Page 94 of Only for Him
“That’s exactly what we’re going to do,” Rosa says, but her tone cuts like a blade.
But I know that her version of the wordwedoesn’t include me, and she makes no effort to hide it.
“You can’t protect her, Miss Detective,” she spits. “There is no protection. Not from Pavel. Not from the Starkovs. Not from the Bratva.”
My heart races at the thought, at the unflattering truth. Does she know? Does she know just how bad I’ve always been at protecting the girls I most want to keep safe?
She couldn’t know, but maybe she smells it on me.
How did Roman gain the devotion of a woman this strong, this hard?
Is it the same way he stole me?
Did he corner her, stroke her, pump her full of need until she broke down and let him claim her?
The thought makes me sick, my heart aching.
Roman steps in, voice commanding as a door slamming shut.
“Rosochka, go tend to our other guest.”
The words wrap around my senses like an iron grip.
I glance at Dakota and realize this argument probably isn’t helping her feel any safer.
Rosa glances back at Roman, frustrated, but finally nods and strides away, leading the girl from the room.
The door shuts behind them.
And I’m alone with him.
Roman turns toward me, and suddenly the room feels three sizes too small. He doesn’t even have to touch me. He’s watching me, a glint in his blue eyes that makes the air thicker, more oppressive. His scent fills the air like smoke: spiced and suffocating.
My pulse kicks harder. The way he’s looking at me now? Like he’s already cataloging the damage we’re about to cause?
I should be bracing for a fight.
Iwanta fight.
But I’m not sure which part of me wants it more—the detective or the fucking masochist who keeps coming back for more.
My body’s betraying me again, reacting like it doesn’t care about reason or pride or what kind of man he really is. All it wants is the promise burning in his gaze.
That I’m his.
Even if I don’t want to be.
We stand there, toe to toe, heat shimmering between us like a mirage. A silent standoff, no weapons drawn, but everything on the table.
I want to ask about Rosa, about what she means to him, but the words taste foul. I don’t ask. I can’t ask. Not when we’re supposed to be talking about Dakota.
Not when asking would just be another way of handing him a piece of my fucking soul.
I’ve been able to pretend that I’m not giving them away and that he’s been taking them.
But this? This would be a present, wrapped with a bow.
I move closer, slamming my hands on the desk. “If you want my help, you’re going to do it my way.”
