Page 55 of Beautifully Damned
And then she leaves to go check if there’s any news about Mikhail. I stay behind. Alone.
What did my father hope to achieve by doing this? If this is meant to be intimidation—if it’s just a fucking tactic to force Roman’s hand—and Mikhail dies in the process?
Then we’re finished. They’ll burn us to the ground.
What feels like hours later, the door creaks open. My head jerks up from where it rests on my knees, eyes swollen and blurry from crying. My heart skips a beat when I see that it’s Roman.
I swallow hard, but it does nothing. The fear claws its way up my throat. My mouth opens, then closes. Again.
Finally, I find my voice. “How is Mikhail?”
“He’s stable,” he says.
My hands tremble as they cover my mouth. “Thank God,” I whisper. “Thank God, thank God…”
Roman is watching me. I don’t know what to do with that look in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, wiping at my face. “I’m so, so sorry, Roman.”
My body tenses as he moves toward me. He’s never laid a hand on me—never—but for some reason, I flinch like he might now.
Like he could snap.
But he doesn’t. Instead, his hands reach out, pushing the hair from my face. His thumb brushes my temple, right where the gun barrel left its mark. His eyes linger there before his lips press against it.
“Roman—” I whisper, confused, unsure.
His finger presses to my lips.
“No talking today.”
I obey. I don’t want to ruin this strange, terrifying moment of tenderness.
He scoops me up off the floor and lays me down on the bed. To my shock, he climbs in beside me, his arms wrapping around me. Roman cold-blooded Volkov is cuddling me. And I don’t pull away. Because I need this too. I let my body sink into his, my eyes fluttering shut.
But … something feels wrong.
Like the air is holding its breath.
Like this—this quiet—isn’t peace.
It’s the calm before the storm, and this is the last time we will ever be this close.
?Chapter XXXV?
Ayla
Two days later, my life implodes. I’m standing in a wedding dress, next to Roman Volkov. And this—this is my punishment wrapped in white lace.
My entire family is here. Not willingly. They were dragged in like animals, cornered by the Bratva in our own home. One second they were eating breakfast. The next, guns in their faces.
No one got hurt, surprisingly. Not like what my father did to them. Mikhail is still recovering, I heard.
My mother is in pajamas: pink silk with tiny roses. I know she hates them; they’re what she wears when she’s sick. She looks mortified, and I can’t even meet her eyes.
My father’s beside her, stiff as a corpse, jaw locked so tight it looks like it might snap. Emir stands between them like a buffer, eyes wild. Even some of our extended family are here. My cousin? Wrapped in a towel. Atowel. They didn’t give her time to change.
And this place—it’s opulence soaked in blood. Velvet-lined walls. Crystal chandeliers. Every other mafia family showed up looking like royalty. Except mine. We look like the hostages we are.
