Page 19 of Only for Him (Starkov Bratva #1)

GISELLE

By the time I reach the Property Clerk’s Office in downtown Manhattan, I almost manage to convince myself that what happened last night was a fluke. That it’s what happens when I spend weeks dealing with bad sleep, taunting messages, and a literal growing pile of work.

That I’m stressed and frustrated, so much so that my body mistook fear for arousal. And in the process, it sought out the nearest and quickest release in the most fucked-up way possible.

That I’m obsessed with solving these cases, and not with him .

Right?

Sure, Giselle, keep telling yourself that like you haven’t stopped thinking about how hard he made you come.

Arata jumps when I open the door to his office, like I caught him hacking a body part off a corpse. His scrubs are baggy, his mask is half on, and his curls are plastered to his forehead. I can practically smell the Red Bull fumes on him.

A slight flush creeps up on his cheeks when he looks at me, visible at the edges of his mask. Nervously, he tucks his hands behind his back.

The lab smells of formalin and disinfectant. I’m almost tempted to ask for a bottle of both. Who knows, maybe it’s the exact kind of thing that can clean up a woman who let a psychopath lick her soul last night.

“Detective Cantiano,” Arata stammers, his voice just a little higher than expected. “Wasn’t expecting to see you. Aren’t you off today?”

The redness around his cheeks starts to spread until it reaches his ears, and I can’t help but smile at it. It’s almost cute in a schoolboy kind of way.

“No rest for the wicked,” I try to keep my voice light. “I figured that I come down here to ask you if you’ve made any progress on my own special request.”

As soon as those words leave my mouth, I can taste the oiled metal of my gun barrel on my tongue, feel a set of powerful fingers wrapped around my throat, and hear his voice whispering in my ear.

Little viper.

My traitorous heart starts to beat just a little faster than before.

“On the earrings and the councilman’s murder?” Arata asks.

I nod, fighting the urge to remember how slowly and sensually my stalker pressed them into my ear as he kissed his way up my neck. “Please tell me you got some good news for me.”

“I got the results for both. I was going to prepare a report to send your way in the Bronx, but since you’re here.” He taps away on his laptop until he pulls up the report. “The councilman’s tox screen came back clean, as expected.”

Of course.

“No evidence of sedation,” Arata continues. “Tox panel shows nothing other than the usual traces of party drugs. So that’s our proof the councilman was awake and aware for his death.”

Try as I might, I can’t help a dark satisfaction uncoiling in my belly.

Good. I wanted him to hurt. I wanted him to suffer. I’m glad that he felt it all. Because it’s exactly what I would’ve wanted for him.

My shadow sure knows exactly what I want. He knows to give me something that no other men have ever given me.

“Detective? Are you alright?” Arata’s voice snaps me out of my reverie, and I realize that I’m biting my lips.

Jesus, Christ, Giselle, get it together.

“Sorry, just a little frazzled this morning.” I give him a professional smile. “Had a long night.”

“Not the only one.” The edges of his eyes crinkle, and the blush on his face fades just a little, but still remains visible.

“As for the crime scene, I’ve dusted seven full sets of prints.

Three on the entry, two on the bar, and one partial on the body itself.

Of the seven, I matched one to the councilman, and then five to records of deceased underage females from prior cold cases. ”

I nod grimly, and I see a parade of Serenas walking through my mind.

At least their families will have some opportunity for closure.

At least they’ll have some answers about who did this to their daughters.

“But that final one had no matches.” Arata pauses, scrolling with his thumb, “Until I dusted the earrings.”

Of course.

Not for nothing else, it proves that my shadow isn’t lying to me. This is exactly how he planned it. Every detail down to the last piece. One breadcrumb at a time.

The hair on the back of my neck rises at the thought.

I wonder what else he’s planned. Did he give back my earrings with the expectation that I would turn them in to Arata?

“I know it’s not protocol, but I’d like to see them for myself,” I say. “Can you…?”

I gesture towards the evidence locker.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, Detective, but you know I can’t do that.

” He shifts on his feet, and practically trips on his words.

“It was already wildly out of protocol that you delivered them to me days after the techs bagged up all the evidence from the Tupolev murder scene. In a Ziploc bag, no less. If a lawyer were to make a case about improperly documented evidence, I’m sure they’d be able to?—”

I hold my hand up to stop him mid-ramble.

“I know. But those earrings have sentimental value for me. And I don’t know when I’ll get another chance to see them again.” My gaze softens and my eyes blur just a little. “Please? As a personal favor?”

I should feel guilty about manipulating Arata like that. But guilt’s easy to ignore these days. It’s not hard.

All I have to do is think of last night. Think about the scent of him still clinging to my skin, the iron in his voice, the taste of the gun in my mouth. And the warmth of his thigh between my legs.

This is just another part of my hunt for him .

That’s all.

Nothing else.

It can’t be anything else.

Maybe it’s the blush in my cheeks, or maybe I’m just good at telling half-truths. Either way, Arata glances around, walks over to the door of the evidence lockers, and swipes his keycard.

“You need me to come with you?” His hand lingers on the door, hoping I’ll say yes.

“No thanks. I’ll be quick.”

“Okay. I’ve put everything in the box labeled FB14-00301. Just knock when you’re done.” He nods, disappointed, and shuts the door behind me as I walk in.

The evidence locker is colder than the rest of the building. It’s the same kind of institutional cold that penetrates deep into your bones and wraps itself around your throat. Row after row of murder weapons, fluid specimesn, and mementos from both victim and perpetrators.

A museum of suffering and pain.

I’m grateful for it today. At least the cold can help chase away the heat from thoughts that haven’t stopped swirling around my head.

The motion-sensor LEDs flicker on in waves as I walk the aisle. I stop in front of the high-profile shelf with the box labelled FB14-00301.

I slide it out and open the lid.

Inside are the contents of MacDougal’s apartment. Each one neatly bagged and catalogued. I pick through them, and immediately zero in on the photo of me. Still standing at the bottom of my building’s stoop, head mid-turn to look across the block.

Eyes begging for something to happen.

I can’t help the scoff of a laugh falling from my lips when I see it.

If only I’d known then that something would happen.

Would I have let Russo take me off the case?

Not a fucking chance.

I keep rifling, pretend to hunt for clues while I listen for Arata’s footsteps outside.

Arata is like a lost puppy. Harmless, quick to smile, and eager to please. But his attention is suffocating. And just like that guy Ida tried to set me up with—what was his name? Nick?—he’s harmless.

And that’s the thing.

I don’t want harmless.

I want a monster who’s not afraid to break boundaries.

A monster who’s not afraid to break me.

I sigh, pushing down the smoldering desire that threatens to boil over whenever I recall just how much I like what he’s doing to me.

Then, the air shifts.

A displacement, like the moment a train roars into a station and the pressure in your skull changes.

And a dark familiar presence hovering just outside the edges of my perception.

Shit!

How the fuck is he even here?

Maybe he can walk through walls. Maybe he’s a figment of my imagination.

But my body knows better.

I turn, knowing full well that I’m turning towards him .

There!

At the far end of the aisle, a shape peels off the shadows. It moves with that slow, familiar confidence that I’m already beginning to recognize.

Steady and inevitable.

I return the box to the shelf, and lick my lips slowly. Now’s my chance, right? Here, in the beating heart of the NYPD. I’m in my element. He’s the intruder here. By all means, I should hold all the advantage. A single shout, and this place will be swarming with cops in a heartbeat.

Then why am I standing still?

To see if you’ll lie for me, little viper. His voice taunts me in my head. And you will.

He stops, still enshroud in shadows, and my feet begin to move as if they have a will of their own.

This time, my hand doesn’t bother reaching for my gun.

It won’t matter.

If last night proved anything, it’s that.

Every step leaves my body thrumming with the memory. The cool kiss of air as the towel fell away from me. The scratch of his shirt against my tight nipples. Cold steel and bitter oil on my tongue. Hot hard muscles between my legs.

And the way his hand fit perfectly around my throat.

Like it’s made for me. Like he’s made for me.

And maybe he is. Maybe the two of us are built for each other and we didn’t know that until now.

Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.

But which one am I? Which one is he?

I hate the tremor rushing through my pulse with every step. I hate the way my thighs clench as I step closer and closer to him. I hate that my body is practically begging for a repeat.

Shame and desire lash me from within, and I find myself starting to crave the sting of both.

Light flickers on with each step, and when I finally step close enough to touch, his face is finally forced out of the shadows and into the light.

The sight of him still hits like a brick to the chest.

Up close and in the light, I greedily drink in every feature of his face like I can’t get enough.