Page 55 of Only for Him (Starkov Bratva #1)

GISELLE

Whether it was Pavel’s call or Lawson’s, the outcome is the same.

For the first time in nearly a decade, I have no badge or gun.

The suspension letter lies open on the coffee table. One sheet, heavy stock, the seal of Internal Affairs embossed at the top, trying to look expensive and righteous. I’m a person of interest in Russo’s death, which makes sense, because I was literally right there when he died.

My phone buzzes. It’s Teddy. He’s been pinging me every hour like a fucking cuckoo clock. He wants to pull me out of this hole before I bury myself. He doesn’t get that I’m already six feet under.

Fuck. What if I was just a normal goddamn person, capable of loving a man who doesn’t destroy me? I picture it: Teddy and I, living in Westchester with two kids.

It makes me sick, not because I could have that, but because of how deeply I don’t fucking want it. I’d rather be dead than live that empty, blinkered version of myself.

Teddy can’t give me purpose.

Only one man has ever been able to give me that.

Because it wasn't just the orgasms. It was the license to exist fully as I am. My demonic anger, my bloodlust, my gleaming white teeth ready to bite into the meat of the world.

All of me.

A human without a shadow is nothing at all, and I’m so tired of trying to shake off mine.

But it’s too late. This one choice won’t bring Roman back to me.

Rain knifes the windows, relentless as grief. The noise is a lullaby for the newly damned.

I go to the kitchen and make coffee. I definitely don’t need the caffeine, but I want the ritual, and I don’t want to look at the bear on the package of chamomile tea. That fucking bear has no idea how bad shit is out here in the real world.

When the glass shatters, I turn so fast that I spill burning hot coffee on my hand, scalding myself.

At first, my muttered “fuck” is from the pain.

Then, it’s because the window in front of the fire escape is broken open, rain and wind blowing in.

What the hell?

Is the storm that bad?

You know it’s not the storm. You said no to Pavel Starkov. What did you think was going to happen?

Oh, fuck!

Everything slows down. My mind runs the math.

Can’t walkie for backup.

My phone is in the living room.

My gun is… my gun…

No gun.

No gun.

I don’t have my fucking gun.

Shit.

I lunge for a knife instead, but a shadow moves across the fridge, tall and solid with a glinting pistol in his hand. The mask covers everything but his eyes—white, wild, locked on me.

I run.

The world bursts apart in a flare of gunfire. The bullet chips the fridge and flings silver shrapnel into the air.

I duck around the corner, crouch low. Think, think, think! I have to take him by surprise, get him to come around the corner so I can tackle him and?—

He’s rounding the corner. He fires, misses, and I rush him.

We crash to the floor, locked in a brutal spasm of limbs. The gun goes off again, the shot chewing into the exposed brick by the door.

I bring my knee up, jam it down into his groin. I grab his wrist in both hands, forcing it to the ground, bone cracking against hardwood as his grip on the gun loosens but doesn’t give up.

I head-butt him and his nose crunches. The taste of copper and sweat and something sour fills my mouth. The gun is pressed between us, his breath hot and rotten.

“Tell Pavel to go fuck himself,” I snarl. The gun fires again into the ceiling, and I think of my upstairs neighbors’ grandkids who sometimes come to visit. That split-second of distraction is all it takes. He rolls me over and I know I’m fucked.

“I won’t betray him,” I say, panting. “So you might as well kill me.”

He brings the gun to my temple, presses it there, and I remember Roman doing the same fucking thing. Holding the gun to his own head, telling me to shoot him.

Is he going to be the last thing I think of before I die?

He is, and that’s okay.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

But the gunshot never comes.

Something else does.

This time, when I smell Roman, it’s not a memory.

It’s real.

The weight on top of me heaves away with a grunt .

“Get off her,” Roman’s voice roars over the ringing in my ears.

He’s here. He’s really fucking here.

Roman is all muscle and violence and hate as he slams the man face-first into the counter. Bone bounces off the tile, blood spattering up the cabinets, gun clattering to the floor.

“You thought you could fucking touch her?” Roman roars, grabbing him by the neck and dragging him into the living room. I crawl after, gasping, watching through the haze.

“You were wrong,” Roman growls. “ No one touches her. No one. ”

The man swings, Roman catches his wrist, bends it backwards until the bone snaps. Roman knees him in the face, once, twice. He throws the man onto the coffee table, which shatters under the impact.

The man is gasping, but Roman keeps going—punching, choking, battering him until the body goes limp. And with every blow, he keeps saying the same thing over and over.

“She’s mine!”

The apartment is silent again, except for my ragged breathing and the drip of blood onto the floor.

Roman stands over the corpse. Blood runs down his hands, soaks the front of his shirt. He turns to me, eyes wide, feral. His whole body shakes—not from exhaustion but from the violence still burning in his veins.

He crosses the room in two steps, grabs my face in both hands. His touch is rough, desperate, but terrifyingly gentle. A tenderness I don’t deserve.

“Are you hurt?” he growls, voice raw.

“It’s nothing,” I rasp, even though my ears haven’t stopped ringing and my ribs ache. “You came.”

He pulls me into him, crushing me against his chest so tight I can’t breathe. His heart hammers against my ear. I want to melt into him, burn up in his heat.

“Fuck, little viper,” he says. There’s anger in it, but also guilt. “Of course I did. I always will.”

“Why?” I tremble, not from the shock, but from how badly I need to know. Doesn’t he hate me? Isn’t it over? “I can’t give you up if I’m dead, Roman.”

“I told you already,” he says, blue eyes burning. “I take good care of my things.”

My legs give out as the adrenaline fades. Roman catches me—of course he does—and carries me to the couch. He lays me down so softly I want to scream, eyes everywhere as he scans my body for wounds.

He pulls at my shirt, pulling it up to examine my ribs, where bruises are already blooming. The touch is careful, but his hands are shaking. His fingers hover over the damage, not quite touching, like the sight alone is killing him.

This fucking man.

“I mean it,” I say. “I need to know why you came. I thought we were done.”

His eyes snap to mine. I meet his gaze.

“Pavel made you an offer,” he says. There’s blood on his cheek and I have the urge to lick it clean. “What did you say?”

“I said no.” My voice breaks. “I chose you.”

He nods, jaw clenched. “I know, little viper.”

“But I shot you,” I say.

His eyes darken, a wolfish smile spreading across his face.

“Trust me, little viper,” he says. “I can think of plenty of ways for you to make it up to me.”

Then his forehead presses to mine, and I swear the world stops. Everything from the filth to the blood to the violence disappears at once.

It’s just us. Breathing the same broken air. Holding each other together.

“We end this,” he says.

I nod. “Together.”

He tilts my chin up. His kiss crashes into me like the storm outside, bruising our lips. I taste blood and salt and him, all tangled together.

That’s the taste of us.

The rain falling won’t make the city any less dirty.

But Roman and I?

We can still clean a little bit of it.