Page 5 of Only for Him
It reminds me of the prison cells back in Russia. Of concrete, blood, and sweat. Of men who didn’t make it out. Of men who didn’t deserve to leave.
While I study the thinning herd, something snags in my vision.
And I can’t look away.
Dark hair drawn tight over her slender neck, arms crossed over a flowing dress. I catch her in profile as she tilts her chin to the wind, jaw hard and perfect. Her spine is so rigid that I want to bite it.
She rolls an earring between her thumb and finger, like she’s reaching for something she lost.
Unlike the others, she isn’t trying to be seen. She’s enduring it like a punishment.
My interest is instant and total. It’s not just the hips, the exposed collarbone, the way she stands as if bracing for an aftershock. It’sthe disgust she wears on her face for the party, and for the pigs eating up the slop Pavel Starkov feeds them.
That single look tells meeverythingI need to know about her.
Then, she turns sharply, and her gaze meets mine.
Her eyes are too big and doe-like to belong to someone so clearly lethal.
And the moment our eyes lock, a bolt of lightning rushes down my spine. Her gaze feels like an invitation. To stalk, to claim.
For a moment, we’re alone together in the corridor between headlights. And everything freezes. As if time itself knows better than to interrupt.
I’ve seen a lot of eyes before. Eyes that pleaded. Eyes that begged. Eyes that lied. But hers? They meet mine like she’s not afraid to look.
She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t smile. She simply sees.
Then, a pair of suits crosses between us, and a savage need to be closer thrums through me. Working the edge of the sidewalk, I weave through the crowd, past a driver hunched over his phone and a pair of girls bending down to fix their shoes.
But I keepherin the edge of my vision, and settle into a corner close enough to hear without being seen.
“Detective Cantiano,” a voice rings out and she looks back to the doors of the gala, where someone else calls her name.
I can’t hear their next few words, but I don’t care to.
Cantiano.
I run the name through my mind, taste it on my lips to see how it feels, and caress it on my tongue. Over and over and over again.
“… thought someone was watching me,” she says.
Her voice is smoke and steel. Tired but sharp. And all I want is to hear it—warm and alive—around my ear.
Detective Cantiano’s friend says something and she smiles. My heart stutters at the sight of it. Even here, at this distance, I want to taste that smile.
I imagine her mouth against mine as tiny moans punch from her throat for me to swallow. I want to feel her hands wrapped around me while my hands tighten around her throat.
But I don’t want to just kiss her lips or devour her moans.
I want to possess her in every way a womancanbe possessed. Again and again and again until both of us are broken and spent.
The fantasy is bright but gone in a heartbeat, replaced by the cold reminder of why I’m here.
MacDougal.
The councilman with his anti-trafficking crusade that covers his real work: laundering city contracts for Pavel Starkov and the rest of the Starkov Bratva, funneled through a dozen shell companies and twice as many girls. The press calls him a reformer. The girls call him worse things, if they live long enough to be asked. I imagine his surprise and panic when he realizes that for once, the night was made for taking him instead of his for the taking.
And then I hear—no, not just hear,see—somethingfrom the object of my obsession
