Page 49 of Beautifully Damned
It makes something sour curl in my gut.
Jealousy. Ugly and unfamiliar. I’ve never been the jealous type. But when I compare them to Roman and me, I can’t help but feel the difference in my bones.
“You’re eating. Now. Your little hunger strike ends today, princess. This ain’t a protest rally.” His voice cuts like gravel dragged across concrete.
“I’ll eat when I’m home,” I fire back. “With my family.”
There’s a vein pulsing at his neck, threatening to explode. I know I’m poking a bear, but I can't help it. He made meso desperate that I’m using food as a weapon, when he’s got demons wrapped around the very idea of eating. Roman treats his meals like rituals. Same time. Same seat. Every day. If he skips one, it’s not because he’s full. It’s punishment. And here I am, throwing it in his face, because it's the only form of control I have left. I know it’s awful, but I’m just trying to survive.
Roman grabs a plate from the table and slams it down in front of me. “You’re under my roof. You eat when I say.”
“I’m not your prisoner.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, low and vicious. “You’re exactly that.”
“Should’ve just shoved the food down her throat, Roman,” Mikhail pipes up, laughing under his breath. “You’re losing your edge.”
My entire body goes cold. I’d forgotten they were watching. Roman yanks the chair next to mine with a loud screech, grabbing the plate again. He grips my hair tightly, pulling my head back, and begins feeding me with his hand. His fingers shove bits of food past my lips, not caring if I want it or not.
I glance up. Lola and Mikhail’s jaws hang open like they can’t believe what they’re seeing.
“I’m full,” I whisper.
He lets go of my hair slowly. I can feel the heat of his stare pressing against my skin. Then, with two fingers, he gestures toward the stairs.
Go.
I don’t need to be told twice. I stand up and bolt out to my bedroom. I pace it like a caged animal, the floorboards creaking beneath my feet. My thoughts won’t quiet down. They’re loud and panicked and relentless, circling the same question over and over again:How the hell do I get out of this?
The door swings open, and I spin around, heart racing.
“Roman, leave—” I snap, but the words catch and die when I see who it actually is.
Lola.
“Oh,” I mutter, startled. “Sorry.”
“Does he do that a lot?” she asks.
“Do what?” I play dumb, though we both know exactly what she means.
“Barge in like he owns the place,” she says, tilting her chin toward the door.
I can feel my entire face turning red. “Yeah,” I admit quietly. “He does.”
Her brows rise a little. But we don’t need people trying to figure us out before we’ve even figuredourselvesout.
She leans against the wall, arms crossed. “You okay?”
I nod too quickly. Then I force myself to be sincere. “Thank you. For the other day. Someone left food. Clean clothes.”
She doesn’t say anything, but the corner of her mouth twitches. I won’t forget how she helped me. Ever. Even if she doesn’t like me—I still really like her. She’s the only one who’s stood by me when everything went to hell. I do consider her a friend, even if we only talked once.
I take a cautious step closer, drawn to her despite the strange gravity she carries. Her energy is dark, magnetic. It pulls you in whether you want it to or not.
“Did you… find out what they’re planning to do with me?” I ask.
She shrugs. “They didn’t tell me shit.”
