Page 16 of Beautifully Damned
“If you don’t want the light in your darkness,” I whisper, “then take me back home.”
The vein in his neck pulses once. “Go back to your room. Before I do something I’ll regret.”
My heart kicks up a notch. I remember the fountain. His weight. The hard length of him pressed into my hip.
I push past him like he’s fire, running back to my room. Back to my quiet prison, where the walls don’t crowd me quite as much as he does.
?Chapter XI?
Roman
Mikhail, my brother, pours us vodka in my office. “Shipment arrived early. Clean, no loose ends.”
I nod, fingers drumming on the desk.
“Payments cleared by noon,” he adds. “They’re good for the next round.”
Good. No mess, no noise. Just the way it should be. My eyes drift to the window, catching the darkening sky.
I take a long pull from my glass, then ask, voice low, “How’s my future sister-in-law?”
Mikhail chuckles, shaking his head. “Still giving me hell. But I’d spend the rest of my life on my knees if that’s what she wanted.”
I smirk, but inside, I tighten.Whipped. That’s what he is. And I know deep down I’ll never be that for a woman. I don’t kneel. I don’t beg. Women are just itchy skin I scratch when I need to. I don’t let them own me. Lola’s got Mikhail by the balls, and may god help him, he enjoys it. I can’t, and will never understand how. But if he’s happy, I’m satisfied. My brother’s the only person in this world I feelwarmlyabout. And unfortunately, I can tell Lola is going to be on that one person list very soon. The more people you care about, the softer you become, the more you lose.
“So,” Mikhail says, shifting the topic, “what about the girl?”
I stare at the glass, thinking how she’s thrown my routine into chaos in less than a fucking week. She’s a wild card, a constant itch beneath my skin, and I hate it. She’s been a thorn in my side since she walked into my life. I try to keep her contained, butshe upends everything—my plans, my calm. I hate the way she unsettles me. I need the Turks to make their move—either bring me a deal worth taking or start this war for real. Then I’ll show them what it means to cross the Bratva.
“Ahmet’s furious, but no one’s opened fire yet. For now, we play it nice.”
Mikhail raises an eyebrow. “They offered a trade?”
“A cache of weapons,” I say, teeth grinding. “Trying to calm things. But I’m waiting for the Turks to either make a move or offer something real. Let them show their hand.”
“They won’t play nice much longer. Desperation makes people reckless.”
“Then let them come. I’m ready to tear them apart.” I hiss.
He doesn’t respond, and my mind drifts back to yesterday. The garden. That stupid fucking fountain. Her mouth. Her spine arching when she fell. The sound she made when she hit the stone. I hadn’t meant to make her fall. I wonder if her back still hurts.
And that thought slithers through me like poison. What the fuck do I care if she’s sore? I don’t. I’m just... pent up. Need an outlet. A reset.
“I'm heading out,” I mutter, standing. I clap Mikhail once on the back. “Club. You coming?”
He doesn’t even pretend to think about it. “Nah. I’ve got a woman who’ll kill me in my sleep if I smell like perfume.”
“Whipped.”
“I’d rather spend my days on my knees for her over going to your clubs.”
He think it’s love; I think it’s a disease. If “love” was real, we would have gotten it from our parents first and foremost. We would have felt it for our parents when we were born, unconditionally, no matter what. Neither I nor Mikhail felt that—and neither did they.
The drive clears my head a little. The city lights smear across my windshield, and I push the accelerator harder than I need to. There’s a woman waiting for me somewhere, nameless, faceless, and already undressed. I’ll forget the girl tonight. I’ll burn her out of my bloodstream like a bad drug.
The moment I step into the club, the world bends to me. Posture straightens. Conversations die.
A man in a sleek black shirt rushes to my side, nervous in his shoes. “Pakhan. The VIP room is ready for you. What would you like to drink?”
