Page 24 of Only for Him (Starkov Bratva #1)

GISELLE

I wait outside my own door, listening and counting the seconds. My pulse pounds in my ears like a jackhammer. The air around me still hums with him like crackling static before a lightning strike.

The high of outplaying him has been bleeding away since I handed over the sample to Arata. I know that it was technically the right thing to do, but I can’t stop thinking about the possible fallout and the strange feeling that I’m somehow betraying him…

The only way I can try and assuage my guilt is telling myself that it was the only choice he left me.

You can’t betray someone you never made a promise to .

But it’s one thing to think that, and another thing entirely to still feel his cock pulsing in my palm, taste his cum on my tongue, and smell his scent buried so deep in my lungs that I know I’ll never get it out.

I touch the knob, just to test that it’s unlocked.

And of course, I find that it is.

When did he get here? Before the evidence locker? After? Did he somehow beat me home?

I wonder if I really want to know, or if I prefer that it remain forever a mystery. Something about the way he shadows through my life like this makes me feel hunted in the best possible way.

But just when is there a “best way” to be hunted?

I inhale slowly as I close my eyes to bring back that memory of us in the evidence locker, the feeling of his chest rising and falling against my back to calm me. And then I push the door open and scan every inch.

And like always, I come home to an empty apartment.

Even if I know it won’t remain empty for long.

He’s changed that. Not necessarily for the better, but also not necessarily for the worse.

Where are you? What did you do? I ask, impatient. Some part of me feels that we’re so connected that he might actually answer: everywhere, anything I want.

My heart thumps in my chest.

I step out of my shoes, cross the living room, and glance at my bedroom door for any telltale sign that he might already be here, waiting. But there are none, because Roman doesn’t leave clues for me that easily.

He knows I notice everything, and he’ll make me work for it.

In the kitchen, the only sound is the leaky faucet going plip-plip. The pipes in this place are all reversed, where hot runs cold, and cold runs hot. I wonder if he’s learned that yet. I picture him filling a glass like he belongs here whenever he enters to watch me.

Stalking is probably thirsty work.

In my bedroom, the closet door is ajar. I check it, heart rate in the red. Nothing but my own scent, almost lonely without his complementing it.

Seeing myself through his eyes is addicting, and now I want to know the rest. What do I smell like to him? How do I taste? How do I sound?

I want to rewrite myself with his vocabulary.

I blink back tears at how low I’ve sunken. I feel unrecognizable to myself. Shame turns my stomach. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over what I’ve already done with him and all the ways I’ve given myself to him.

I half-expect to find him in the shower, standing like a statue, daring me to react. Lunging forward and making me come in some exciting, obscene, new way.

He’s not, but the bathroom isn’t empty.

Hanging from the towel rack is a dress bag. Black, glossy, expensive as shit. Next to it, a smaller shopping bag, something glittery inside.

My cop-brain tells me it’s a bomb.

My animal-brain wants to tear it open with my teeth.

The zipper is smooth and frictionless. Inside is a dress. A slip of black silk, just long enough to pass as legal if I stand up straight.

A dress built to say I’m his before anyone even asks.

The silk whispers mine when I thumb it.

Alone in my bathroom, I groan.

Beside the dress is a Venetian mask, all lacquer and red and silver. It’s the same kind that they wear to orgies in movies.

Anticipation slithers down my spine and I imagine being seen and not-seen all at once, hiding in plain sight while still being on display for him.

Showing off what breed of slut he’s made me.

But I don’t think Roman would like the idea of other men watching me.

And, God help me, I find myself feeling the same about anyone watching him.

What we have—which, I remind myself, is nothing, can’t ever be anything, because he’s a murderer and I’m a fucking detective —is too raw and brutal for anyone else to witness, let alone understand.

I shake my head and move on to the shoes. They’re strappy, high, and dangerous in a very literal way. These will all but incapacitate me. I’m definitely not running away in them.

If I can’t run, I’ll have to stand my ground.

Or kneel.

Do I really trust him enough to wear shoes I can’t escape in?

I’m frustrated to find that I do, then tell myself it’s because I’m of no use to him if I’m dead. He needs me alive. If he wanted to kill me, he’d have done it two orgasms ago.

He still wants to use my “latitude” as a cop, right?

A cringe of discomfort when I consider whether I’m just a means to an end.

When, like it or not, he’s quickly become much, much more to me.

The merry-go-round in my head doesn’t stop. With him, because of him, I’m always feeling something far too deeply. Whether it’s fear or shame or lust. They take turns feeding each other until I’m dizzy.

At the bottom of the bag is a velvet jewelry box. I snap it open.

Earrings.

Big, teardrop-shaped, crystal and silver, so heavy they could anchor you in place. I touch them and find them to be cold and solid.

Accompanying them is a note folded origami tight.

Dress the part, little viper. Wait for me.

No signature, because he doesn’t need one.

It’s here when it shouldn’t be. That’s his signature.

My thumb hovers over the note, tempted to trace the ink, traitor nerves sparking.

I step back to take it all in.

My body responds first as nipples turn diamond-hard. Next, my skin grows fever-bright, and I taste guilt and thrill fizzing against my tongue like champagne.

I snap the box shut with a bite.

I want to throw it all away.

Torch the dress. Slam the shoes through a window. March the box back to wherever he crawled out from and smash it against his fucking face.

But I won’t.

I’ll put on the dress, the mask, and the heels. I’ll even wear the earrings he picked for me even if they tear my earlobes in half. Because if I don’t, then he wins. And if I do, he wins anyway.

I clench my teeth so hard my jaw cracks. Leaning back against the bathroom door, I cup my hands over my pussy, feeling the heat through my pants, remembering how easily he manipulates my flesh.

And how fucking good it feels to let him.

I can’t stop thinking about how I’m about to take a step into something I’m not prepared for.

I’ve never let that stop me before.

The mask rests on my coffee table like a loaded gun. The dress moves with my body, not as confining as it appeared at first, the silk malleable and forgiving. I can work with the dress.

The heels? Not so much.

I pace the apartment until I can walk in them without stumbling. I need all the confidence I can get, and an embarrassing ankle twist could throw me off for hours.

While I pace, and wait, I run the plan over in my head. Because having a plan is good detective work, and I’m a detective. I am a logical animal, not a collection of cravings in a dress someone else picked out.

Whatever you need to tell yourself.

I have to loop in Teddy. I need him to corroborate any evidence I might present. Maybe he’ll even know how to tell the story of what I’ve been doing in a way that doesn’t put me in front of a committee.

Or in a padded room.

I wonder how to hide it from Roman, because I don’t want his blood on my hands.

Because it would be my fault, wouldn’t it? It would be because I should have reported all this a month ago, should have gotten Roman arrested today when he was on my turf.

My chest clenches as the cold reality of the situation.

I’m doing everything wrong. And it’s going to get someone killed.

I don’t want it to be my fault, but it will be.

Oh, God, what have I done? What am I doing ?

Stop. Stop spiraling. You’re in contro.l You know you are. Prove it to yourself.

I sit at my laptop and open the case file. Not an official one, obviously. This one won’t live on the NYPD server but on an encrypted flash drive, the password a string of curse words and dead pets.

So far, all I have is the name. Roman. Just Roman. 6’5”, blue eyes, Russian origin, skilled in violence, and a history with the Starkov Bratva.

Not much to go on, but it'll fill out soon enough.

Because, surely, a spreadsheet will stop me fiending for him.

I have DNA, prints, and a pattern: the way he kills, the way he follows, the men he targets. And now, I have a way in, proof that I can wiggle my way past his defenses. He didn’t want to cum in my hand, but I made him.

I refuse to feel guilty about that. The only shame I’ll allow myself to feel is the normal kind that a normal human would feel about performing sexual favors on their stalker.

Soon, I’ll get his last name, and start building a real case.

My hands are shaking so I turn them into fists.

What’s going to happen tonight? What have I agreed to?

Am I setting myself up to fail, or am I dooming someone else to torture?

I keep looking at the clock, counting down the seconds, telling myself I’m not going to do anything stupid.

Except I already did. I currently am.

It is, in fact, extremely stupid to put on this dress and these heels and wait around for my shadow to show up and do whatever he wants to me.

But he did promise answers.

And we just love answers, don’t we, Giselle?

I haven’t put on the earrings yet. I put Serena’s back on once I got home. The metal sang against the wound that hadn’t quite healed. Opening it up again, blood trickled onto my collarbone.

Why does he keep giving them back to me? Is it strategic manipulation, or a tender act of compassion? I remember the first time he’d touched me—physically, not psychologically—how that night ended with him putting them back in my ears.