Page 44 of Beautifully Damned
His fingers flex around my neck. On any other night, I would’ve put up a fight. But tonight, I don’t want to ruin this. I raise my hand and trail my fingers across his forearm, trying to calm the devil down.
“I want to ask another question.”
“Fuck.” His hand drops. “Ask,” he barks.
Right. Back to the clipped answers. Why does it matter to him who I end up with? Why is he so torn up by something thatshouldn’tmatter?
“Why is food such a sensitive topic for you?” I ask. “Why do you use it as a punishment?”
I know I’ve hit a nerve. At this point, I’m certain this night’s about to blow up in my face.
But instead of answering, his fingers trail from my neck downward, until they cup both of my breasts. My skin burns, embarrassingly reactive. Then I realize… thisisthe next reward. He’s going to kiss me here. He’s waiting for permission.
I steel myself, and then I nod. His mouth meets the base of my neck without warning. "Roman!" I gasp. "Answer first!"
His mouth trails higher, pressing another kiss under my jaw, then lower again.
"I said—" I try to twist away, but he locks me in place. "Answer!"
He lifts his head an inch. "Because food was the first thing ever used to break me." He doesn’t stop kissing my neck and pulling more heat from my body even as his voice punches holes into my heart. The contradiction makes me dizzy.
"My father—" he starts, then pauses, breathing in deep. "He trained me to become a Pakhan before I even knew how to spell the word. Everything was a test. Everything had consequences. He used belts, cigarettes, fists. But food—"
He pulls back, and I can see his eyes. They’re hollow.
"Food was different," he says. "He’d starve me for days. Weeks, sometimes. One mistake—one fucking slip—and I wasn’t allowed to eat. He’d sit me at the table with the others and watch me watch them. He’d call it discipline. Character-building. I’d beg. I remember begging. "
I can't move. I can't even breathe right.
“I was four the first time he beat me for crying,” he says, voice flat. “Eight, when he burned me with a cigarette for missing a shot at the shooting range. Ten, when he started withholding food. Sometimes, Elena would sneak a piece of dry bread into my room. I think she was thirteen when she started doing that….and if she were caught at the time, she wouldn’t be breathing today. I remember I’d lick the crumbs off my palm like a starving dog.” He exhales a bitter laugh. “He said hungerbuilds discipline. That if I could learn to control my body, I could control the world. I taught myself how to disassociate from the pain until all feelings just... disappeared."
He leans back in again, mouth brushing the top of my shoulder. "But then you came," he murmurs. "And suddenly all that discipline went right out the window."
My arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him to me. I don’t know how else to hold the pain he just spilled into the room. There is nothing more I want to do than cry for him, but I know that he won’t appreciate that. I stifle a sob, and he shakes his head against my skin, because he doesn’t want my pity.
I do the only thing I know might reach him. Without overthinking, I pull off my top. I don’t think he needs comfort in the form of words or cuddles. Roman isn’t a man who lets himself be held. I grab his face in both hands and crush our mouths together in a bruising kiss.
His mouth breaks away from mine, trailing down, down, until it closes around the side of my breast.
I thread my fingers into his hair and tug, lifting his face back to mine. “One more question,” I whisper.
We don’t bother with bargains anymore. No talk of price. He already knows he's getting everything.
“Do you think you’ll ever be capable of love?”
“I’ve never loved anyone,” he confesses. “Never been loved. I don’t know what it looks like. So no, little lamb. The only person I care about is Mikhail, and I don’t even know if that’s love. Don’t believe it’ll ever happen.”
I force down the sting. He dips his head back to my chest, biting the underside of my other breast.
“Do you think you’ll ever… try? I need to know before we continue, Roman.”
“Maybe,” he mumbles.
“You’ll try?” I ask again.
After a few moments of hesitation, “I’ll try.” He finally agrees.
That shouldn’t mean anything to me. But God, it lodges in my chest like a sliver of light, and I hold onto it.
