Page 57 of His Hold

“What did you do?”

“I stabbed him.” I don’t flinch at the memory. “Again and again until he stopped laughing.”

Nikolai’s silence is worse than shouting. His eyes, that unyielding stare, pinning me in place. But he doesn’t say anything. He’s waiting for me to break, to cry out of rage or fall apart. I won’t give him that satisfaction.

“I wanted them to think it was a rival hit,” I continue. “I wanted everyone to believe it was something messy, brutal. I wanted it to make waves. I needed them to notice.”

He scoffs. “Well, congratulations. You got noticed.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” I snap back. “Do you think I don’t know what I’ve done? I did it because I was desperate. Because he was the reason Irina got pulled into this world. Your boss was nothing but a predator hiding behind power.”

“And you’re any better?”

“No. But at least I’m trying to do something about it.”

The air between us feels thin, stretched to breaking. But I’m not done. Not yet.

“I followed you because I thought you might have answers. Because you worked for him. Because you were part of the same world that destroyed her.”

“You lied to me.”

“I had to. And I would do it again if it meant getting closer to the truth.”

His stare cuts through me, merciless. “So this is your excuse? Using me?”

“I thought that’s all it was going to be.” I force myself to hold his stare. “But then I fell for you. All the time I spent following you, using you for information—that was the plan. But this?”

He’s watching me, not moving, barely breathing. And I know it’s now or never.

“I fell for you hard,” I whisper, my voice splintering. “You weren’t supposed to matter. But you do. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

“Stop.”

“No.” My voice breaks, but I don’t care. “You have to understand—I didn’t plan for this. I think you have your own idea of me. And it’s wrong.”

He jerks away from me, like my words burned him. “You don’t understand.”

I close the distance between us, my hands finding his face, my fingers pressing against his jaw. “Can’t you see I love you? That I’m done fighting it?”

“Don’t say that.” His voice is rough, torn like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“I love you.” The words spill out, fierce and raw. “I love you. I love you.”

“I don’t care.”

“Listen to me.” His voice is rough, shredded. “You’re making a mistake. You’re in love with a man who’s done terrible things. Killed people. Maimed them. Covered up deaths until I can’t even count them anymore.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.” He shakes his head. “You don’t get to act like you’re fine with that. Because if you are, then you’re just as fucked up as I am.”

“Then I guess I am.”

He stares at me like I’ve just ripped open my chest and shown him something grotesque. Something ugly and impossible to accept.

“I don’t care what you’ve done,” I say, my voice breaking. “I love you. Whatever that means. Whatever it costs.”

He turns away, his shoulders rigid. “You shouldn’t.”

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