No one’s ever done that for her before. And if I died tomorrow, she’d grieve never having my cock inside her.
I’m sure of it.
“Still watching your detective?”
Rosa’s voice snaps me out of my reverie, and I glare at the patch of shadows where she is hiding. The only thing visible is the folder in her hand, and she waits for me to finish whatever private agony she might have been interrupting.
Slowly, she steps out from the shadows. Even in this dim light, the marks of her past that the Bratva left on her are visible. Cigarette burns, rope bruises, knife scars. Each one a cruel receipt of what those bastards did to her for years.
But it’s her face that sends a familiar rage—like a pair of old comfortable shoes—burning down my throat and pools in my stomach.
The shadow of the beauty that she once had is still there. But her mouth is wrong. Scars curve up at both corners and run along her cheeks to make a permanent grotesque smile.
At the sight of that disfigurement, rage pushes away haze in my brain, only for lust to return with vengeance when I spy Giselle shifting on the screen through the corner of my eyes. The two warring emotions braid together until I view the world through a kaleidoscope of thirsts—one for fucking and the other for killing.
“What do you have?”
My voice is level. My pulse isn’t.
“A lead.” Rosa glances over at the image of my obsession on the screen before turning her eyes back to me. “They have a new warehouse this time.”
I grunt a response, willing myself to focus on what truly requires my attention. But it’s fucking hard. Made doubly so because I can stillsmellGiselle’s hair on my fingers.
“You’re distracted, Romochka.”
It’s not an observation. Rosa doesn’t do that even when she uses my diminutive. It’s an accusation.
“I’ve had a long night, Rosochka.”
Rosa cocks her head and lets out a small dismissive sound from her nose. Her natural lips disappear into a thin line, and her eyes narrow at the crushed rose petals on my desk.
I know that look.
“Use your words,” I say.
I don’t have a sister, but I imagine this is what it’s like.
Annoying.
“You like her.”
Incorrect, Rosochka. I don’tlikeGiselle Cantiano.
I’m fuckingobsessedwith her.
“She’s a means to an end,” I lie. “Starkov has someone in the police. Someone who isverygood at covering their tracks. Someone that onlyshecan find for me.”
“Liar.”
Silence hangs bitterly between us. Rosa refuses to wither under my glare. Finally, I’m the one who looks away from her and at the crushed petals.
“She has her uses.”
As if saying those words will somehow make them true.
As if my addiction to Giselle isn’t threatening to untangle the threads of control I’ve spun so tightly around my life.
My blood hums with the need to go back to her apartment, drag her out of that sad little bed of hers, and bury myself between her legs while my hand tightens around her pale throat to feel her heart sing its desire for me.
