Page 32 of Beautifully Damned
He exhales through his nose. His head tips back, resting against the leather chair behind him, eyes closed. That’s when I realize that most of the blood isn’t his. There are scratches, bruises, yes. A few open cuts. But they’re shallow, not deep enough to have soaked the shirt like this.
His fists, though… those tell another story. I reach for his hand. He lifts his head, looking down at my fingers as they cradle his knuckles. The skin is busted open at the edges. I begin cleaning it, dabbing the disinfectant gently.
“Enjoying playing doctor?”
As always, my mouth has no filter in awkward situations. “I always wanted to be a vet.”
His brows lift slightly. “What stopped you?”
“Our world.”
There’s a silence. Then I add, quieter, “Maybe… maybe once I get out of here, I’ll try.”
I don’t miss the way his whole body tenses. His eyes are on me, colder than before. I reach for his face.
“Don’t.” He says it too late.
The moment my fingers touch his cheek, brushing past the dried blood, everything else falls away. I use the pad of my thumb to brush away the smudge of dirt near his jaw. His lashes are so long. Dark.
This feels… obscene. Like touching him like this is more naked than undressing in front of him.
I finally speak. “What happened?”
“The usual.”
He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push.
I dab the cut on his cheek. The heat between us coils, stretches, expands until it’s impossible to ignore. When I dropthe gauze, I barely breathe. He leans forward a fraction. His breath ghosts over my mouth. I can smell his cologne, faint now, mixed with sweat and blood.
A knock at the door makes me jolt backward so fast I nearly trip over the stool behind me. Roman’s nostrils flare, and he growls, low and guttural, “Come in.”
The door creaks open. Elena pokes her head inside, a knowing smile on her face. “Dinner is ready,” she says.
I practically flee the office. By the time I slide into my chair at the dinner table, I’m still breathless. My mouth feels too dry. My skin too hot.
Roman enters a minute later. Elena brings in the dishes, carefully setting them down on the long table. The smell hits first—some kind of stuffed vegetables. I didn’t love them the last time she made them.
Roman grunts from across the table, “She didn’t like this the last time.”
Heat rushes to my face in an instant. “No, it’s okay,” I say too quickly. “I’ll eat it. Really.”
Elena makes a clicking noise with her tongue. “Nonsense,” she mutters, already picking up the plate. “You like pasta,da?”
“Yeah. Pasta would be amazing.”
She gives a little nod and sweeps out of the room, leaving Roman and me alone in the vast dining room, trying to process what happened mere minutes prior.
?Chapter XXI?
Ayla
The mirror reflects someone I’m not sure I know anymore. My fingers twist the braid too tight, and I have to undo it and start again—for what feels like the third time. I don’t know why I care this much today.
Still, the dress I found buried beneath a pile of clothes Elena brought me—simple, soft, black cotton that falls just above my knees—ends up on me instead of the usual sweatshirt and sleep pants.
I don’t think about it too hard.
Downstairs, the mansion is quiet. I slip outside, barefoot, the stone floors cool against my skin. The last touch of sunlight turns the grass gold.
