Page 18 of Only for Him
So, I do.
He stands there, head tilted, as if he’s testing my resolve.
My aimless rage arrows towards him. How dare he murder in my name? I don’t care if it’s what I wanted. My job is toprotectlife, not take it. To take men like him and put them to be judged before the law. Not be judge, jury, and executioner all at once.
But above all else…
How dare he follow me, like he has some right to me? Like he has a right to see me whenever he wants, just because he wants?
My hand goes to the gun, thumb flicking the snap off the holster. I have nothing on him, but I know he’s the murderer I’m looking for.
He sees what I’m doing, but he just smiles.
My heart practically stops at it.
It’s a smile meant just for me, and I feel warmth blooming in my chest, my arms, the backs of my knees until it chases away the chill of the air.
The anger drains away, and leaves something else uncoiling in my stomach.
No fear. Not curiosity.
A feeling that’s reservedonlyfor him.
A feeling thatI’mreserved only for him.
I’m so locked on those eyes that I don’t hear the train until it’s almost on top of me.
The train roars into the station amidst a wave of wind and shrieking brakes. My stalker is obscured by the blur of the cars. I step forward, desperate to keep him in my sight. And for what? So that I might look at him for just a few seconds more? So that I mightlet him look at mefor a few seconds more?
I don’t know which one is more fucked up, if I’m being honest.
The train squeals to a stop, and the doors hiss open.
I should be able to still see him through the windows lining the car.
But I can’t.
I think—no, I hope—that maybe he’s just moved. The prerecorded voice reminding passengers to stand clear of the closing doors fades to a whisper behind my prickling skin. But his hungry gaze commands me to search for him, like it’s a thick and raw thread pulling us closer and closer.
When the train finally pulls away, I see that the opposite platform is empty.
Like he never existed.
But the feeling of his eyes on me remains, and doesn’t fade until my train rumbles out of Brooklyn.
7
ROMAN
Ivan hangsfrom chains bolted through the ceiling beam of his basement, arms spread, and toes just barely grazing the floor.
Hours of careful labor have turned him into a living display of pain and broken things. His body is almost purple from the beating, right eye swollen to a slit, lips fat and glossy with blood.
He breathes shallowly through one nostril that whimpers at every inhale.
“You slashed her tires,” I ask in Russian, voice low and steady. “Why?”
Ivan hesitates until I pick up the mallet and bounce it once in my palm.
