Page 39 of Only for Him (Starkov Bratva #1)

I feel like he’s lying, and though that’s not good enough… I want it to be. Dear God, I want him to have done it so I have a reason to sink my teeth into him and make him pay for what he did to my sister.

Roman’s lips brush the edge of my ear, a whirl of heat up my spine. “He’s going to lie until he thinks he’s dying.”

Skinner leans back in the chair. “You have your bitch doing your dirty work now?”

Roman takes a step toward him, then stops. He lifts his hands, palms open, steps back.

“I won’t touch him,” he says. “He’s yours, little viper.”

“Little viper?” Skinner snorts. “That’s cute. She looks more like a little cunt to me.”

I feel the vibrations of Roman’s rage behind me. He doesn’t like the way Skinner is talking to me.

I don’t fucking like it, either.

I step forward, blade in hand, and meet Skinner’s gaze. He’s older than me, but not by much. The years haven’t been kind. He smells like sweat and cheap aftershave. You’d think his line of work would at least afford him a nice cologne.

He stares like he’s still in control, daring me.

“You know Serena Cantiano?”

Saying her name here, in front of him, feels like an incantation. It drags me that much deeper into my darkness.

He laughs again. “You really think I remember every gash they move through the city? Get bent.”

Roman’s hand lands on my shoulder.

“Make him answer,” he says.

I press the point of the knife to Skinner’s thigh, just above the knee. I don’t know if that’s the right place to start. I’ve never done this before. Would Roman tell me if I was doing it wrong? Is there a wrong way to do it?

I can’t go back to being a detective after this, so I better get real fucking good at being whatever this is.

“Do you know Serena Cantiano?”

“Go to hell,” Skinner spits, saliva dribbling down his chin.

Pressing harder, the blade sinks in. I twist, just a little, and he jerks against the tape binding his arms.

Yes. Yes. YES.

“Fuck, okay! I knew a girl, looked like you, a little bit. Name started with an S, had some fucking guinea last name like that. But that’s all I know! Fuck!”

I drag the knife across his thigh. Skinner slams his head back, eyes wide. It’s not deep enough to slice the artery, but enough to paint the floor red. It’s beautiful.

This is beautiful.

But those hands, on my sister? So fucking ugly. He deserves to lose them altogether.

What if he’s telling the truth? What if he doesn’t know anything more? What if he really had nothing to do with Serena?

Look what you’ve done, Giselle. Look at what you’ve become.

I step back, thoughts warring for supremacy.

Roman is there. Always there. I hit his chest and his arms wrap around me from behind. I let his heat pull me into clarity. He’s so strong, and he touches me like I’m strong enough to handle him.

Because I am.

I am.

His hands slide down my arms, fingers slipping over mine until we’re both holding the knife. My breath quickens and my heart thumps in my chest at the intimacy of his touch. It feels like a proposal.

My heart jackhammers. My breath stutters. But I don’t pull away as I inhale the sweet and cloying spice and iron on his skin until I grow dizzy with every breath. My tongue darts out and wets my lips.

“He’ll give you more,” Roman breathes into my ear, his voice thick. “But only if you hurt him.”

His mouth brushes the line of my jaw, words hot and slick against my neck.

I glance at Skinner’s hands. The fingers twitch, mottled with old bruises, faded tattoos and crusted blood. Roman follows my gaze.

He guides my hand, still gripping the knife, positioning the tip of the blade beneath Skinner’s pinky nail.

“Try harder to remember her,” I say, feeling Roman’s hand on mine. It’s firm and gentle as he shows me how to hurt.

Together, we slide the blade beneath the nail.

Skinner screams. A raw, choked noise that echoes against the cinderblock walls.

My stomach lurches, but we don’t stop. Skinner’s howls grow louder, wetter, like he’s drowning in his own spit. The screams are almost musical, and I wonder if this is what Roman channels when he plays piano.

The blood steams between my fingers. It smells like power. We run the blade under Skinner’s fingernails, one after the other, slow and careful.

Skinner is sobbing now, breath hitching. “What do you fucking want from me? Whores aren’t supposed to be memorable.”

My body stiffens, but Roman’s hand rises to the side of my neck. A grounding squeeze.

“You’re not alone, little viper,” he whispers. My flesh tingles. “I’m right here.”

“The girl you think you remember,” I snarl at Skinner. “You were the one who took her?”

Skinner’s voice is a whine. “No! No! I don’t… I just collect the money, that’s it.”

“If you didn’t take her, who did?” Roman guides my hand again, poising the knife over Skinner’s heart.

He shakes his head, jaw rattling. “I don’t fucking know. Maybe nobody did. Nobody wanted your cunt sister enough to take her.”

The room tilts. Rage floods through me, an erratic pleasure knocking at my ribs: justice-justice-justice-finally-getting-justice.

“I’m going to say her name every time I hurt you,” I whisper. “And I’m going to hurt you until you tell me the truth.”

I say her name six times. We’ve sliced across his entire chest and through both Achille’s tendons, and he’s about to lose an eye when he finally cracks.

“YES! I TOOK HER!” He screams. “I took your precious goddamn sister, okay? Okay? I took her, and I sold her. She was… pricey. But I wasn’t the only one, I just do what they tell me!”

Roman’s lips are right against my ear now, so close I feel the vibration when he whispers. “Now you know.”

But Skinner is still talking, voice ragged. “They take dozens every year, maybe more. You can’t stop it. You can’t do shit to stop it.”

“Who are they? ” I ask, pushing the knife deeper into the corner of his eye.

I notice that Roman’s hand isn’t guiding mine anymore, and realize I don’t know when he let go. I don’t know which of the wounds on Skinner’s body are inflicted by us and which are inflicted by me.

And I don’t care anymore.

“I don’t know!” Skinner sobs. “Please, I don’t know!”

“I don’t believe you,” I say. “Talk.”

“I told you everything already. You want her number? I’ll give it to you. Just make it stop. Just give me… give me a minute… fuck! Seven! Seven… seven-five-four-two. That was her number.”

My stomach drops and my blood turns to sleet.

I want to scream.

I’ve spent years hunting that number, but I never wanted to know it. Because now that I know it, it’s become real. Everything that happened to her is now thrown into sharp relief, and I feel the air being squeezed out of my lungs.

It’s too fucking real now. I can imagine it too fucking well.

Serena…

Tears stream down my face. And raw anguish severs the last thread holding me together. Darkness creeps into the edge of my vision, and when I look back at Roman, I see a pair of blue flame burning through the darkness, encouraging and permissive.

His breath brushes my throat like a brand.

“Who else was involved?” I turn back and scream at Skinner. “Who bought her? Who targeted her? Where did they take her?”

Skinner blabbers but gives us nothing.

“Do whatever you want now, little viper,” he whispers. “Give your sister the justice that she deserves. The justice that you’ve wanted. The punishment that this piece of shit needs.”

For a second, I just stare at the man: already a ruin of blood and sweat.

Not ruined enough for what he’s done.

I see my sister’s face, her hair matted and eyes wild, and I see every girl I ever failed to save. The pain in my chest grows into something huge and final.

I don’t ask more questions. I wrap my hand around Skinner’s jaw and dig the blade into his eye. His scream fills the room, bouncing off the walls and filling every crack.

I don’t stop.

I stab and stab, clean and precise, the way Roman does. I carve the truth out of him, cut the lies away, until there’s nothing left but red and bone and the echo of my own rage.

When it’s done, I drop the knife.

I look at Roman. His face is shining. Not pride. Worship, maybe.

I can’t stand it.

We are the same, built from the same broken bones and stolen years, and nothing will ever change that.

I turn away, hands shaking.

This doesn’t feel like vengeance.

This feels like justice.

My hands are slippery. I drop to my knees and stare at what I’ve done.

I was right. Nothing feels the same. There is no going back.

I don’t know who I’ll be now, but I’m not the woman I was.

You know who you are, little viper.

Roman’s shadow stretches over me. He steps through the blood, doesn’t flinch or hesitate. He kneels beside me, my ruined hands in his and lifts them like they’re sacred. He laces our fingers together.

It’s a perfect fit.

“You did well,” he says, voice so soft it barely stirs the air. I feel like I’m fucking dying. Can’t get enough air. Cells shriveling up, moisture sucked out of my body, writhing as pain sluices through me like acid. I want to slam my forehead into the concrete until everything just stops.

This is a new kind of grief, a strange and tormenting strain. And it’s not for anyone but myself.

I want to scream at him, to tell him that he turned me into this.

That’s a lie, and you both know it. He just brought it out of you. It was always there.

I hate this. I hate myself, sick and shaking as I feel cold blood rushing through my veins, hot blood clinging to my clothes.

I sob. My legs won’t work. I try to push myself up, but the blood makes the floor slick.

Roman stands, loops his arms under my shoulders, and hauls me up like I weigh nothing.

Roman carries me up the stairs. My head is ringing, but the world feels far away.

He takes me to the bathroom at the end of the hall, all glass and tile and cold white light. He puts me back on my feet and I’m surprised when I don’t crumble right away.

He peels off his shirt, tosses it in the sink, and turns the water on. I just stand there, arms limp at my sides, blood running down to my wrists like handcuffs.

Roman lifts my shirt, and I raise my arms so he can peel it off. The blood makes the fabric heavy. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror: more blood, all over my face.

He kneels in front of me, unzips my jeans, and slides them down over my hips. His hands are steady, clinical. When I step out, my knees buckle, but he’s already there, catching me before I fall. He helps me into the shower, and the first rush of water stings like acid.

I am bursting apart. This is the worst thing I’ve ever done, and I already want to do it again.

Blood ribbons down my arms, mixes with the water, stains the tile pink. It pools at my feet, then spins away into the drain, swallowed like a secret.

Roman steps in behind me, closing the glass door with a soft click. We’re sealed in now. Just him. Just me. Just the heat.

He soaps his hands, then lifts my arms and starts to scrub, slow and patient. He works every finger, every nail, peeling the blood away in layers. The touch is tender, reverent.

I am his to shape into whatever pleases him most.

It’s a relief.

I am his.

He finds the thin cut where I sliced myself on the blade and washes it gently, like a prayer.

He lathers my shoulders, my back, my neck. It’s like he’s scrubbing away a layer of my soul until he washes away the brittle scaffolding of the woman I used to be.

The water swirls down like judgment. The sharpest edges of my heart melt under it. Every breath I take feels like the first one I’ve ever drawn.

The way my heart beats now like it never really did before.

There may not be a heaven, or a hell, but this is as close as I’ve ever felt to salvation.

And when I turn and look at the man who brought me here, I don’t see a monster.

I see a prophet.

Someone I’ll follow until the earth gives way beneath us, swallowing us whole.

His hair is wet, eyes bluer than ever. This is the first time I’ve seen him naked. He’s so huge, standing over me, looking down with something like admiration.

The scars on his chest and arms catch the light—some are puckered white, others a darker, angry red. His tattoos, ornate and jagged, warp under the water.

I recognize them. They’re Bratva tattoos. The only reason he’d have them is if?—

But how could he? And then do all this ?

I want to ask what it all means, but my mouth won’t work.

He lifts my chin with one hand, his thumb rough against my jaw. His gaze consumes me. Not as something chewed up and spit out but as something reborn.

“Look at me,” he says.

But I already am. I haven’t looked away. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to.

The world narrows to this: the water, the steam, the ache in my arms, and the weight of his stare. The moment stretches forever.

I’m raw. Scraped down to nerve endings and bones.

“You want answers,” he murmurs, breath warm on my skin. It’s not a question. I feel like we may never need to question each other ever again. “So ask.”

I slide my hand up, press my palm to his chest. The skin there is hot, the muscle twitching under my fingers. My flesh erupts, even now, at the thought of his bulk pushing me down.

The water runs clear now, washing away the blood, the lies, the old life.

“What are you?” I whisper. “Where did you come from?”