Page 39 of Beautifully Damned
“I’ll tell you…” his lips brush the corner of mine. “With a kiss.”
?Chapter XXV?
Ayla
A man who just killed another not even an hour ago asked me for a kiss. And instead of hiding under the bed, throwing myself out the window, or screaming until my throat bled—I’m considering it.
Like an idiot.
How many nights had I lain awake, desperate to understand him? To scrape past the hard, cold mask he wore and see what lived beneath? To peel him open and leave him raw?
Maybe this is it. My bargaining chip. And in the end… what’s a kiss? Right? Such a minuscule thing.
I’ve kissed people before. Once in middle school—messy, with braces clinking—and twice in university, rushed and forgettable. And Emir when we were kids, but that doesn’t count.
Just a tiny kiss. And in return… I finally get to study Roman like I’ve wanted to. To learn why he is the way he is. To carve into his secrets.
"I get to decide where," I say.
His brows jerk in surprise. Then the flicker of annoyance tightens his jaw. And finally... resignation settles into his features like fog.
He tilts his head in the barest nod. I move before I can second-guess myself. One hand to his shoulder, the other hovering near his chest, I stretch onto my toes, heart a damn drum in my ears, and press a single kiss to the corner of his mouth. Almost cruel in its restraint.
When I pull back, his fists are clenched at his sides, eyes shut. That kind of power is intoxicating. “Why did you shoot him?” I ask again.
His eyes crack open, slow and dark and violent. “He was looking up your skirt.”
He reaches out and tugs the hem of my skirt down with a sharp, rough pull, his knuckles grazing the top of my thigh, leaving goose bumps in their wake.
“You were bent over,” he growls. “Scrubbing those floors like you didn’t have a single ounce of spatial awareness. He was standing behind you, mouth half open like a dog, staring up between your thighs.”
A part of me wants to saythank you, but I bite it back. I shouldn’t feel glad. I should be horrified. Instead I feel... warm.
“Why would that bother you?” I murmur. “Why do you care?”
That snaps something in him. “Whose collateral are you? Who brought you in? Who do you answer to in this house?”
My lips part, but nothing comes out.
“You want to ask me why I care.” His voice drops. “While you’re under my roof,you’re mine.That’s why.”
I swallow, but the lump in my throat won’t budge. He watches me struggle, eyes burning holes through my skin, “That’s another question answered.” He leans in again, nose brushing mine. “Means I get another kiss.”
I lift myself onto my toes and press a kiss to the other corner of his mouth again. When I pull away, there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips, but his fists are still clenched, and his eyes still burn.
There are so many things Ishouldbe asking him. How long are you planning to keep me here? Has my family contacted you? What is going to happen to me? But none of that makes it out of my mouth. What I want to ask, shamefully, is another question abouthim.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “Can I ask you something else?”
“That’ll cost more than an illusion of a kiss.”
With a single fingertip, I trace the curve of his lips. “The next one will be here,” I whisper.
He nods quickly like a man starved of touch, and I swallow, gathering what little courage I have left. “Why didn’t you have birthdays growing up?”
His face twitches—just the slightest shift. “I don’t remember anyone ever thinking I was worth celebrating. People only throw parties for things they think have value.”
My chest tightens. It aches with the weight of a thousand words I’ll never be able to say, as a sadness so profound soaks into my skin. So I just kiss him. Just enough to make contact. He makes a sound between a growl and a sigh, and I now know what the Pakhan of the Bratva sounds like after a kiss.
