Page 90 of Only for Him

I’m reaching for the earring, but she beats me to it, and presses the clasp.

Click.

The room is silent, but somewhere, above us, alarms are about to start. I can picture the chaos blooming through the mansion, staff and buyers scrambling to protect assets or destroy evidence.

“Go,” I say.

The corridor is empty, but not for long. I move fast, shielding them both, keeping Dakota tucked behind Giselle.

My arm brushes her shoulder as we walk, and I make sure she stays to my right—inside, protected.

If anyone fires from the front, it’ll be me who takes the hit.

She’s brave, but she’s still mine to guard.

I promised her: I take good care of my things.

At the junction, the auctioneer blocks our path. Still masked and smiling. Hands clasped in front of him like a goddamn maître d’ at a five-star hell.

“I see you’re leaving,” he says, English crisp and cold.

I step in front of the girls, shoulder wide, stance heavier than I need it to be. I let him feel my size.

My shoulder brushes Giselle’s again. I don’t look back, but I know what she sees: the hard line of my spine, the readiness in my hands.

The promise that if this goes sideways, I will kill for her.

“There’s a bomb threat,” I say. “We’re evacuating.”

He tilts his head like a curious bird, gaze sharp even through the gold.

“This is not how it’s done, my friend,” he replies. “Guests always sample before they leave.”

Behind me, Giselle inhales sharply. I feel it down my back like a blade.

She’s terrified. But not of them—of what she wants to do to them.

I don’t give her a chance to speak.

I step closer to the auctioneer. Close enough that if he so much as twitches toward her, I can take out his trachea with two fingers.

She’s behind me. That’s the only place I’ll allow her to be right now. Behind me, and out of reach. My little viper, smart enough to keep still, burning with the kind of rage that makes gods nervous.

“Rules change,” I say.

He stares, then reaches up and peels the mask off my face. He stares, and his skin goes corpse-white.

“Ty dolzhen byt’ mertvym,” he says.You’re supposed to be dead.

Not today.

My hand finds his throat with surgical precision, thumb and forefinger pinching the carotid, palm muffling the shout he never gets to make. I slam him against the wall hard enough that the air leaves his lungs in a grunt.

He claws at my wrist. I don’t flinch.

I choke him until the eyes glaze, then finish it with a twist of the neck. It’s quiet, just a pop. Just enough to say:you should have kept your fucking mouth shut.

He slumps to the ground like the garbage he is, mask clattering after him.