Page 41 of Beautifully Damned
“Hmm.” My fork scrapes the plate. “He never misses meals.”
“Maybe he ate already,”
“Maybe.” I mumble.
“Sleep well last night?” she asks, sipping from her glass of water.
I choke on my bite. “Uh... yeah. Why?”
She shrugs. “I just... saw Pakhan sneak out room.”
My entire body flushes. “Nothing happened,” I blurt. “Seriously.”
Elena giggles.
“I’m serious!” I hiss, covering my face with my hands. “We... we kissed. That’s it.”
“I not ask for details.” She wipes her eyes, still grinning. “You’re the one blurting confessions over soup.”
I grab my plate and shove another bite in my mouth just to shut myself up. My face is on fire. I don’t even finish my plate. The second I get the chance, I excuse myself and make a beeline upstairs.
I lean against the bedroom door, trying to breathe.
What am I doing?
What ishedoing?
We’re two people who were never meant to collide. And yet here we are—spinning around each other like a lit match and a puddle of gasoline.
?Chapter XXVII?
Ayla
The water is scorching hot, punishing, just the way I need it. It runs down my body in angry rivers, steam thick in the air. I run the razor over every inch of my skin.For him.
The worst part is I don’t even know if he’ll come. Maybe I’m losing it. Getting ready for a man who might not show, who might not even think of me while I lie here hoping he does. That’s the humiliating part—the way Iwanthim. The way Iwaitfor him.
I step out of the tub, skin flushed pink, and wrap the towel tight around me. I dab my skin dry and slip into the prettiest pajama set from Elena’s mismatched pile of hand-me-downs.
I crawl into bed and turn. And turn. And turn. Sleep never comes. I keep asking myself the same questions. Over and over. Where the hell is Roman? Who’s he with? What’s he doing? Is he safe? Did he eat?
When the door finally creaks open, my breath stops mid-throat.Every hair on my body stands. And without looking, I know it’s him. Without turning to face him, I ask, “Did you eat?”
“No,” he says.
Goddammit. I roll over, finally meeting his eyes. I sit on the edge of the bed for a second, grounding myself, and gathering whatever scraps of strength I’ve got left before I rise. I cross the space between us, my fingers wrap around his forearm, tugging gently.
“Come,” I whisper.
The kitchen is dim, lit only by the soft yellow light above the stove. I flick the lights on and feel his eyes on my back as I pull open the fridge, fetching the leftovers.
“You hungry?” I ask.
He gives me no response, clearly he’s not interested in small talk right now. Not that he ever has been, though. I heat up leftovers, my hands working on autopilot. I motion for him to sit. He obeys. He’s not being difficult, and that sets off alarm bells in my head. I try to fill the air with anything to lessen the awkwardness.
“How was your day?”
Nothing.
