Page 187 of Only for Him
I lunge.
The knife slices through the air between us, a silver flash aimed at the heart of every ruined life. He dodges, fluid and practiced.
“Slower than I remember,” he says. “Staying in prison would have been good for you, maybe.”
He strikes, blade arcing toward me like lightning. I block, but the force of it throws me off balance. I stagger backward.
And I see Giselle. Beautiful, poised to attack, ready to do anything to protect what is left of us but determined to keep that promise.
The earrings glint in her ears.
Her sister, another victim.
I see Serena’s face superimposed over Anastasia’s.
He reduced them to nothing. Just collateral. Just casualties of his greed.
But when they died, they took parts of the world with them.
I adjust my stance, breath tight in my lungs, knife ready.
He grins again—that smug, self-satisfied curl that says he thinks this is still a game.
Let him grin.
He won’t have a mouth left to smile with soon.
“You can’t save her, Roman. You can only die alongside the women stupid enough to love you.”
A red-rage eclipse descends on the room. A cacophony of shrieking memories push me forward, clawing at the inside of my skull—and there’s only one way to let them out.
“You’re going to watch her suffer, Romochka,” he says, close enough now that his spit lands on my cheek. We circle each other, two beasts caught in a death dance. “I’m going to rip her apart, leave you alive long enough to watch it all. You know there’s nothing I enjoy more than breaking a beautiful woman.”
My world bleeds fire.
“You won’t lay a fucking finger on her,” I growl, teeth bared.
His knife bites deep into my arm, butI slice back before letting myself feel the pain. It catches him across the cheek, splitting skin. He grabs my wrist, twisting me into a brutal hold. Pain shoots through my shoulder.
It reminds me of her.
Of why I can’t fucking fail.
Because this—revenge, protection, penance—is the only way I know how to love.
“It’s a shame,” he says, “we could have been friends, if only you’d known your place.”
“All this,” I snap twisting free, “just because your father liked me more. That’s pathetic, Pavel.”
His face hardens, grin finally gone. He shoves me hard against the desk, impact rattling through my spine.
“Poor little Romochka,” he mocks, driving his knife toward me. “Worthless from the very start. My father pitied you.”
I roll away, but his blade grazes my abdomen and fire licks across my skin. I surge forward on instinct. Knives twist and slice as our bodies collide like thunder.
My blade finds his side, and he, snarling, grips my shoulder tightly to dig his fingers in like hooks.
His eyes burn—rage, ambition, and history—and I see it all reflected back in mine.
