Page 174 of Only for Him
“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.
45
ROMAN
I sitat the desk in the Jersey City suite we’ve gotten for the night, using fake names and paying in cash. My shoulder is wrapped in gauze, a souvenir. The bullet didn’t hit anything vital, but the pain is honest. It reminds me I’m not untouchable.
She’s the only person alive I’ll go quietly for.
That’s probably why I let her talk me into bringingthemin.
But fuck, I hate it.
I didn’t drag her out of that blood-soaked apartment just to share her. I saved her life. I should get to keep her for the night. Hell, forever. Instead, she’s pacing like a caged animal, and I’m pretending to focus while all I can think about is those bruises on her ribs—I’ve never hated anything more.
I want to lick them off her. Erase the memory of anyone else’s violence from her skin.
