Page 27 of Only for Him (Starkov Bratva #1)

ROMAN

The room is a cell with a king bed, a mirrored ceiling, and more restraint options than a maximum-security ward.

Every surface is soundproofed, which is both a mercy and a horror. The walls are black and padded with soft vinyl meant to look like leather and the headboard is studded with steel rings for whoever wants to get creative.

There are sex toys everywhere: some in the open, some in tasteful cases lined up on the glass-topped dresser.

I hate it. I hate all of these rooms. I taste ash as I picture myself setting fire to it. Even the carpet stinks of the sick things it’s seen.

At the same time, it’s the safest place for us—and the girl—to be.

The door locks from the outside. I check it anyway, just to feel the give of the frame under my hand. I test the hinges, the baseboard, the plate where the handle bolts into the wood.

Nothing moves.

This room is meant for two things: pleasure and containment.

No one leaves until the house says so.

Giselle sits on the edge of the bed, ankles crossed. The earrings I gave her swing every time she tilts her head, glinting in the low light like they’re winking at me. That black slip dress tries and fails to hide how perfect she is.

When she opened the door for me, I fought an impulse to fist the fabric at the hem, ruck it up over her hips and stain it with cum.

That feels like it was long ago, now. But the echo remains, heat climbing the back of my throat. It’s wrong, in this room, but I’ve never pretended to be anything but wrong.

I should look away. I don’t. My cock stirs, thickening before I even realize it.

It’s the bite.

She bit me. She trembled and rocked her body against me, and she left her mark.

I’ve been walking around half-hard ever since.

The bruise has bloomed on my palm, her teeth marks indented in the flesh. I feel it all the time. A reminder of how perfectly she fits between my pain and my pleasure.

What did she think she was doing, exactly?

Did she think that she was getting back at me?

Because she certainly failed at that.

She just gave me more ammunition to use in the future.

The future, which has become a dreadfully exciting thing ever since my little viper walked into it.

She senses the heat in me now. Of course she does.

“You’re staring,” she says. “How can you be turned on when we just watched a girl be sold ?”

She has a point. But desire doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t wait for the right moment.

Still, this is the part of my job that I can’t half-ass. One slip and the wrong people die

My life? Whatever. I don’t give a shit about it.

But the woman on the bed? The one I might wind up having to kill if she does what Rosa says she’ll do?

I can’t think about that now, but I do know she can’t die tonight.

And the girl they’re about to drag in? She’s the whole fucking point. Focus on that.

“I’m thinking,” I reply. “Big difference.”

“Yeah? About what?” I can’t help but smirk. She’s beautiful when she’s angry. I noticed that pretty much right away.

Thank God she’s angry very often.

“About how the next few minutes could go very well, or very badly, depending on what happens when they bring her in.”

She nods, but doesn’t look away. “Fifteen years of this?”

She already knows my answer.

“Give or take,” I say.

“How can you stand it?”

The smell of latex and expensive perfume tries to choke me.

“I can’t. But it’s the only thing I’m good at.” I look away, but it’s too late. The words slip out, raw on my tongue. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever done that matters.”

She studies me for a second, eyes sharp. She parts her lips, about to say something else, but I decide not to let her.

She gets too much out of me.

I used to control our conversations. The first time that we spoke, she was terrified to say the wrong thing. Scared I’d hang up and she’d lose her chance to learn about me, and scared that I’d get mad and finally kill her.

She knows better now.

Now, if she keeps peeling at me, she’ll expose bones I don’t want her touching?—

and I’m fighting my cock already, just from her looking.

It’s all my fault, letting it spiral like this.

I move closer and casually reveal my hand, literally, palm up to show the bruise.

I’ve kept her from seeing it all night, waiting until I needed to pull it out.

Her pupils flare. She feels the echo of that bite just like I do.

“The earrings,” I say. “There’s a device in the clasp. Press it and it triggers a bomb threat to the front desk. Automated call, coded to match security protocols.”

Her leg bounces. She’s restless, wound up like a spring. I want to tell her to relax, but there’s no point. It would be an insult, and not the kind I’ll whisper in her ear later to make her come.

“As soon as it goes off, the NYPD’s bomb squad and SWAT team will be on site in under ten minutes. Maybe less if they have a unit nearby.”

“How long until they bring her in?” she asks.

“Soon.”

She blanches, just a flicker, and covers it by straightening her dress. “And then?”

“Then we get her out. Fast. No delays. Ten minutes.”

She plants her feet flat on the carpet. Preparing for battle. My little viper .

The same mouth that waged war earlier today now draws breath like she’s ready to kill for someone else. It twists something in my chest. My cock throbs against my thigh.

“Jesus Christ,” she says. “Okay. Okay.”

“When the call goes out, the exit routes will all lock down except the maintenance corridor. That one opens onto the river, where a boat will be waiting.”

She nods slowly, tongue grazing her teeth. Then she’s up, pacing, scanning the room, clocking every detail. No windows. No cover. Nowhere to run.

“Why me?” she asks, finally. “You could have done this alone.”

I lean against the wall, cross my arms. “First, it’s because you wanted answers. Second, it’s because the girls they bring in are always terrified of men. The woman I usually use for this is too recognizable. You were the only option.”

She raises an eyebrow. “ Usually use?”

I don’t answer. Is she wondering what kind of woman I keep company with? Maybe even wondering if I’ve got a stable of them?

No, little viper, I think. Not like that. You’re the only one.

Lord knows I couldn’t handle two of her.

She shakes her head, then stops. “You’re sure she’ll trust me?”

“No,” I say. “But she’ll trust you more than me. Or anyone else.”

She swallows, throat moving. Oh, that fucking throat. “My shoes…”

I look down. The heels are sharp enough to stab a jugular.

“The heel is foldable,” I tell her. “Push at the arch.”

She stares at me, then bends down and presses at the instep. The heel clicks in, leaving a flat, flexible sole.

“Shit,” she mutters, impressed. “I hate that you think of everything.”

“No, you don’t,” I say.

What she really hates is how much I already know her.

Rosa’s going to smell that on her the second we meet.

She’s about to snap back when there’s a sound at the door: an electronic whine, then a click. I go tense, fist in my pocket. The door swings open, and a man in a suit steps in, followed by the girl.

She’s built like she’s had to fight for every inch of her body. Red hair, eyes like razors. She’s wearing a pale slip dress, shoulders bare. The man puts a hand on her elbow, but she jerks away.

Good. She’s strong.

He presents her like a dish at a restaurant, then leaves.

I step forward, shoulders slumped and palms out. I nudge my mask up, revealing my full face.

I’ve learned that the difference between a rescue and a kidnapping is all in the body language. Same hands, same tools.

I just have to make sure she believes my intent.

“Dakota Stepanovna,” I say, voice soft. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Giselle watching me. She’s never heard that voice before.

Layer after fucking layer with this woman.

Dakota looks at me, then at Giselle, then back to me.

“ Kto vy ?” she says, so flat it might as well be a threat. Who are you?

Her eyes bore into me, twin stars of skepticism and despair.

“We’re here to get you out.”

“I know your father,” I say. “Stepan Kharazin. He was one of Timofey’s brigadiers, yes?”

Her face goes hard. “Everyone knew my father.”

“Knew?”

“Starkov killed him.” She spits the answer. “All of them. My father, my mother, my brother. I’m the last. And I’ll be dead soon, too.”

“No, you won’t,” I say. “We’re not going to let that happen.”

She laughs, a raw and broken sound.

“Sure,” she says, eyes flicking up and down my imposing bulk. It’s a gift in every other scenario but here. “And then what? A fate worse than death?”

I shake my head. “We get you somewhere safe. You pick the place.”

Her laugh dies. “You’re full of shit.”

I turn toward Giselle. Dakota’s afraid of me. But Giselle? She’s a wildcard. Woman-shaped balm. A flame for the moth.

“She’s scared of me,” I say. “You talk to her.”

I don’t like it.

Not because I doubt Giselle can handle her—but because the way Dakota looked at her, like she was the one person in the room who might still mean safe , made something burn in my throat.

I can get this girl to trust her, I’m sure.

But can I trust Giselle?

Dakota looks back at me, sneering. “Who is she?”

“She’s here to help,” I say, in Russian, before turning to Giselle and repeating myself in English. She gives a small nod.

Dakota rakes her gaze over Giselle like she’s stripping her for weaknesses.

Good luck, kid .

I’m pretty sure I’m her only weakness.

That’s what makes her so fucking perfect.

“You’re not like the others,” Dakota says, English thick with accent. Her voice is laced with loathing, but not for Giselle. For what’s been done to her.

The difference matters.

“No,” Giselle says. “I’m not. We’re going to leave. All of us. Together. You just have to follow us.”

Dakota hesitates, then nods. But her hands tremble, fists clenched so tight I can see the blood flush her knuckles.

“Are you ready?” I ask, Russian again. “We won’t do anything until you’re ready, but we need to do it soon.”