Page 92 of Only for Him

Fucking monsters.

This is the closest I’ve ever gotten to actually saving someone and not just cleaning up the mess when it’s too late.

And I can’t stop thinking about how I may never get to do it again, because Roman’s DNA is being processed into the system as we speak.

Dakota hesitates at the threshold. I put a hand on her shoulder to find that she’s cold and humming, like the inside of a live wire.

“You’re safe,” I whisper, knowing full well it’s a lie. Nothing about this place feels safe. Especially not for me.

The air inside is cool, and I can’t shake the itch between my shoulder blades. There’s a chandelier so absurd it looks like a jewelry store exploded, and the runner is so plush I could dig my toes into it and never touch the floor.

The walls are dark, heavy, the color of blood dried too long in secret. Something primitive in me coils and bares its teeth. He’s been in my apartment so many times. But now, I’m inhisspace and seeing howhelives.

I could learn something useful here, but I know I won’t. I’ll be too distracted by his smell clinging to everything.

Iwillprobably learn something horrible about myself and how depraved I am, though.

“You fucking live here?” Dakota whispers to me, and I realize she thinks me and Roman are shacked up. I want to laugh, but I just shake my head.

“No, he does,” I whisper back.

Because of course he does. Roman lives in a lair. No windows. No light. Just secrets, stacked like bricks.

“Office. Now.” Roman’s voice is bone dry.

We follow Rosa down the hall. Her stride is confident, but when she glances back, her gaze lingers on Roman. Like she’s afraid he might vanish if she blinks.

Those scars. I can’t stop staring. Especially at the one that turns her mouth into a devastation.

They’re all over her arms, too. Burn patterns. Knife tracks. Some healed clean, others warped and violent. They paint a storyacross her skin I don’t know how to read, but my body reacts like it’s been slapped.

Was she at an auction like the one we just left?

I should admire her for surviving. I do.

But all I feel is the acid burn of jealousy.

Because when she looks at Roman, there’s history. And I’m not sure I want to know how deep it goes.

Dakota trails behind. I reach for her hand, squeeze gently, but her gaze is fixed ahead, lost in the looming shadows. She’s trembling so bad I think she might collapse, but there’s something defiant in the set of her jaw.

My protective instincts ignite at once. This girl doesn’t need a savior. She needs armor. She needs someone willing to go to war for her—withher. I’m halfway there already.

And I have Roman to thank for that.

He leads us into a room that is not an office so much as a bunker. Books line the shelves like decoration, but the real power hums from the wall of surveillance monitors.

One of them shows my apartment.

My blood goes cold.

Of course he’s been watching. I should’ve expected it. I should be angry.

But what I feel instead is something heavier. Something worse.

I could laugh. I could cry. Instead, I watch the screen like it’s still mine. Like I’m not the one who’s trespassing now.

He gestures to the couch. Dakota sinks into it, knees up, arms wrapped around herself. I perch at the edge, every muscle in my body ready to fight, flee, or fucking snap.