Page 6 of Dirty Game
The change of subject makes my head spin, but the proximity makes it worse.
Every breath brings his scent.
Blood and cologne and something uniquely him, something that makes my pulse race for reasons I don't want to examine.
"Three smaller ones. Different patterns. I haven't traced them all yet."
"You will. Tomorrow. After you've slept." His eyes drop to my lips, and I realize I'm biting the lower one—a nervous habit I thought I'd broken. "I'll have Jensen bring you the full financial records in the morning. Everything. Not just the sanitized versions."
"You're trusting me with that?"
"I'm trusting you to find every rat in my organization before they steal enough to fund a war." He reaches past me, his chest brushing my shoulder as he picks up the brass knuckles from the desk.
The contact, brief as it is, sends electricity through my entire body. "Seven hundred thousand would buy a lot of bullets."
"Or a lot of loyalty," I say quietly, trying to ignore the way my skin burns where he touched me.
He's still close, too close, close enough that I can see myself reflected in his dark eyes. "Loyalty can't be bought, little mouse. Only rented. Remember that."
The nickname makes something flutter in my chest.
Not mocking, not cruel.
Almost... possessive.
Like I'm his little mouse, his to protect, his to keep safe in this penthouse cage.
"What happens when I find them all?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
"I handle it. You just find them." He finally steps back, and I can breathe again, though the air feels colder without him close.
He walks to his private bathroom, turning on the water.
I watch him wash the blood from his hands, removing all evidence of the violence I witnessed. "And Phillip?"
"Is no longer your concern." He returns to the office, pulling a crystal decanter from a hidden panel.
The whiskey gleams amber in the low light as he pours two glasses.
He sets one on the desk beside me. "Drink."
"I don't?—"
"You're shaking. Take a drink."
I am shaking, I realize.
Fine tremors running through my hands, my arms, my whole body.
But it's not entirely from fear anymore.
It's from him—from the intensity of his presence, from the way he looked at me like he wanted to consume me, from the careful way he didn't touch me even though every atom in the air between us was charged with the possibility.
The whiskey burns going down, makes my eyes water, but it does stop the shaking.
He watches me over the rim of his own glass. "Have you eaten today?"
The question surprises me. "I... yes."
