Page 4 of Only for Him

She’s not saying that what happened to Serena was unimportant. She’s trying to tell me that there’s a chance for me to be happy—or even just content—despite it. She’s said it before, and she’ll say it again. Maybe someday it will even work.

But not tonight.

At least it distracted me from obsessing over MacDougal. For a minute. My body is still taut and buzzing with anger, lusting after justice, but the fog of my thoughts has cleared a bit.

But then the only thing cutting through the fog is a pair of piercing blue eyes.

Staring at me from somewhere I can’t see.

Haunting me.

Hunting me.

“Did you see that woman in the gold dress?” Ida tries to shift the mood. “The one with the mayor’s chief of staff?”

I force a smile. “The one practically made of highlighter?”

“That same one.” Ida grins, satisfied with her deflection. “She’s been with him at every event this season. Probably running a long con.”

“If she is, I hope she gets paid in advance. The city’s broke.”

Our car finally pulls up, the lights haloing the exhaust. I search the streets one last time for those blue eyes.

But all that’s left of him is the throb of a memory and a lingering unease.

And the knowledge that he is still somewhere, close enough to watch me.

2

ROMAN

The night reeksof money and rot.

Even from this distance, the stink of perfume and greed is enough to make me sick. Manhattan has a way of pretending. It has a way of cloaking its filth in gold trim and red carpet. It uses fancy words like philanthropy and charity as if that can hide it for what it really fucking is.

Evil.

I melt into a dark spot between two lamp posts, hands in my pockets, and head down. The city makes me anonymous. There are cameras above the entrance and security drudges stationed by the valets.

But none of them see me.

It’s a gift, my favorite one, in fact—to become negative space until only my intention has weight.

Outside, the gala banner gleefully tells its lie:Proceeds will go to victim rehabilitation.

But I know better.

I know the man who is supposed to speak tonight.

James MacDougal.

Councilman.

Bratva collaborator.

Monster.

I lean against a shadowed column across the street, a smoking cigarette dangling from my fingers. I don’t inhale anymore. I just like the smell, burning tobacco and fallen ashes, the occasional singe of flesh when the shaft is left too long to the flame.