Page 56 of Beautifully Damned
I glance down. The red ribbon meant to be tied around my waist—the one that signals a bride’s purity in Turkish culture—is missing. When my mother tried to wrap it around my waist, her hands trembling, he shook his head, grabbed it, and threw it in the trash. Her face fell, and I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. He wants everyone to know. He wants them toseethat I slept with the enemy.
And in this world, where honor for women like me lies between their legs, I’ve officially branded myself a traitor.
My father won’t look at me. He hasn’t since I walked in. Not when the ceremony began, or even when my sixteen-year-old cousin tried, in a pathetic attempt to preserve tradition, to hand Roman a tiny cup of salted Turkish coffee—the one the groom is supposed to drink with a forced smile.
He spat it out. Right onto the marble floor, in front of everyone. This is a farce. A public execution of our pride. Our name.
I deserve it. Because I let Roman in. I let him touch me. I let him see the parts of me no one was ever supposed to see. I melted for the monster, and now I’m paying the price. Thirty minutes later, we’re married.
My parents leave without saying goodbye or even giving me so much as a glance. Roman didn’t just take me. He took everything. The weapon exchange with the Moroccans? Gone; canceled the moment this ring touched my finger. We were supposed to trademefor firepower. Instead, he ambushed my family at dawn, stole every crate of arms, and made it clear: any family that dares to do business with us will not be doing business with them.
We’re blacklisted.
We’re cornered.
And I? I’m officially the wife of the man who destroyed us. His men put me in a car like I’m cargo, while Roman stays behind, accepting congratulations. My skin itches. I want to claw this dress off. Rip the satin and tulle to pieces.
The car pulls up to the Bratva estate, and I walk past the guards, not speaking. The foyer is full of house staff pretending they don’t see me. But I feel every stare. Elena is in the middle, and she also doesn’t look at me. She refused to attend the wedding. At least one person in this hellhole still has a soul.
I stand in the middle of what’s supposed to be my marital bedroom. But really, it feels like a funeral. The dress is obscene: white, insanely puffy. It’s pure. Virginal. Everything I’m not. Everything I used to be, before the devil bulldozed into my life wearing a tailored suit and a blood-soaked crown.
Roman Volkov. Pakhan of the Russian mafia. The man I now call “husband.”
Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. The door slams open so hard it crashes against the wall, and I jolt. My fingers twitch toward nothing. My heart trips over itself, breath caught halfway to my lungs.
He steps inside like even the air knows better than to disobey. He looks livid. No, unhinged. There’s a storm behind his eyes, and I know exactly who caused it.
Me.
I try to reach for the fire inside me. The rage. The resistance. But all I feel is exhaustion. A sadness so dense it feels like it's pressing on my bones, I’m grieving the version of me that believed in quiet lives. In love. In safety.
All I ever wanted was a cottage in the woods. Horses. Books. Peace. Instead, I live surrounded by monsters in suits, where the currency is blood and betrayal, and I’m the interest payment for a debt I never owed.
Roman starts walking toward me. I back up instinctively, and he speeds up, matching each of my steps with two of his.
My back hits the wall hard. His hands don’t touch me, but his presence smothers me all the same. His breath fans across my face, mint and malice. My stomach rolls. I haven’t eaten much today, not that I could have kept anything down after what he did.
Because while I once gave myself to him—stupid and naïve andin love—I would rather set myself on fire than do it again. Because what followed wasn’t passion. It was hell. He tookwhat I gave willingly and turned it into a weapon. My first time became my sentence.
“Don’t touch me,” I breathe. My chest is heaving. I want to sound strong, but I know I don’t.
“Touch you?” he murmurs. “Sweetheart, I only touched you once. And trust me, it wasn’t out of desire or love.”
I'm going to vomit.
“You spread your legs faster than I expected. Guess honor doesn’t mean much in your house.”
I threw everything away for one night. One mistake. One lie wrapped in a soft voice and hungry kisses…”I’ll try,” he told me. He tricked me into thinking we could be something more. Like I mattered beyond the war between our bloodlines. A single tear slips down anyway, and I turn my face away so he won’t see it.
“You weren’t crying that night,” he says coldly.
A sob cracks out of me before I can swallow it down. My hand flies up and I slap him. Hard. Time seems to stand still for me after that, but he just exhales through his nose, dark amusement dancing across his face.
“I trusted you,” I cry.
His mouth brushes my ear. “That’s your problem,” he murmurs. “And don’t make the mistake of thinking this ring means anything. You’re not mine. I’m not yours. You’re a piece on the board, nothing more. A message with legs.”
He turns to leave but delivers one last blow, his voice a soft mockery. “Welcome to hell,moya ovechka.”
