Page 7 of Beautifully Damned
I frown. What the fuck—
I must be allergic to something. Some lotion girls use? Without thinking, I lower my head, pressing my nose close to her neck. I inhale. No perfume. No lotion. Just soap. And something else distinctively hers.
She twists her body sideways, and my grip slips. She ends up half-sprawled on the bed, my body still hovering above her. The tingling stops. I flex my hand, shaking it once. I must be coming down with something. A fever maybe.
I grab her by the wrist, careful to only touch fabric.
“You’ll eat.”
“Let go of me!”
I drag her off the bed, toward the hall.
“You’re insane,” she says, breathless.
She stumbles with every step, trying to keep up. In the dining room, I yank a chair out for her, but she just stands there, glaring.
“Sit.”
She doesn’t move. So I grab her shoulder and shove her down into the chair. Her body tenses like she might launch herself back up, but she doesn’t.
“Elena. Plate.”
Elena places a plate down in front of the girl and disappears without a word.
“I already told you I’m not hungry,” Ayla hisses. And then, right on cue, her stomach growls. I watch her face flush with embarrassment.
Something dark slithers through me. I lean forward, bracing my hands on the table. “You will be eating. If not by choice, then by force. Don’t test me. If I have to shove every bite down your throat myself, I will. It won’t be pretty.”
We stare at each other.
Her jaw clenches. Then she grabs the fork, shoving a bite into her mouth with reluctance. We eat in silence. Just the scrape of cutlery, the tension between us thick and bitter. And then my phone rings. I hit speaker, leaning back with a smile.
"Where is she?!" Ahmet’s voice roars.
Ayla jolts. Her fork slips from her fingers, clattering against the porcelain. It’s as if a ghost crawled through the phone.
She whispers, "Baba..."
I stare into nothing as I answer. "She’s with me," I say, casual, cold. "We’re having a lovely dinner."
"Roman, you sick son of a bitch. If you so much as scratch her—"
"You'll what? Plan another ambush? That went so well for you last time." I laugh.
"She has nothing to do with this."
"Is she not your daughter? The one in my home? At my table? In my clutches?" I taunt. "Humiliating you might be the most satisfying thing I’ve done in years."
"You’ll regret this," he spits.
Click. I kill the call, glancing at her again.
She’s not crying, but her eyes are hollow. She doesn’t move as I walk until I’m behind her. "My threat still stands," I murmur by her ear. "Eat... or my fingers will be down your throat, helping you chew."
She picks up the fork again. Out of pure survival. And I watch.
Always watching.
