Page 29 of Only for Him (Starkov Bratva #1)

GISELLE

The mansion is exactly what you’d expect if a war criminal won the lottery and invested every dime in thick glass and fallout shelter doors. I can still taste the chaos of the escape, smell the damp river air seeping into my lungs.

I’m glad we got Dakota out, but rage still throbs in my belly.

Fucking monsters .

This is the closest I’ve ever gotten to actually saving someone and not just cleaning up the mess when it’s too late.

And I can’t stop thinking about how I may never get to do it again, because Roman’s DNA is being processed into the system as we speak.

Dakota hesitates at the threshold. I put a hand on her shoulder to find that she’s cold and humming, like the inside of a live wire.

“You’re safe,” I whisper, knowing full well it’s a lie. Nothing about this place feels safe. Especially not for me.

The air inside is cool, and I can’t shake the itch between my shoulder blades. There’s a chandelier so absurd it looks like a jewelry store exploded, and the runner is so plush I could dig my toes into it and never touch the floor.

The walls are dark, heavy, the color of blood dried too long in secret. Something primitive in me coils and bares its teeth. He’s been in my apartment so many times. But now, I’m in his space and seeing how he lives.

I could learn something useful here, but I know I won’t. I’ll be too distracted by his smell clinging to everything.

I will probably learn something horrible about myself and how depraved I am, though.

“You fucking live here?” Dakota whispers to me, and I realize she thinks me and Roman are shacked up. I want to laugh, but I just shake my head.

“No, he does,” I whisper back.

Because of course he does. Roman lives in a lair. No windows. No light. Just secrets, stacked like bricks.

“Office. Now.” Roman’s voice is bone dry.

We follow Rosa down the hall. Her stride is confident, but when she glances back, her gaze lingers on Roman. Like she’s afraid he might vanish if she blinks.

Those scars. I can’t stop staring. Especially at the one that turns her mouth into a devastation.

They’re all over her arms, too. Burn patterns. Knife tracks. Some healed clean, others warped and violent. They paint a story across her skin I don’t know how to read, but my body reacts like it’s been slapped.

Was she at an auction like the one we just left?

I should admire her for surviving. I do.

But all I feel is the acid burn of jealousy.

Because when she looks at Roman, there’s history. And I’m not sure I want to know how deep it goes.

Dakota trails behind. I reach for her hand, squeeze gently, but her gaze is fixed ahead, lost in the looming shadows. She’s trembling so bad I think she might collapse, but there’s something defiant in the set of her jaw.

My protective instincts ignite at once. This girl doesn’t need a savior. She needs armor. She needs someone willing to go to war for her— with her. I’m halfway there already.

And I have Roman to thank for that.

He leads us into a room that is not an office so much as a bunker. Books line the shelves like decoration, but the real power hums from the wall of surveillance monitors.

One of them shows my apartment.

My blood goes cold.

Of course he’s been watching. I should’ve expected it. I should be angry.

But what I feel instead is something heavier. Something worse.

I could laugh. I could cry. Instead, I watch the screen like it’s still mine. Like I’m not the one who’s trespassing now.

He gestures to the couch. Dakota sinks into it, knees up, arms wrapped around herself. I perch at the edge, every muscle in my body ready to fight, flee, or fucking snap.

Rosa lingers at Roman’s left shoulder, as if she’s always belonged there. Her eyes flick between the screens, between him and me, shining with a camaraderie that makes my stomach churn.

That’s what makes your stomach turn, Giselle? Not the violence? Not the cameras? Her?

Yes. Her. Them .

Because I’m an extremely fucked-up person who is capable of being jealous of a broken woman being close to a monster.

No. Not a monster.

My monster.

“I’ll take her from here, Romochka” she says, the words slipping off her tongue with an authority that feels foreign and uncomfortable.

Romochka.

I bristle. Heat flashes up my spine.

“No,” I snap. “She needs professional protection. Not… this.”

Rosa’s expression tightens. She crosses her arms, the posture practiced. Dismissive.

“You don’t know what you’re up against. We’ve been doing this far longer than you’ve been wearing that badge.”

“The NYPD?—”

“Is compromised,” Rosa says, rolling her eyes like I’m a petulant, naive teenager. “Corrupt. You go to your captain, you lead them here.”

She spits out that word— corrupt —like acid.

A hot flash of anger bolts through me. “You think I’m an idiot? I know how to run counter-surveillance. I know how to encrypt a phone call.”

But she looks at me like I’m someone to be patted on the head and told you’ll learn . Her tone drips with experience I haven’t earned, and the shape of her voice when she uses his diminutive still echoes in my ears.

How did she get those scars on her cheeks? Why am I begrudging this woman her role, whatever it is?

I can’t logic my way out of this feeling. I certainly didn’t logic my way into it.

It’s pure craving, territorial instinct.

It burns. God, it burns.

She’s standing at his shoulder like it’s hers. Like she’s earned the place.

And maybe she has.

But I want it anyway.

Roman makes me feel like I’ve never known anyone else, and it hurts to think that he doesn’t feel the same.

I bite my tongue and look at Dakota instead. Her eyes are wide, glassy, flickering like a blown fuse. She’s why we’re all here, right?

Only because he brought her to you. You would’ve wound up here, with him, no matter what.

I shake off the intrusive voice in my head feeding me inconvenient truths.

“We need to keep her safe,” I say. I try to steady my voice, make it sound like I have authority, but I don’t think it works. Not with Rosa, or with him.

Dakota doesn’t look at me. Her gaze is fixed on Rosa now. There’s something in the way they look at each other—recognition, maybe, or just the understanding of women who have lived through the same brand of hell.

“That’s exactly what we’re going to do,” Rosa says, but her tone cuts like a blade.

But I know that her version of the word we doesn’t include me, and she makes no effort to hide it.

“You can’t protect her, Miss Detective,” she spits. “There is no protection. Not from Pavel. Not from the Starkovs. Not from the Bratva.”

My heart races at the thought, at the unflattering truth. Does she know? Does she know just how bad I’ve always been at protecting the girls I most want to keep safe?

She couldn’t know, but maybe she smells it on me.

How did Roman gain the devotion of a woman this strong, this hard?

Is it the same way he stole me?

Did he corner her, stroke her, pump her full of need until she broke down and let him claim her?

The thought makes me sick, my heart aching.

Roman steps in, voice commanding as a door slamming shut.

“Rosochka, go tend to our other guest.”

The words wrap around my senses like an iron grip.

I glance at Dakota and realize this argument probably isn’t helping her feel any safer.

Rosa glances back at Roman, frustrated, but finally nods and strides away, leading the girl from the room.

The door shuts behind them.

And I’m alone with him.

Roman turns toward me, and suddenly the room feels three sizes too small. He doesn’t even have to touch me. He’s watching me, a glint in his blue eyes that makes the air thicker, more oppressive. His scent fills the air like smoke: spiced and suffocating.

My pulse kicks harder. The way he’s looking at me now? Like he’s already cataloging the damage we’re about to cause?

I should be bracing for a fight.

I want a fight.

But I’m not sure which part of me wants it more—the detective or the fucking masochist who keeps coming back for more.

My body’s betraying me again, reacting like it doesn’t care about reason or pride or what kind of man he really is. All it wants is the promise burning in his gaze.

That I’m his.

Even if I don’t want to be.

We stand there, toe to toe, heat shimmering between us like a mirage. A silent standoff, no weapons drawn, but everything on the table.

I want to ask about Rosa, about what she means to him, but the words taste foul. I don’t ask. I can’t ask. Not when we’re supposed to be talking about Dakota.

Not when asking would just be another way of handing him a piece of my fucking soul.

I’ve been able to pretend that I’m not giving them away and that he’s been taking them.

But this? This would be a present, wrapped with a bow.

I move closer, slamming my hands on the desk. “If you want my help, you’re going to do it my way.”

My voice sounds steadier than I feel. Inside, I’m chasing shadows. I don’t even know if my way exists anymore.

His eyes narrow just slightly, mouth tilting at one corner. “Then tell me, little viper, what are you planning?”

“I’m planning to do things the right way. I’ve got my team at the precinct?—”

He cuts me off with a snort, sharp and joyless.

“And what’s that accomplished? MacDougal raped girls for years under your badge’s protection. How many more monsters like him are you willing to overlook while you cling to your handbook?”

I want to scream at him, tell him to go fuck himself. I want to say I can do it better, smarter, cleaner.

But the truth is, I don’t know if I can.

Everything he’s saying is true. I don’t trust every cop I share a precinct with. Something’s been wrong for a long time, and I haven’t known where to look. Or maybe I’ve just been too afraid to even try.

But the way he does things?

No. Absolutely not.

Someday, he might get the wrong guy. Torture someone innocent. Go too far.

My way might be slower, but it’s safer. For everyone, including Dakota.