Page 79 of Only for Him
I haven’t put on the earrings yet. I put Serena’s back on once I got home. The metal sang against the wound that hadn’t quite healed. Opening it up again, blood trickled onto my collarbone.
Why does he keep giving them back to me? Is it strategic manipulation, or a tender act of compassion? I remember the first time he’d touched me—physically, not psychologically—how that night ended with him putting them back in my ears.
Even then, I knew he had more of me than I ever thought I had to give.
I spent several minutes, eyes closed, mindlessly twisting them in my ear. Grounding myself. But it feels different now. They’ve become a part of what’s happening with Roman.
Beneath the prints he left, they now also bear his questions about them. His obsession with the story.
He’s circling it, I’m circling him.
How close are we to impact?
Is there a world where we both survive?
Why would I even want him to?
Because he kills for you,and he touches you like you’re worth owning,the echo answers in my mind. Obvious, but painful to face down.
I bite my lip when I take off Serena’s earrings and drop them into the swan dish. It’s been so lonely without them.
The earrings Roman gave me sparkle, catch the light. They rub against the wound Serena’s had left behind, but it doesn’t hurt. I wish it did.
Everything should.
Pain would make more sense than wanting.
Pain wouldn’t have driven me to put on this dress, and it wouldn’t have kept me quiet when I had Roman right where I wanted him.
Pain would hurt me, but there’d be no collateral damage.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
I should call Teddy. I should call Russo. I should call Ida and tell her to talk me down, remind me who I am.
Instead, I run my tongue over my teeth, roll the earrings between my fingers, and watch the seconds blur. I stare in the mirror, running a finger down my neck, seeing myself through his eyes.
When the knock comes, it’s exactly as I expect it: three harsh bursts.
It still makes me jump.
This is a mistake, you’re making a mistake! Call someone NOW!
Instead, I take a breath and open the door.
No gun this time. Firing pin or not, I know I’m not shooting him.
Roman fills the hallway, a black tailored suit draping his frame. His hair is slicked back, not a strand out of place. His shoes probably cost more than my rent. His mask is all black, inky and severe, covering his upper face and bringing out the violent blue of his eyes.
It reminds me of when that was all I knew—just eyes in the darkness that make me feel like I’m see-through.
Christ on a cross, he’s lethal.
Don’t you dare,I tell myself, but it’s too late. My body has already set off that chain reaction of tightening, swelling, and throbbing that pulses with every second I stare at him. Everything inside me—from nipples to clit—cinches tight until everything becomes a single fused nerve.
I feel like a virgin on her wedding night, except the chapel’s on fire and the priest is the devil himself.
Roman doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He lets his eyes do the talking as it travels from my hair to the tips of my shoes. His gaze moves up and down, never lingering for too long on anywhere in particular, like he’s making sure I’m still real. There’s a hint of approval in the tilt of his head and the quirk of his lips.
