Page 90 of Dirty Game
“I’ll get him back,” I say, simple and final.
She snorts, a sound that’s almost a laugh. “She’ll never let you go.”
I could argue, but we both know it’s pointless. Instead, I pin her with my stare, every muscle in my body strung tight.
The need to claim her, devour her, eat her soul just to remind her who the fuck she is to me, overwhelms me.
Pulling her to her feet, I crowd her, letting the wall take her weight. The air between us crackles with everything we’re not saying.
I slide my hand to her waist. She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t yield either.
“You’re mine now,” I say, my voice scraping the edge of a whisper. “That’s all that matters.”
She doesn’t answer. Her lips part, her breath hot on my jaw, but the look in her eyes is pure disbelief.
I kiss her anyway—hard, rough, desperate to make her understand what words never could.
She lets me, and for a moment, I almost believe it myself.
We leave the gala and head back to the penthouse, both of us emotionally exhausted after the events this evening.
I don’t know where the time goes, but it’s after midnight, and the suite is pitch black except for the city lights hitting the walls in weird patterns.
Rosalynn walks in before me while I take a quick phone call, and when I find her, she’s perched on the edge of my bed, legs tucked under her, tablet balanced on her knees.
She doesn’t hear me enter.
The screen’s reflection shudders across her face, sharp and blue, and I see the tears have dried but left their stains.
I get closer. The video on loop is old. I know it before I even see the first frame.
Sienna, sprawled across these very sheets, in black silk and nothing else.
My own face leering down at her, the bodies a tangle of violence and sex, all teeth and claws.
The camera never stutters, always showing the angles that flatter her best.
She used to say you never really loved anyone unless you could stand to see yourself loving them.
The sound is off, but I remember the soundtrack.
I remember how she made pain look like a game, how she made pleasure an act of war.
Blood. All the blood.
Rosalynn doesn’t stop the playback when she notices me. She lets it run, eyes locked on the images.
Her lips are set in a straight line. The knuckles of her left hand are white around the tablet’s edge.
I stand in the doorway, arms folded. “Studying the competition?”
Her shoulders don’t move. “Learning what you like.”
Her voice is flat, but her throat flexes on the last syllable.
I watch her eyes flick from the screen to the reflection in the window, where I stand behind her.
Sienna in the video flips, crawls up my body, grinds against me like she’s trying to erase the space between us.
