Page 130 of Only for Him

Giselle's eyes darken. She knows what's coming.

"Three months after I was sent away, they dragged me from my cell. Took me to a concrete room. Anastasia was already there.”

I can still see it. The sickly yellow light. The stink of bleach and blood.

“Naked. Bound to a table.” I swallow. “Pavel was standing over her with a knife.”

“Roman,” she whispers, and the sound of my name in her voice nearly tears me in half.

I don’t let the emotion touch my face, because my face already has the story embedded in it, every moment of every day.

It doesn’t matter how deeply or truly I loved Anastasia, what hurts is what her love for me led to.

How, in some sense, it was all my fucking fault.

“He raped her,” I say. Flat. Cold. I won’t dress it up or make it poetic. “Made me watch. Then he cut her throat while I screamed.”

The water is still running, but all I hear is that scream.

"He said if he couldn't have her, neither could I."

Giselle's hand comes to my face, cups my jaw. Her touch is gentle, but her eyes are fierce. My blood pulses, coming alive again after the little death I suffer every time I remember.

Usually, only time and violence can bring me back.

But she does it with just a touch. I growl, low in my throat, wanting her even as my blood runs cold with guilt and hatred.

I turn because it’s too much. If I don’t move away, I’ll lunge against her and bury my pain between her legs. And I don’t want to. Not yet.

Turning exposes my back, where I know the cross tattoo is stark against my skin. Her fingers trace the edges, light as air. "What does this one mean?"

"Solitary confinement. I think they expected me to kill myself. But I didn't. I made a vow instead: I would kill them all. Every last one. I’d burn their whole Bratva to the ground."

I feel her breath on my spine as she leans closer, examining every mark, every scar, like they’re holy books.

"The other inmates knew I'd been Timofey's man. They hated me for it." I point to the word on my left shoulder. "This one they gave me.Predatl. Traitor."

Her gaze flicks to the paler spots on my arms, my ribs—patches where the skin istooshiny and new.

“They cut out the old tattoos,” I say. “The ones they said I didn’t deserve anymore.”

Her voice is steady when it comes. “How did you get out?”

"Prison riots. Three years later. I escaped with four other men. Made my way to Saratov first, then to New York."

Giselle's hand drops from my spine and I feel the loss like a piece carved out of me. I turn back around to her, grabbing her wrists before I can stop myself. She doesn’t shrink back as she meets my eyes.

She wears her thoughts on her face, but it’s not for everyone. I think she’s probably very good at hiding things from everyone else in the world.

But for me?

She’s an open fucking book.

“And me?” she asks, soft but sharp. “Why me? Out of every cop in New York… why did you choose me?”

This is the part I’ve never said aloud. But there’s no turning back now.

“Because I saw you, little viper,” I say. “Because I couldtastewhat you wanted.”