Page 67 of Beautifully Damned
No.
Because his hands built this cage. Because his shadow drove me into these woods. Because my family’s sins, his cruelty, and my own reckless stubbornness brought me here to be torn apart.
The darkness pulls harder. My thoughts fracture.
Roman.
Roman.
Roman.
?Chapter XLIII?
Roman
They say you never know the meaning of something until it’s gone.
The guard on duty today stumbles in, pale and sweating, shouting that Ayla ran into the woods. That he lost her. Lost her. He fucking lost her.
My hands stop mid-stitch of my wound. The first thought that slams into me is Emir. That smug bastard talked her into leaving with him, and now they’re halfway to Panama. But when the guards sweep the grounds, they find him in the gardens, still waiting for her answer.
I grab my gun. My blood is still dripping from the stitches I put in myself, but I don’t feel the pain. I only feel fire.
He’s restrained between two guards when I reach him. His head snaps up at the sound of my steps.
“Where is my wife?” I roar.
“What are you talking about?” he spits, coughing from where my boot meets his stomach. “You mean Ayla is lost?”
My boot connects with his face. Once. Twice. Again. The cartilage gives under the force. His head lolls, and I’m still not done. My blood smears over my pants, warm against the cold air.
I cock the gun, aiming between his eyes. I want to see him drop. But then her voice—her last request—runs through my head.Don’t hurt him. If I kill him, she’ll never forgive me. I lower the gun reluctantly.
The guards are already combing the woods. I try to track her phone, only to realize she left it behind.
I run. The wound in my side tears open. The woods are merciless. Insects, predators. Ayla hates insects.
What have I done? I shoved her into death’s mouth and watched it close. And I can’t pretend anymore—if I lose her, I won’t survive it.
Who will fill my home with sunshine and laughter?
Who will bother to unravel the devil, to ask questions about the shadows in his past, to try and make him human?
Who will make me feel… butterflies?
I need my wife. I regret every second I wasted before this moment. Her name tears from my throat over and over until my voice is gone. Then I see her.
She’s lying in a dark smear of blood, her arms curled over her face in a last defense. The dogs are circling. One has his jaw locked on her thigh but isn’t biting down. Another noses her body, testing if she’s still alive.
I don’t remember lifting the gun—only the way the forest falls silent after the first shot.
I put two rounds into the ones farther from her, and the rest scatter into the trees. My finger twitches on the trigger, wanting to hunt them, to shoot every last one, to watch their bodies fall into the leaves. But I can’t leave her.
I drop to my knees beside her. Her arms are folded over her face, trembling even in unconsciousness. I pull them away gently. Her skin is scratched raw, purple bruises blooming across it. Her chest rises and falls, slow but steady. One pant leg is ripped, the bite on her thigh red and deep. I push her hair away from her face.
“It’s alright, little lamb. I’ve got you now.”
Her head lolls against my arm as I lift her. The last stitch in my wound tears open, and blood seeps down my side like a waterfall. It doesn’t matter. She’s in my arms.
