Page 40 of Beautifully Damned
When I pull away, his chest is rising and falling fast, and I’m not in a much better state. He drags his fingers across his neck slowly, letting me know where he wants his next kiss.
“Who made you feel unworthy?” I whisper, my voice small, scared of the answer.
“My father.” He spits.
That’s all he gives me. And I know I’m not getting anything more. So I kiss his neck. This man could snap his fingers and have any woman crawl to him…Why chip away at himself just to earn kisses from me? Is he feeling what I’m feeling too? This aching pull? Or am I just a challenge he’s trying to conquer?
I shift the subject before I push him too far. He’s already reached his vulnerability quota for the night. I allow myself to ask a question I don’t really want an answer to.
“How many women have you kissed?” The jealousy burns bitter at the back of my throat. But he’s not mine. I’m not his. No matter how many times this caveman growls that I am.
Roman’s features harden. “One.” He hisses.
What?
His lips brush the edge of my jaw. “She’s standing right in front of me.”
And before I can blink, his mouth crashes against mine, claiming his reward.
?Chapter XXVI?
Ayla
It seems like the more I stay here, the shorter my clothes get. Not on purpose—at least, that’s what I tell myself. It’s not to tease Roman… definitely not. But part of me wonders if I’m lying to myself, if some twisted part of me likes the way his eyes burn when they land on me. Maybe I’m being swallowed by the same darkness that built him.
Yesterday, a man died because of me. The old Ayla would still be reeling, curled up somewhere questioning morality and justice, wondering if she could have done something, anything, to stop it. But this version—the one Roman’s hands and lips are sculpting into something new—has forgotten the blood the moment his mouth claimed hers.
What does that say about me? That no matter what my heart tells me, no matter how deep this false intimacy goes, I’ll go back home someday with too much knowledge about a monster… and with memories of how that monster kissed like he could devour every part of me.
“Here,” Elena says, handing me a bowl of peeled potatoes. “Cut into small pieces. Like this.”
I nod and copy her movements.
“Elena,” I start quietly.
She hums without looking at me.
“What was Roman’s father like?”
She pauses mid-slice. “He was very good Pakhan,” she says simply. “Did best for the Bratva. Always.”
“And for Roman?”
“I said he was good Pakhan,” she says slowly, “not good father.”
“Did he—”
She shakes her head before I finish. “I said too much. You want to know more,you ask Roman.Not me.”
There’s no anger in her voice, but there’s a warning. No matter how much she likes me, her loyalty is, and will always be, with Roman. I retreat into silence as I go back to chopping.
Last night, after Roman kissed me like he was starving and I was his last meal, he just... left. He doesn’t strike me as the type to indulge in softness. Roman is jagged edges and tight control, the kind of man who only touches things he intends to break. But that opens a door I don’t want to walk through. If he doesn’t kiss... then why me?
Elena fixes a plate, sets it on the counter, then pulls over a stool and sits. I serve myself a plate and slide onto the stool beside her.
“He’s not coming down for dinner?” I ask quietly, pretending I’m just making conversation.
“Busy.”
