Page 23 of Beautifully Damned
I press the back of my hand to my forehead. Cool. No fever. If Elena weren’t the one preparing my food every day, down to the grain of salt and slice of meat—knowing my palate, my routines, my rules—I would have accused Ayla of poisoning me.
Because this can’t be normal. I shove the chair back and stand. My knuckles crack when I stretch my hands, stiff from clenching. I walk to the bar across the room. Pour two fingers of vodka into a crystal glass. It tastes like acid today.
I stare down into the liquid, watching the way the light bends through it. “She’s nothing,” I mutter to no one. “Just a pawn.”
A beautiful pawn with soft hands and louder thoughts than she thinks. With big green eyes. A girl who flinches like a little lamb, then talks back like a firecracker. Who walks into a kitchen with her empty plate, like she isn’t locked in a fucking mansion. Who smells like—
I slam the glass down hard on the bar. It breaks. I don’t care. I walk to the desk. Try again. I pick up the first folder. A weapons deal in Warsaw. I stare at it but don’t read a single word.
My mind goes back to her lips. Her voice saying his name. Her stupid smile when she told me Emir was “someone very important.” My molars grind together. I sit. Open the file. Close it again. Still untouched. I’m going to lose my goddamn mind.
No more. Tomorrow, I’ll speak to Mikhail. I’ll double the pressure. I want movement from the Turks. Either a real offer or a move that gives me an excuse to wipe them clean off themap. Because if she stays here much longer, I’ll do something I won’t be able to walk back from. She’s burrowing into the cracks I didn’t know I had. And the only cure might beburning her out.
Something smells sweet. Rich—warm sugar, roasted nuts, cinnamon, butter—it pulls me from my desk to the kitchen. I glance at the clock, noting that it’s not dinner time.
As soon as I step into the hall, I hear laughter. I round the corner and—
What in the actual fuck?
My men—men who would slit throats without blinking, who’ve taken vows of silence, loyalty, blood—are huddled around the dining table like they’re at some frat house mixer.
And they’re eating.
No.Devouring.
Baklava.
Crumbs line the table. A dozen empty trays. Matvey is licking his fingers like he’s just found religion. Elena, who hasn’t touched carbs in eight years, is smuggling pieces into her apron. I haven’t seen half these staff members in years. It’s like someone summoned them from the underworld.
And at the center of it all?
Ayla.
She bursts out of the kitchen, flushed and chaotic, hair sticking to her cheeks, holding another tray like she’s Moses carrying down commandments.
She’s radiant. Disheveled. Wild-eyed. And beaming.
"The last tray!" she calls. They cheer. My men—fucking Bratva soldiers—cheer. Matvey slaps a hand on the table. One of the older guards stands to help her.
Last?
This is the last tray. And she didn’t even think to save me one. Not a single piece. Not one slice set aside.
She made them. She kneaded, baked, layered, glazed. Not for me. Forthem. For my men. For the Bratva. But she made them. Which means they're mine.Mine.I step into the room, and for once, not one of them notices me until I speak.
“No one is eatingmybaklava.”
Every head jerks. I see gulps, some of them go pale. They know conversing with and beaming at my hostage is wrong, so why the fuck are they doing it? Elena mutters something likebozhe moi.
Ayla blinks at me, brows furrowing. “Your…?”
“I said,” I grind out, striding forward, “no one is eatingmybaklava.”
I grab the tray from her hands and walk out. I don’t even check if she’s following. I know she is. We enter my office, and I slam the door behind us, setting the tray down on the desk.
She hovers, confused, arms crossing tight over her chest.
“What did I tell you,” I snarl, turning on her, “about making yourself at home here?”
