Page 15 of Only for Him (Starkov Bratva #1)

ROMAN

TWO DAYS LATER

Her building breathes the way all old brick does: groaning pipes, distant sirens, a neighbor’s laugh rising through the vents.

None of it matters as I stand in her apartment.

Behind her closed bathroom door, the shower is running. I imagine the sight of my little viper underneath the needle-thin spray hammering the tile.

Is she running her hand through her dark hair in the water? Is she trying to strip off the day and whatever nerves I frayed the last time we crossed paths two days ago? When she dared to sit down for drinks with that fed?

A rose rests in my right hand, its thorns filed just enough to draw a whisper of pain but not blood.

The memory of the pulse in her neck under my thumbs is still lucid and sharp.

By the end of tonight, I will have brought that heartbeat to its limit and back again, over and over until she’s addicted to the rush.

Assuming she isn’t already addicted.

My jaw reflexively clenches in anticipation.

I’ll taste her again soon enough.

In practiced silence, I slip down the hall and press my palm to the bathroom door. Heat radiates through the wood. My tongue darts out to wet my lips.

She likes her showers hot, but I’ll burn her even hotter.

I ease the knob, twist by twist, until the latch disengages.

Another inch, and I have a slit of sight: frosted glass, her silhouette blurred but unmistakable.

Her shoulders tense, and hair is plastered down her spine, every clean line of her body plainly visible.

The curve of her breast. The swell of her ass.

The flatness of her stomach and a tuft of dark hair between her legs.

All of it is visible to me.

And only me.

She bends down, and I swear I can catch a glimpse of her pink slit in the steam.

Desire rises, fast as a match thrown onto gasoline.

She’s gorgeous, and edible at every angle. I lick my lips again, imagining that it’s my tongue running down those curves instead of the hot water.

A lesser man might want her because of her physical beauty. I won’t lie and tell you that I’m not attracted to that. But it’s the darkness in her eyes and the venom in her voice. That’s why she’s mine.

My little viper.

And as much as I want her right now, I’m also furious at her.

She defied me two days ago, tossed my warning like trash and walked away. Almost like she doesn’t take me seriously.

And only after I made myself seen did she come to her senses.

Thanks to her begging, I allowed the fed to live.

For now.

The thing is, I’m not opposed to an attitude. What would I do with a woman without a will to bend to mine?

But not being taken seriously can’t be tolerated.

She thinks defiance is a shield. But it’s a stone that only makes my anger sharper.

I hover, watching the rhythmic arc of her arm as she scrubs soap from her legs.

I indulge in a little free association, imagining if she were to run from me right now, slipping on her own feet, and almost slithering out of my grasp like the name I’ve given her until I have her on her back, spread her legs apart, and take what belongs to me.

My cock strains.

If she turns now, will she scream? Or will she launch at me, wet and furious, the way I’ve dreamt?

I want nothing more than for her to turn around right now so that I might find out.

All in good time.

I pull the door closed, but leave just a sliver of it open for me to get one more glance, before I make my way over to the living-room desk.

Its surface is a mess of folders, notes, and photos of her that I’ve taken.

There’s a neat list of all the little things she’s noticed that have been rearranged in her apartment.

Circles fill a map of every place I’ve left her my messages.

One sticky note after another filled with theories.

She’s just as obsessed with me as I am with her.

Let her think she hunts. The more agency she thinks she has, the harder she’ll fight to keep it.

I know she knows that she’s already mine. She’s not willing to admit it yet. But she will.

I set the rose across her notepad, stem staining the paper pale green, petals pointing toward the bathroom like a compass. Then, I pick up a pen and write her a message.

Pipes groan as she turns off her shower. Any second now she’ll open that door, towel in hand, hair wet, and water trailing down her legs.

She’ll see the door, the rose, and the note. The moment she does, she’ll know that I stood here, close enough to steam in her breath.

Close enough to see everything.

She’ll remember who’s hunting whom.

I make my way to the front door and slip out, closing it silently behind me.

Soon, little viper.