Page 26 of Beautifully Damned
His expression doesn’t change. “Move.”
“I won’t.”
His jaw ticks. Then—almost gently—he places one hand on my waist and pulls me aside. His touch isn’t violent, but it burns with command. I stumble back, breath catching in my throat as he faces the boy again.
“Which hand did you give her the phone with?”
The poor kid stares at the floor. His lips twitch, but nothing comes out. Then the phone slips from his fingers and clatters to the ground.His right hand.
That’s all Roman needs.
“No—” I shout, lunging forward—
BANG.
The sound shatters through the room. Blood splatters against the floor. The boy crumples to his knees, gasping, but he’s not screaming. Because there’s no hole. Just a deep, grazing wound across the outside of his forearm.
IknowRoman didn’t kill him or cause lasting damage. But my mind refuses to process that. All it tells me is that someone got hurtbecause of me. The room tilts.
Roman turns sharply. “Ayla?” He steps toward me. “Ayla. You’re alright. Look at me—”
But the floor is falling out from under me. I can’t breathe. The walls are too close. The blood. The smell. Thenoise.
The boy says something—“Ayla, it’s fine, really”—but his voice sounds like it’s underwater.
I shake my head, hand reaching out to brace myself against something, but there’s nothing. Just spinning. And then darkness crashes down as my head hits the edge of the dresser with a sickening crack.
The last thing I hear is Roman shouting my name.
?Chapter XVII?
AYLA
When I come to, the light stings my eyes. I blink slowly, trying to remember where I am, and why my head is pounding.
A hospital. That much is obvious. There’s a dull, throbbing ache just above my right ear, and when I raise my hand to touch it, I feel a bandage wrapped tight around my head. I look past the edge of the bed to see the warlord of the underworld, the Bratva bloodhound, is pacing outside my hospital room like a man possessed.
His coat is stained with a smear of dried blood, and his hair is a little too messy, like he’s been running his hands through it since I blacked out. Of all the things I expected—being dumped in a basement, left to bleed out—I didn’t expect him to bring me to a hospital.
His head snaps toward the bed. Our eyes meet through the glass. And something flickers across his face.
The next second, the door swings open and he storms in. “You’re awake,” he grits out.
“I… yeah.” My voice cracks.
“Welcome back,” he grinds out.
I try to lighten the stifling mood. “If you’re here to shoot someone else, I’m out of pillows to block it.”
He doesn’t laugh, still there with that furious expression on his face.
“Is the boy okay?” I ask, softer now.
“He’s not the one who needed stitches.” He grumbles.
I swallow the lump rising in my throat, not having the energy to argue.
Roman’s eyes flick to the pitcher of water on the bedside table, and without a word, he picks up the cup and pours me a small glass, holding it out to me. I hesitate—because Roman doesn’t do kindness—but my throat is sandpaper, so I reach for it. My fingers are shaky, and the cup nearly slips. He catches it fast, one hand around mine. For a breath, we’re frozen. Then, he lets go like he’s been burned.
