Page 172 of Only for Him

My phone buzzes. It’s Teddy. He’s been pinging me every hour like a fucking cuckoo clock. He wants to pull me out of this hole before I bury myself. He doesn’t get that I’m already six feet under.

Fuck. What if I was just a normal goddamn person, capable of loving a man who doesn’t destroy me? I picture it: Teddy and I, living in Westchester with two kids.

It makes me sick, not because I could have that, but because of how deeply I don’t fucking want it. I’d rather be dead than live that empty, blinkered version of myself.

Teddy can’t give me purpose.

Only one man has ever been able to give me that.

Because it wasn't just the orgasms. It was the license to exist fully as I am. My demonic anger, my bloodlust, my gleaming white teeth ready to bite into the meat of the world.

All ofme.

A human without a shadow is nothing at all, and I’m so tired of trying to shake off mine.

But it’s too late. This one choice won’t bring Roman back to me.

Rain knifes the windows, relentless as grief. The noise is a lullaby for the newly damned.

I go to the kitchen and make coffee. I definitely don’t need the caffeine, but I want the ritual, and I don’t want to look at the bear on the package of chamomile tea. That fucking bear has no idea how bad shit is out here in the real world.

When the glass shatters, I turn so fast that I spill burning hot coffee on my hand, scalding myself.

At first, my muttered “fuck” is from the pain.

Then, it’s because the window in front of the fire escape is broken open, rain and wind blowing in.

What the hell?

Is the storm that bad?

You know it’s not the storm. You said no to Pavel Starkov. What did you think was going to happen?

Oh, fuck!

Everything slows down. My mind runs the math.

Can’t walkie for backup.

My phone is in the living room.

My gun is… my gun…

No gun.

No gun.

I don’t have my fucking gun.

Shit.

I lunge for a knife instead, but a shadow moves across the fridge, tall and solid with a glinting pistol in his hand. The mask covers everything but his eyes—white, wild, locked on me.

I run.

The world bursts apart in a flare of gunfire. The bullet chips the fridge and flings silver shrapnel into the air.

I duck around the corner, crouch low.Think, think, think!I have to take him by surprise, get him to come around the corner so I can tackle him and?—