Page 49 of Only for Him (Starkov Bratva #1)

GISELLE

It’s just after midnight and I’m awake because I’m always awake. Even in dreams, I’m listening for his footsteps, those three blasts on the door that tells me he’s come back for me.

Even in my sleep, I’m smelling for roses.

But there’s never anything. He’s done with me.

Tonight, I finally ventured out for a sandwich from the bodega, feeling like a stranger even though I’ve lived on this block for years. Now, the climb back upstairs exhausts me.

For the past three days, I’ve tried to distract myself from my guilt and regret and the soul-deep loneliness of being left behind by deep-cleaning my apartment, filling the hours with podcasts and Ajax.

Spoiler alert: there’s no podcast that cures addiction to a serial killer’s dick.

I bleached the countertops, took apart the coffee machine, organized the fridge. The truth is, this place has never felt like home, and making it all tidy and new won’t help. I still try.

Now, my hands are cracked, my nails bleach-white, and there’s nothing left to sterilize but the inside of my own skull.

I don’t think that’ll ever be clean again.

When I try to think of myself two months ago, before all this started, all I see is rage. All-consuming, fiery, making me feel like my nerves were stretched to their limit and about to snap.

Did it all really start that moment in Russo’s office when I learned about MacDougal?

I remember the feeling that washed through me in that moment: relief, pleasure, vindication.

I’ve been chasing that high ever since. And, I guess, this is what withdrawals feel like.

They fucking suck.

At the landing, I take a deep breath and wonder if I’ll be able to sleep now.

And, if I do sleep, if I’ll dream in blue.

But as I approach my door, all the hair on my body stands up.

What the fuck?

He’s here.

He’s here!

I know it the way I know a storm is coming. I smell his spiced musk on the air, and feel his heat through the door. The moment I do, my nerves alight with want and need.

If he wanted to, he could take me right here in the stairwell, for the whole fucking world to see.

But is that what he wants? Is that why he’s here? To take me back?

Or is it to kill me? I know too much for him to let me live—I should turn around, change my name, move to Oregon.

But my body doesn’t seem to sense the risk the way my brain does, because it’s closing around the knob. Unlocked, of course.

My blood hums in my ears as I step into my apartment. It’s dark, even though I’d left the lights on. And lately, I’ve always left the lights on because the dark only reminded me of him. His smell rises over the lemon disinfectant and worn wood.

“Roman?” I call out, wondering if he’s missed hearing his name coming from my mouth. I’d like to think he does, but maybe that’s wishful thinking.

Wishful thinking? That’s a funny way to pronounce “delusion”.

“Welcome back, little viper.”

I gasp at the sound of his voice. That low, rough rumble that rubs like velvet against my skin, leaves my slit dripping. My eyes adjust to the shadows. His frame takes up too much space in my living room, silhouetted by the city lights outside the window.

I want to run to him. My need to touch him is that fierce. My heart beats fast and erratic.

We’ve been apart for three days but it feels like a year. I feel like I’m coming home after deployment, that I’m going to run into his arms and he’ll lift me up and twirl me around like some heartwarming feel-good news story: Local Psychopaths Reunite!

If only there was a labrador here to complete the scene.

He’s not wearing a shirt, the cross tattoo and words on his shoulder hard to discern among all the shadows and his rippling muscles.

I want to scream at him. I want to cry. I want to claw his face and fuck him on the floor and scream: you ruined me, you saved me, you motherfucking bastard, I missed you so bad it hurts.

I want to tell him he makes me feel real again.

Worse than that is the desire to wrap my legs around him and squeeze. I have the sense that even just the brush of his bare flesh on my nipples would send me into convulsions. My palms itch to run down his flesh, feel his heat and let him feel mine.

But I still don’t know why he’s here. I still don’t know if he’s actually forgiven me.

I clear my throat. “Roman.”

The blue of his eyes is brighter than I remember. He’s lost weight, or maybe just sleep. The look he gives me is pure hunger, but not the idle kind. The kind that can’t survive without.

“We have to finish this,” he says. The relief that surges in my chest is shameful. We . There’s still a we.

Has there ever been anything else? Aren’t you basically surgically grafted together at this point, sewn together by blood and wrath?

“Has something happened?” I ask, noting how much stronger my voice sounds now that he’s in front of me. He makes me stronger, more of everything.

Including more of myself.

He lunges at me.

None of my defensive instincts flare. I let him come and let him take my face in his hands.

Something breaks open inside me, and whimpering, I lean into his palm to savor the heat and strength of his fingers on my cheek.

His face is inches from mine, the scars and stubble and pain all magnified. He’s so handsome, and I’m so fucking his.

I think I might hate myself for it. My conscience didn’t sign up to be stuck in the mind of someone who’s only satisfied by externalizing her pain onto the world.

Fuck it, though. Roman doesn’t hate me for it.

Maybe that’s why it feels so right to be beside him again.

“This is it, little viper,” he says. “I finally got you what you needed.”

It’s almost enough to shatter me. “But… the DNA? You said we were over.”

He smiles, sad. “I know what I said. After this, we can be. That will be up to you.”

That’s when I notice that Roman isn’t alone. His body had hid another behind him. This one is on its knees, and its hands are clearly tied behind its back. Muffled whines come through some kind of gag. But it’s too dark for details.

“Who is it?” I ask again. It can’t be Pavel, can it?

Roman runs his thumb along my lips and stares at my face like he’s matching up his memory with the reality to find that he hadn’t forgotten a single detail.

Then, he moves away, to the light switch beside the door. He flicks it on.

My breath stalls in my chest.

Captain Russo.

He struggles against well-tied restraints, kneeling on a plastic sheet. Hair gone gray at the temples and still in his uniform but without a badge pinned to his chest because it’s been ripped off.

Shock and pain leech the color out of the world. My stomach aches like I’ve been poisoned, and the sharp pain threatens to immobilize me.

What the fuck is Russo doing here?

Why would Roman?—

No.

Russo lifts his head and I see that his eyes are wet with tears.

No. No. No! Not Russo. Never Russo.

I stare at him, and then back at Roman.

Is this a trick? A lie? Is this a test by Roman to see if I’ll believe him if he brings me something unbelievable?

Or is this my punishment?

Is he going to make me do something awful to one of the only men I still believe in, and then tell me that it was all for nothing?

Is he trying to break me?

Roman reads it all on my face.

“He was in on it from the start.” There’s a hint of pity mixed with regret and sorrow on his lips.

I lurch backward, grabbing at the wall to hold me up. Russo’s gaze fixes on me, pleading. His words don’t make it through the gag, but I know him so well that I hear them anyway: Help me, G, please!

I think of every night Russo stayed late with me, every time he put a comforting hand on my shoulder, every “just the two of us” meeting in his office. Even every “you look like shit”, said with paternal care.

He would never. He couldn’t have.

My brain fissures. I won’t fucking believe it. I snarl at Roman, ready to go for the jugular. The nausea turns to seething, churning rage.

“You’re lying,” I hiss.

“I’ve never lied to you, little viper.”

I can almost see my pain mirrored in them. I’m so confused. Shouldn’t he be gloating? Shouldn’t he be laughing at me? Why…

Because he doesn’t want to be doing this. Because he wishes it was someone else in that chair. Because he knows how much this hurts me.

Because he cares if I hurt or not.

Then why bring him here?

Why not just do it silently, on his own?

He’s in my apartment, my home. He brought Russo here, bleeding my worlds together. In the mansion, I could pretend that nothing I did was part of my real life.

I can’t feed that fantasy here, in the place where I do all my stupid human bullshit: online shopping, making toast, masturbating and brushing my teeth.

I turn back to Russo, both of us crying now.

“Russo,” I say. “I’m going to get you out of here. I promise.”

But when I take a step forward, Roman holds up a hand to stop me.

“He’s been in Pavel’s pocket for years,” he says. “I can show you, if you need to see it. But I think your boss has enough of a heart left to tell you himself.”

Russo simply hangs his head, chin pressed to his chest, snot dripping from his nose.

What kind of proof is he talking about? Photos, wiretaps, confessions?

Fuck! I can’t handle this! I can’t, and I don’t fucking want to. I want to go back—Christ, I just want to go back before all this, when I was empty but safe, when I was frustrated but knew who to trust.

I want to go back. I want to go home.

You are home, Giselle. If this isn’t home, nowhere is.

Maybe it’s faked. Maybe someone gave him fake evidence.

Maybe there’s still a way out of this where I’m not utterly broken.

Roman kneels in front of Russo, rips the gag out and grabs a handful of hair and yanks until their eyes meet. I flinch, wanting to step between them and, somehow, protect them both.

Russo doesn’t scream. He could. I have neighbors, after all.

Why isn’t he screaming?

Why doesn’t he want to be saved?

“Isn’t that right, Captain ? You do care about Giselle. I know you do. I’ve seen it.”