Page 143 of Only for Him

We weren’t friends or anything, but we were on the same side.

“You look… well,” he says, lying poorly. I look like a reanimated corpse. The irony being that I’ve been feeling more alive than ever with bloodstains on my t-shirts and Roman’s cock pounding the shame out of me.

Somehow, Roman became the only man whose opinion of me really matters. My heart rate speeds up even thinking of the way he looks at me.

“Making the most of my leave,” I shrug, not exactly lying. I am on leave, and I’m certainly doing the most.

“Huh,” he says. “Good for you.”

He has a shit poker face. I can tell he’s wondering what, exactly, I’ve been up to. Agreatquestion that I have zero intention of answering. What even would I say?

Been having the time of my life playing house with a psychopathic murderer who brings me men to torture then makes me come so hard that I pass out! I absolutely love being owned, body and soul, by a man who stalked me!

I lean closer, lowering my voice. “So. You texted me. What’ve you got?”

Was a time I would’ve asked whatwe’vegot. Not anymore. There’s only onewenow, and it definitely isn’t me and Arata.

His eyes sharpen, cutting through whatever optimistic bullshit he wanted this to be. The puppy-dog eagerness I’m used to is replaced with something colder.

“Yeah. The sample. There’s a hit, but it’s…” he hesitates, eyes flicking over me and then around the bar. “It leads to a Russian database.”

The ground shifts beneath my feet. I’m not surprised, of course, but I am having trouble abandoning the stupid hope that he was going to tell me it went nowhere and he had nothing and just wanted an excuse to see me.

“How did you manage that?” I ask. Maybe he’s done something he shouldn’t have, and I can use that somehow. Blackmail him into burying it.

Jesus Christ, Giselle. You can’t blackmail Arata. He’s… Arata. His only crime is having battery acid breath.

Before he can answer, a deep rumbling voice cuts through the air. It’s dripping with a casual authority that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Familiar, in a way, or maybe that’s just the hint of Russian accent.

“Because I’m the one who reached out to him.”

I turn to see a tall man in an elegant suit. He looks entirely out of place in this dive bar. He moves like a tyrant or someone who knows no one in the room can stop him even if they want to.

“Okay. And you are…?” I manage, my voice coming out steadier than I feel. In truth, my stomach is doing somersaults, every nerve alive with fight or flight.

He has blue eyes. Similar to Roman’s, but not… well, I don’t know.

They’re justnotRoman’s.

They don’t lick at my core as they sweep my body. They don’t make me feel like I’m suspended in a glacier. They don’t make me want to be devoured.

“Afanasy Varushkin,” he says, smooth as glass and twice as sharp. An alarmingly easy smile spreads across his face even as the name echoes like a dark omen.

The name tugs at my memory. I’ve heard it before.

Afanasy’s gaze sharpens as he lifts a hand, dismissing Arata with a flick of his fingers like swatting away a fly. “Thank you for setting this meeting up,” he says. “But this conversation isn’t for your ears.”

“What?” Arata’s face hardens. He’s offended to get kicked out of the treehouse just as thePlayboycomes out. “I’m still NYPD?—”

“Which is exactly why it won’t be safe for you.” Afanasy’s tone shifts, an impatient edge creeping in, and Arata tenses. “The less you know, the safer you’ll be.”

Arata opens his mouth to protest, but I’m quick to cut in. He really doesn’t need to be here. I may not know exactly what’s going on, but we’ll all be better off without a witness.

“I’ll call you if I need help, okay? I’ll call you anyway. After,” I say, intending to do no such thing. “So you know we’re good.”

He looks between us, expression flickering: fear, pride, protectiveness. My heart races, begging him to understand the danger. No matter my instinct to protect Roman at all costs, Ireallydon’t want Arata joining my body count.

“Anything you need, Giselle,” he finally mutters.