Page 33 of Only for Him (Starkov Bratva #1)

GISELLE

In the moments between sleeping and waking, I think I’m in heaven. Cool sheets, so smooth they might be liquefied air, surround me. There’s no antiseptic smell telling me I’m in a hospital, but this isn’t my apartment. I’m dressed in soft but unfamiliar clothing, and my throat is bruised and raw.

And then I’m aware of a mellow pain throbbing in my jaw and abs and my— oh .

Oh… fuck.

The silken sheets cling to my skin, an obscene contrast to the memories now flooding through my mind.

I recall the hunt through the dark, the press of his fingers down my throat, the point of his blade skimming across my shoulder, and me—sobbing, writhing, begging —coming so hard I thought I might break in two.

My shoulder throbs and I remember that, too.

It’s what finally made me come like a fucking animal.

No, no, nononononono!

My body moves before my mind does, arms flinging off the sheet, panic screaming up my spine. Cold sweat beads under my knees, and my breath stutters, shallow and ragged.

I can’t lose control.

I have to stay in control, even if it means tearing myself in half to do it.

But I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe?—

Breathe .

I focus on the word like it’s a lifeline.

Breathe .

For three full breaths, I hold still, collecting data. The lavish decor cloaks me in a blur of shadows and too much softness. The air is cool, faintly spiced with paprika.

A glass of water sits on the nightstand. So thoughtful, right next to where he probably laid me out like a doll.

Across the room: a matte black door, shut tight. Dark wood paneling, ornate chandeliers hanging above with crystals catching glints of light.

The clothes are not mine: a black T-shirt and leggings that cling like someone painted them on. No underwear, no socks.

You didn’t just like that, Giselle. You didn’t just come from being fucked with a knife, you came until you literally passed out.

My shoulder throbs, aching with the memory of that sharp edge against skin. The way I obeyed him, so perfectly still. All that after biting him in that evidence locker, left him bleeding, and then made him come in my hand while he fucked me with the handle of a knife like he owned my body.

He does own it. You’ve been giving it to him piece by piece from the moment he carved “To Detective Cantiano” into that corpse and dared you to chase him.

I guess he dressed me in these clothes after. No idea whose they are. Could they be Rosa’s?

Holy shit!

Rosa.

Dakota.

Focus.

I can’t linger here in the filthy afterglow of being screwed to sleep by Roman. Can’t afford to drown in the part of me that wants him to do it again. Wants more blades. More breathlessness. Wants to come so hard she forgets her own name.

That part of me is getting bigger, and I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to keep her at bay.

Is it even worth the effort to try anymore?

Can I just… let go?

Let him have me, the way he so clearly does?

Focus, Giselle!

Outside these sheets, the chaos of the Bratva’s twisted game waits, and Dakota’s life hangs in the balance. I draw a breath deep enough to steady my shaking hands.

No time to indulge in dark fantasies. I have a girl to save. She survived a goddamn sex auction while I was too busy sucking on Roman’s fingers to notice the house was on fire.

My cop-brain kicks in: interview the victim then get her out of harm’s way.

I swing my legs over the bed, my feet sinking into carpet too soft to be trusted. The air is thick with an unsettling mixture of anxiety and anticipation, and my heart races as I rise.

I need to shake off the remnants of last night. I can’t let Roman’s touch linger like a poison on my skin. We have a mission, and Dakota deserves more than my distraction.

My mind drifts to her face—how terrified she must feel. The image solidifies my resolve. She has lost so much already. I won’t let her slip through my fingers, too.

This time, I’ll make a difference.

And that I only have this chance because Roman pulled her out of hell? That he’s the one who made this rescue possible?

It complicates things.

But it doesn’t change the mission.

Later, I’ll worry about whether I want to arrest him, fuck him, or thank him.

Right now, I want to burn every man at that auction alive.

Striding toward the door, I pause. My eyes fall on the mirror. The reflection is that of a stranger’s. My dark hair a wild halo around my face, skin still flushed from the memories. I look like I’ve just been thoroughly used.

What is it, exactly, that Roman has pulled out of me?

How could he see the greedy, fractured mess beneath the badge when I’ve spent my whole life trying to hide it—even from myself?

Have I been calling out to him all this time, screaming in a secret language only monsters can understand?

Every time, I think he’s made me climax as hard as humanly possible, only to be proven wrong. I didn’t even know it was possible to come that hard, to come so many times I lost consciousness.

Maybe there’s no ceiling on what he can do to me. Maybe if this goes on long enough, he’ll fuck me into a coma instead of just unconscious.

That’d be one way to get rid of him, I guess.

Oh, please, Giselle—you don’t want to get rid of him. You’re jealous of his underwear because it gets to cradle his cock all day.

There’s no time to linger on whether I do or don’t envy Roman’s Hane’s. What matters now is the fight ahead.

Focus.

Dakota. Bratva. Justice.

That’s the word that finally shakes me out of my post-orgasm stupor.

Justice.

That’s what I’m here for, right?

Not for Roman. Not for the way his voice makes me wet. Not for the way he made me come all over his thigh while I sucked my own gun.

I open the door before I can spiral any further.

The hallway stretches before me. Ornate fixtures line the walls, but the elegance does little to comfort me. There’s a pervading darkness that seems to settle over everything, thick and stifling.

I hear voices drifting down the hall, muffled but recognizable. Rosa and Roman, their tones low and intent. I’m surprised, then, when I finally find them and see they’re not alone. Dakota is facing them down, her jaw set in defiance.

I feel a hum of pride. Even after everything she’s gone through, she has fire.

It’ll serve her well.

All three turn to watch me enter.

I should keep my eyes on Dakota, but I can’t help but study Roman’s face for signs of how he feels after last night.

My plan to forget all about it, all the ways I thrilled at his words, his touch, the way he hunted me in the dark. It all goes out the window as soon as his blue eyes meet mine.

And then they soften.

Not the eyes of a monster. Not this time.

He gives me a subtle nod, like we’re co-conspirators. Like I’m his.

Static lingers in the air between us, and I wonder how obvious it is to Rosa and Dakota.

Rosa’s expression is sour. So, maybe very obvious.

If even a flicker of what I’m feeling shows on my face, I’m fucked. I might as well tattoo Owned by Roman on my forehead.

“When I claim you.” That’s what he’d said. Right before he told me I could come.

Like my orgasm was his to grant.

Because he’s not wrong. No matter how much you might wish he were, he isn’t. You’ve never been more satisfied in your life. It’s very possible that you’ve never even been alive until now.

Later. I’ll wrestle with it later.

Right now, the bite on my shoulder pulses like a low-voltage hum. Not painful. Not quite. It feels like… possession.

I ignore it. Ignore the tremble in my gut, the heat crawling up my spine.

Focus on the girl. The victim. The reason we’re here.

“Good morning,” I say. None of them return my greeting, but I didn’t expect them to. This isn’t a household that concerns itself with pleasantries, I’m sure. “Have we learned anything?”

“Dakota gave us several names,” Roman's voice rings out, steady as stone. “Men connected to the auction. Some of them are new players.”

He must be doing a better job than I am at not thinking about last night, a fact which oddly hurts my feelings.

It’s not every day you chase a NYPD detective through your mansion and then use a knife handle to fuck her, is it?

God, I fucking hope not.

Get your head back!

The pause after Roman spoke has gone on too long, and I feel my heartbeat quicken.

Ok, new names. Information we didn’t have. It’s a thread worth pulling, a lifeline.

“We can use that,” I say, turning to the girl. Her arms are folded tight across her chest, gaze downcast, like the weight of everything is finally pressing in. I reach over and place a hand gently on her shoulder, gratified when she doesn’t flinch away. “That’s good. You did good, Dakota.”

When I glance back at Roman and Rosa, I’m already shifting into motion. “So what’s next? We need to get her somewhere safe. Immediately.”

A low rumble escapes Roman, like distant thunder, “She’ll be safe here for now. She needs to get her strength back. We’ll make sure she?—”

“I’m right here,” Dakota snaps, knocking my hand away. “You don’t have to talk about me like I’m not.”

Her voice is sharp, eyes blazing again. Good. Fire is better than fear.

“Of course,” I say. “You get a say in all this. They took away your choices. We’re not going to do the same.”

Roman looks at me sharply, like I’ve said something wrong. I feel chastised but don’t know why.

And, as much as my needy little soul might like it in bed, I don’t much care for being ordered around in this conversation.

As far as I’m concerned, we’re equals here. He might have been doing this a long time, but my badge isn’t just for show.

“The problem is we don’t have many choices to offer you,” he says, cutting eyes at me when he repeats my word choice.

“You come from a Bratva family. We can’t just hand you back.

You go home, Dakota, and you’ll be right back in their grip.

And we’re obviously not just going to throw you out on the street. ”