. I take what I want, and I want everything."
"Then take it."
"Not from you. Not like this."
"Why?"
"Because you're—" He stops, jaw clenching.
"I'm what? Your property? Your payment? Your?—"
"Mine," he interrupts. "You're mine, and that means something different than ownership. It means protection. It means I care. It means not taking advantage of innocence just because I can."
"What if I want you to?"
His thumb brushes across my cheekbone. "Then I'd say Stockholm Syndrome is a hell of a thing."
The words should hurt, but there's no cruelty in them. Just resignation. Like he's already decided how this story ends.
"Is that what you think this is?" I ask. "That I'm confused? That I'm mistaking captivity for connection?"
"Aren't you?"
I think about it, really think about it. Am I drawn to him because he's my captor? Because he represents safety in a world where I have no other options? Or is it something else—something about the way he sees me, protects me, challenges me to be more than the ghost my father raised me to be?
"Maybe it started that way," I admit. "Maybe at first you were just the devil I didn't know, better than the devils I did. But that's not what this is now."
"Then what is it?"
"I don't know." The honesty feels like freedom. "But I want to find out. Don't you?"
He's quiet for so long I think he won't answer. Then, finally: "Yes."
The admission seems to cost him something.
His hands drop from my face, and he steps back, rebuilding the distance between us.
"But not tonight. Not when you're high on your first real kiss and I'm..." He runs a hand through his hair. "Eat your soup. Sleep. Tomorrow we'll pretend this didn't happen."
"And if I can't pretend?"
He pauses at the door. "Then we'll deal with that tomorrow too."
He leaves, and I'm alone with cooling soup and the lingering scent of his cologne.
I touch my lips again, remembering the heat of his mouth, the way he'd groaned when I'd kissed him, like I was breaking him and putting him back together all at once.
I pick up the spoon, taste the soup he brought me.
It's perfect, like always.
