Page 38 of Only for Him

Because what I hate the most isn’t what he did, it’s whatIdid and howIreacted.

Instead of recoiling and fighting back, I’m completely fucking smitten by it.

I should hate him. But somehow, I only feel disgust for myself.

Once we’re inside Russo’s office, he waits for the door to close, and then leans against the edge of the table as I cross my arms without taking a seat.

“You look like shit, G. Worse than yesterday.”

I resist the urge to laugh. This time yesterday, I hadn’t come close to climaxing from a psychopathic murderer choking and kissing me in a bathroom stall. Thumb on my pulse. Teeth on my ear. Hands everywhere except the one place I want them.

And two words echoing like a prayer in my ear.

Little viper.

“You plan on writing me up for that, Captain?”

He snorts, which is as close to praise as he ever gets, before fixing me with that familiar cop stare.

“ThePosthas given your boyfriend a nice little nickname and everything.”

I roll my eyes. “ThePostalso gave a rat a nickname. Why do we care?”

“We care because it’s gotten the attention of the feds,” he snaps. “They’re sending someone down to look into this. Assist us, so they say. But you know what itreallymeans.”

I do.

Nothing good ever comes from the FBI getting involved. And since my name is literally on a growing body of evidence, I’m slowly transforming from just another detective on a case and into a person of interest.

“You taking me off the case, Captain?”

“I want to.”

Want.Nothave.That’s interesting.

My hands tighten around my arms. I don’t want to be benched from this case. Because if I am, then I won’t be able to look forhim.And if I’m not looking for him, then he might stop contacting me.

It’s an irrational thought, I know. And probably the most fucked-up one that I’ve had in a long time. But that’s the real reason,isn’t it? I don’t want to stop because I don’t want to lose the attention and interest of my own stalker.

Because hegetsme. He knows what I want, and he delivers on my own darkest desires.

Maybe Ishouldlet myself be taken off the case. Let someone else pick up the slack. Someone who can treat this—and by extension, him—as a serial killer and not the object of my sick fantasy.

Russo’s expression softens. “What’s on your mind, G?”

“Just wondering who our babysitter from the feds is.” I meet his eyes, and it’s enough to make him look away first.

Then, right on time, there’s a knock at Russo’s door. Two quick taps and then a pause. Russo doesn’t bother to check before calling them in.

I can’t stop myself from smiling at the man who enters.

Theodore Oborin. My old friend from the academy all those years ago.

He’s exactly as I remember him: a little too tall for the doorway, his jaw clean-shaven but raw at the edges, and a regulation high-and-tight that’s already started to curl at the nape from neglect.

He gives Russo a professional nod and a curt greeting before turning to me. “Giselle, it’s been a minute.”

“That it has, Teddy,” I say.