Page 1 of Beautifully Damned
?Chapter I ?
AYLA
My hand drags along the horse’s neck, the skin damp and slick with cold sweat. He’s breathing hard. I squint, brow pulling tight, because something feels off. The way he shifts from one leg to the other, it isn’t right. I drop into a crouch, dirt biting through my pants, and notice that his leg is bent wrong, twisted in a way that looks painful. A heavy chill presses down hard on my chest.
Poor Ace. Everyone who comes through this stable would rather replace him than heal him. “People” is too kind a word. Monsters—that’s what they are. I reach out to touch his leg, but he shrieks, jerks back, and his hoof slams into my head.
I rub the spot, trying to soothe the pain away. “I’m sorry, Ace. I’ll try to arrange a vet visit. Maybe someone will listen.” He nuzzles my hand like he understands.
But the weight in my chest won’t lift. The stable’s run by people who spend more time kissing the ass of everyone who comes here—mafia men, underground figures—than looking after the animals. These demons dressed up in designer suits come here to watch the races, place their bets, and have a little fun at the expense of the animals. Anger runs hot beneath my skin, crawling up my throat, but I force it down. It’s useless here.
I press a kiss to Ace’s nose and he lets out a soft neigh. “You’re a cutie pie,” I coo. He’s my big, clumsy baby. He loses every race without fail. I think that’s how he ended up with a busted leg; a monster must have kicked him in a fit of rage.
I turn to grab him a carrot, but freeze, my shoulders locking up. A man leans against the wooden wall, everything about him screams violence. A gun spins between his hands. He tosses it in the air, catches it without looking, over and over.Toss. Catch. Toss. Catch.
I meet his eyes and wish I hadn’t. They’re so, so empty. These eyes don’t register life the way normal people do. I sense he’s giving me a head start, and I already blew it.
This nightmare is no one other than the Pakhan of the Russian mafia. The man who declared war on my family.
And the worst part?
We might deserve it.
My father ambushed the Bratva for a politician's pocket change. The job was dirty, rushed, all because the politician’s forged painting was running late.
Now here we are.
Me, holding a carrot. Him, holding a gun. And I don’t know if I’m walking out of this stable alive. He lifts the gun. This time, it points straight ahead. My grip on the carrot slips, and it falls into the hay without a sound.
Behind me, Ace starts to grunt and huff in a panic, as if sensing the danger.
I squeeze my eyes shut. My body wants to collapse and curl in on itself. But I won't fall. If I’m going to die, I’ll die standing.
Minutes pass. Nothing happens.
I dare to open my eyes. The gun is pointed at Ace, not at me. But relief doesn’t come, instead, even more panic climbs up my throat. I choke on it. I try to speak, but my mouth feels drier than the Sahara. I try again. And again.
Come on, Ayla. Talk. Say something. For Ace.
“You can’t,” I finally whisper. “You can’t shoot him.”
He starts walking toward me, menace dripping off him. I don’t back up, it’s like my feet are rooted in the ground. I’m cold all over.
“He’s injured,” he says. His voice is deep. Flat. “We don’t keep the broken.”
“He’s not broken,” I say, even though we both know it’s a lie. “He can get better.”
“Weakness is dealt with before it spreads.”
“You don’t have the right.”
“I have all the rights I take,” he replies. “And no one here will stop me.”
“What is this?” I scream. “Some kind of power play? You get off on hurting things?”
Roman Volkov. I just screamed at Roman Volkov.
My teeth click together, but I want to be brave, so I gather my courage to step forward, despite how every single instinct in me resists. I walk until we’re close enough that I can see the jagged scar on his face, the stubble on his chin, and how hard he’s clenching his teeth.
