Page 18 of Beautifully Damned
I picture Ayla’s soft gasps in the fountain. Her tiny fists slapping at the water. The fire in her when she yanked me in, knowing full well I could snap her in two.
"Pakhan?" the blonde probes, asking permission to continue.
With a flick of my fingers, I point to the door. Her mouth opens like she might argue, but one look from me and she turns, rushing out without another word, heels clicking behind her.
And I’m still sitting here. Hard forno one. Furious. Un-fucking-satisfied.
?Chapter XII?
Ayla
I wake with a start, the darkness suffocating, and my chest tight with a panic I can’t shake. Roman is in my nightmares too. I sit up, blinking hard to adjust. The room is a murky blur. My pulse races as I scan the space, and see Roman sitting on the vanity chair that’s far too small for him.
I nearly jump out of my skin. “What are you doing here?”
“You have your father’s blood,” he says, voice rough and low. “I need to watch you, to make sure you don’t pull anything. Even when you sleep.”
My heart stutters. “You’re a creep.” Where is this courage to insult him coming from? I have no idea.
I wrinkle my nose, suddenly catching that overpowering scent — way too floral, way too sweet. Perfume, thick and invasive. I’m outraged, furious even, but mostly confused. He spent god knows how long with some harem of women tonight, then comes creeping back here like a shadow in my room? I refuse to admit the small, burning jealousy flickering inside me. No way. Because he’s nothing but my captor. My captor who chases me around fountains, corners me in the kitchen, calls me sunshine and rainbows, only to then return smelling like a fucking bouquet of women.
I glare at him. “You have no right to be here.”
He walks over to me. I don’t move back. Under any other circumstance, I wouldn’t dare stand this close. The rumors about Roman aren’t just stories, he could kill three men faster than you could blink, and with nothing but a knife.
But right now, I’m too tired, too raw. The cold edge of anger keeps me rooted in place. “I may be your hostage for a week or two, but that doesn’t mean you own me.”
Who is this person talking back? Being in this place has strengthened my backbone. That’s the only positive thing I can tell a panicked Emir after I’m returned back to my home in a week or two when these men-children resolve their issues.
“I own what I take,” he growls.
I snort. “You’ll never own me.”
He tilts his head. “Careful with your words.”
“I‘m not afraid of you.” That just may be the biggest lie I have ever told.
His breath brushes against my face. “You should be.”
Somewhere deep inside, my instincts scream at me to back away, but I hold my ground.
“Remember who you’re dealing with, Ayla,” he warns.
I swallow, he’s right, I’m dealing with a monster. Possibly the scariest of them all, but I refuse to back down. My fight or flight instincts are slowly, but surely, replacing my freeze response, and I’m enjoying every second of that.
We’re breathing in each other’s space, the tension so thick I can taste it. Then something flickers across his face — a flash I don’t recognize. His head snaps down so fast it almost looks like he’s broken his neck. My eyes follow his gaze, and my heart stumbles when I see exactly what has caught his attention.He’s hard.
I stumble backward, but he closes the distance in an instant, fingers stabbing the air in my direction. His neck pulses with veins so swollen they don’t seem human.
"You—! You—!" he stammers.
“Me? What?!” I scream, already knowing how bad the situation is. He’s a man—alone with me, a woman—in this room packed with flat surfaces begging for disaster.
In desperation, I grab a pillow and throw it at him. It hits his chest, but he catches it and hurls it straight out the window.
“I liked that pillow!” I shout, stunned.
He catches the next pillow I fling. Same fate. Out the window it goes, my sanity flies with it.
