Page 35 of Beautiful Scar

My ears keep ringing.

And all I can feel is Tigran’s body protecting me, and all I can taste is his blood on my lips.

Chapter 10

Dasha

My ears are still ringing an hour later.

Men swarm the house. I hear them talking and stomping around. Over the chatter is Tigran’s rage-filled voice giving orders and cursing in Armenian. Vito comes to my room once to make sure I’m still okay and ask if I need anything.

Otherwise, I keep my door locked.

I can feel the shockwave of the explosion on my skin. I hear Tigran’s labored breathing as he protects me with his own body. His blood is still staining the dress. I had to strip it off, hands shaking and lips quivering, and I barely managed to pull on a sweatshirt and sweatpants before collapsing back on the couch.

This is my worst nightmare.

Maybe not the car bomb. But the death raining down around me. Like I’m a cursed totem or something. It happened once before, and now I’m terrified it’s going to happen again.

Damian’s gone. No way he survived that bomb. I didn’t know the driver very well, but he was nice to me. He had a good smile. And I could tell that Tigran cared about him.

Now he’s dead, and it’s my fault.

Different city, new reasons, but the same outcome. More blood in the streets. Corpses on the sidewalk. And all because of me.

I’m too stunned to cry.

I’m not sure how much time passes. Eventually, the noise in the house dies down. It’s late by the time I finally force myself up off the couch and shuffle down the hall. I think I’m going to bed, but I stop outside the door that leads into Tigran’s rooms.

His body on top of mine. His hands pinning my wrists above my head. His warm breath, the desperation and rage in his eyes.

Without thinking too much about it, I rap my knuckles lightly and wait.

I’m not sure what I’m doing. Maybe some dumb part of me is looking for comfort, even though I know there’s no comfort to be found in a man like Tigran.

I hear footsteps, then a loud click as the lock opens. I step back, regretting this the instant the door opens.

Tigran’s standing on the other side.

His hallway is a mirror of my own. Most of the lights are off in his suite. He’s wearing the same suit, the same shirt, dappled with blood. There’s a sutured cut on his forehead from the falling glass.

He looks at me with cold, dead eyes, a glass of whiskey in his hand.

Neither of us speaks. I’m shaking, terrified. I want to find words to express how I’m feeling, but I don’t think I can.

Without a word, he turns and walks toward his living room, flipping a light on behind him.

The invitation is clear.

I can follow if I want. The door is standing wide open. Or I can go back to my couch, curl up in a ball, and cry myself to sleep.

I touch the scar on my cheek and straighten my back. This isn’t proper. A good girl would crawl into bed alone tonight.

I walk stiffly into his space.

There are paintings on the walls. I catch glimpses of idyllic landscapes, like the ones on my side, except some of them are dark. Old ships burning outside a golden city. A battle obscured by a cloud of gunpowder smoke. Figures twisted and suffering behind heavy bars. They’re disturbing but also beautiful.

“Have a drink,” he says when I reach the living room. His couch is deep brown leather, and everything’s darker over here. It’s somewhat cluttered with books and magazines. A gun is lying on a table a few feet away from me. I wonder if it’s loaded.

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