Page 155 of Only for Him

He smiles, sad. “I know what I said. After this, we can be. That will be up to you.”

That’s when I notice that Roman isn’t alone. His body had hid another behind him. This one is on its knees, and its hands are clearly tied behind its back. Muffled whines come through some kind of gag. But it’s too dark for details.

“Who is it?” I ask again. It can’t be Pavel, can it?

Roman runs his thumb along my lips and stares at my face like he’s matching up his memory with the reality to find that he hadn’t forgotten a single detail.

Then, he moves away, to the light switch beside the door. He flicks it on.

My breath stalls in my chest.

Captain Russo.

He struggles against well-tied restraints, kneeling on a plastic sheet. Hair gone gray at the temples and still in his uniform but without a badge pinned to his chest because it’s been ripped off.

Shock and pain leech the color out of the world. My stomach aches like I’ve been poisoned, and the sharp pain threatens to immobilize me.

What the fuck is Russo doing here?

Why would Roman?—

No.

Russo lifts his head and I see that his eyes are wet with tears.

No. No. No! Not Russo.NeverRusso.

I stare at him, and then back at Roman.

Is this a trick? A lie? Is this a test by Roman to see if I’ll believe him if he brings me something unbelievable?

Or is this my punishment?

Is he going to make me do something awful to one of the only men I still believe in, and then tell me that it was all for nothing?

Is he trying to break me?

Roman reads it all on my face.

“He was in on it from the start.” There’s a hint of pity mixed with regret and sorrow on his lips.

I lurch backward, grabbing at the wall to hold me up. Russo’s gaze fixes on me, pleading. His words don’t make it through the gag, but I know him so well that I hear them anyway:Help me, G, please!

I think of every night Russo stayed late with me, every time he put a comforting hand on my shoulder, every “just the two of us” meeting in his office. Even every “you look like shit”, said with paternal care.

He would never. He couldn’t have.

My brain fissures. I won’t fucking believe it. I snarl at Roman, ready to go for the jugular. The nausea turns to seething, churning rage.

“You’re lying,” I hiss.

“I’ve never lied to you, little viper.”

I can almost see my pain mirrored in them. I’m so confused. Shouldn’t he be gloating? Shouldn’t he be laughing at me? Why…

Because he doesn’t want to be doing this. Because he wishes it was someone else in that chair. Because he knows how much this hurts me.

Because he cares if I hurt or not.