Page 17 of Only for Him (Starkov Bratva #1)

ROMAN

Blue light pulses from eleven security screens. Gate, driveway, main hall, and even the wine cellar behind the kitchen because I trust nothing. Each one is cold and unfeeling as they rotate through a different shot every five seconds.

All except one.

Ironically, it’s the one that requires the least attention yet it demands all of mine.

The one watching Giselle sleep in her own home.

The stack of police transcripts and a dossier that cost three bodies sits forgotten on my desk as I watch. In my hand, a single wilted rose dances between my fingers. Its petals are bruised just slightly at the edges. A sliver so tiny and thin that it’s easy to miss even to the most attentive eye.

But it’s an imperfection nonetheless.

It’s not good enough for her.

She demands perfection from me.

So, I crush the rose in my hand and let the petals fall on my desk. My eyes continue to watch my little viper uncoil in her sleep, and the memory of what took place just a few hours ago cuts me open.

She was everything I imagined from the moment I saw her and more. And the moment she came, every nerve ending in my body came alive for the first time in eighteen years. I thought I’d forgotten what that felt like.

Not just anger.

Not just hate.

Not just the obsessive need to punish and hurt and maim.

But something else.

Want.

I’ve been asleep for years, and a single taste of her in the air—a heady mix of adrenaline and arousal—finally woke me from that slumber. If I open my hand just enough, I can still feel the vein in her neck singing under my fingers as she stood there.

Exposed.

Terrified.

Completely soaking wet in every sense of the word.

For me.

The ghost of her body still lingers against my thigh. The kiss of her nipples still whispers against the fabric of my shirt. And her moans… God, the moans that leaked from her lips around the barrel of her own gun in her mouth.

Her body had been rigid and alert at first, but it softened with each pulsing second of defeat.

Of her own desire.

She soaked my pants and I still haven’t changed them. I want the wet stain and her lingering scent forever.

I want her name to dissolve on my tongue as she chokes on mine, eyes rolling back as I claim her sweet, tight pussy. To hear her beg me to ruin her for every other man because she belongs to me and me alone.

To leave her spent and gasping on the floor, on her bed, in that shower, and even here on this desk.

Feeling her come nearly broke all my sense of control.

I want to fuck her until she forgets who and what she is so that I might put her back together into who she is always meant to be.

But in the end, my restraint won.

Our first time together should be special.

My little viper.

Forever.

She’s practically calling out to me from the depth of my bones. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted someone as badly as I want her now.

Well, that’s not true… A familiar whisper rises in the back of my head. As soon as it does, the smell of blood, the sound of whimpers, and that hateful rattle of chains starts echoing in the back of my head. And the steam curling up from blood in the cold.

Breathe, I tell myself. You’re not there. You’re here.

In. Out.

My hands tighten on the arms of my chair, my fingers dig into the rough fabric, and I remind myself that I’m still in control of my mind and body.

But barely.

In. Out.

My eyes zero in on the image of Giselle writhing in bed. The sheet twists and coils around her delicious body. For a moment, I’m jealous of a fucking inanimate object because it’s wrapped around her exquisite legs, body, and neck, and I’m not.

My heart starts up again, reckless, as if I’m there with her.

Holding her close before I hold her down so that I can watch her pretty face contort with pleasure.

Hear those breathy sounds just before they turn to screams as I bring her from one toe-curling orgasm to another.

Mark her skin with my teeth and lips and hands so that the world knows who she belongs to.

I don’t want to possess her.

I want to control her.

I’ve gotten a tiny taste of just how much she craves the chaos I inspire, and like a hopeless addict holding out for just one more hit, I want more.

No one’s ever done that for her before. And if I died tomorrow, she’d grieve never having my cock inside her.

I’m sure of it.

“Still watching your detective?”

Rosa’s voice snaps me out of my reverie, and I glare at the patch of shadows where she is hiding. The only thing visible is the folder in her hand, and she waits for me to finish whatever private agony she might have been interrupting.

Slowly, she steps out from the shadows. Even in this dim light, the marks of her past that the Bratva left on her are visible. Cigarette burns, rope bruises, knife scars. Each one a cruel receipt of what those bastards did to her for years.

But it’s her face that sends a familiar rage—like a pair of old comfortable shoes—burning down my throat and pools in my stomach.

The shadow of the beauty that she once had is still there. But her mouth is wrong. Scars curve up at both corners and run along her cheeks to make a permanent grotesque smile.

At the sight of that disfigurement, rage pushes away haze in my brain, only for lust to return with vengeance when I spy Giselle shifting on the screen through the corner of my eyes.

The two warring emotions braid together until I view the world through a kaleidoscope of thirsts—one for fucking and the other for killing.

“What do you have?”

My voice is level. My pulse isn’t.

“A lead.” Rosa glances over at the image of my obsession on the screen before turning her eyes back to me. “They have a new warehouse this time.”

I grunt a response, willing myself to focus on what truly requires my attention. But it’s fucking hard. Made doubly so because I can still smell Giselle’s hair on my fingers.

“You’re distracted, Romochka.”

It’s not an observation. Rosa doesn’t do that even when she uses my diminutive. It’s an accusation.

“I’ve had a long night, Rosochka.”

Rosa cocks her head and lets out a small dismissive sound from her nose. Her natural lips disappear into a thin line, and her eyes narrow at the crushed rose petals on my desk.

I know that look.

“Use your words,” I say.

I don’t have a sister, but I imagine this is what it’s like.

Annoying.

“You like her.”

Incorrect, Rosochka. I don’t like Giselle Cantiano.

I’m fucking obsessed with her.

“She’s a means to an end,” I lie. “Starkov has someone in the police. Someone who is very good at covering their tracks. Someone that only she can find for me.”

“Liar.”

Silence hangs bitterly between us. Rosa refuses to wither under my glare. Finally, I’m the one who looks away from her and at the crushed petals.

“She has her uses.”

As if saying those words will somehow make them true.

As if my addiction to Giselle isn’t threatening to untangle the threads of control I’ve spun so tightly around my life.

My blood hums with the need to go back to her apartment, drag her out of that sad little bed of hers, and bury myself between her legs while my hand tightens around her pale throat to feel her heart sing its desire for me.

A part of me feels like I’m already back there, and that the person sitting here talking to Rosa, is nothing but a figment of my imagination.

“And what happens when she no longer has her uses anymore?”

“Meaning?”

She steps closer, and the blue light turns the scars on her face into a permanent, wolfish sneer.

“At some point, she’ll have to choose between being a detective and being whatever it is you want her to be. And when she turns on you?—”

“She won’t.”

“Says you?” Rosa scoffs.

“Says me.”

I’m furious not because of the possibility that Rosa’s right, but by the idea that Giselle could ever choose anything other than me.

“Is that why you gave her back those earrings? Because you trust her that much?”

It is and I do.

Rosa pauses for a moment. “Have you ever considered that you’re wrong about her? Have you ever considered that by giving her those earrings back, you’re helping her find you? Find us?”

I have. But I want her to find me.

Frustrated by my silence, Rosa continues. “You’re risking everything we’ve been doing, Romochka. I don’t give a fuck if you fail me. Have you ever considered that there are thousands of girls out there that you’ll be failing? And for what? Some situationship with a detective that?—”

“There’s no situationship, Rosochka.” I break my silence. “And besides, I don’t kill women. That’s your job.”

Finally, Rosa’s lips curve and she throws her head back in a single mirthless bark of a laugh. “You know what I’m really asking, Romochka.”

I do, and I don’t have an answer for her. Maybe it’s because I’m not sure if I’ll like the answer if I ever ask it out loud. Maybe it’s because I don’t know just where all of this is supposed to end.

I’ve come to accept over the last eighteen years that there will never be a happy ending for me. That my life’s work can only end in blood and death.

When I first saw Giselle outside of the gala with her eyes turned angrily at the banner bearing MacDougal’s name, I thought that it could still be that way. Even when I first carved her name into flesh, I thought that things can still be as they are.

But is that still true?

And if it isn’t, just where does Giselle fit in it all?

I know where I’d want her to fit. But that’s a fantasy.

A dream.

And dreams always die.

I’ve known that since I was fifteen.

On the monitors, Giselle has stopped moving, and I pretend to watch the changing image of the gate, driveway, main hall, and even the wine cellar.

I stay silent long enough that Rosa’s eyes finally soften as she studies me.

“Don’t bother.” She slides the folder over, and when she speaks, her voice is small. “I have my answer.”

Thankful that she’s no longer asking me questions about Giselle, I open the folder and scan the first few items: surveillance photos, time stamps, and the familiar sprawl of Cyrillic annotations.

All of them the same:

Age. Height. Weight. Virginity.

But no names.

Never names.

Because monsters don’t care to know their victim names. To know their names would make them real. Make them someone instead of something.

Rosa is right. I am risking everything we’ve been doing. But the risk is worth it. It has to be.

I let my breath ease as she starts walking away.

When she reaches the door, she pauses, and turns back to look at me from the shadows.

“The flowers are very pretty,” she says, nodding at the petals on the desk. “But any man can give her flowers.”

I wait.

“Your detective wants something else,” Rosa says. “Something that speaks to her heart.”