Page 8 of Beautifully Damned
?Chapter VI ?
Ayla
I’ve eaten three times and it’s not even noon.
No one told me being held hostage by a man who makes the devil look underdressed would be this… uneventful. I thought there’d be yelling, threats, a gun to the temple. Maybe a backhand to the face if I got mouthy. But nope.
I swing my feet over the edge of the bed, the mattress creaking under me.
This is what I’ve been doing for hours. Swinging my legs. Pouting into the void. Mentally preparing for a war that still has not started fully.
The only action I’ve had was hearing my father scream over the phone. I shut my eyes for a second.
Baba.
This can’t be good for his heart. He already stresses over everything and anything. Now his daughter’s been snatched from under his nose like a rookie mistake. I hope he isn’t blaming himself. I hope... I hope he’s okay.
And Emir.
God, Emir.
I wanted to rip that phone from Roman’s perfectly scarred, cigar-smelling hand and ask Baba if Emir’s okay. But I didn’t, because I can’t be reckless without consequences. If not for my safety, at least for my dignity.
There’s a small mirror near the closet. I glance at it.Yikes. My skin is a little sallow, and my eyes are puffy. I definitely look like I’ve been rotting in bed.
I grab the black slippers, slide them on, and head for the door. It’s not locked, Roman knows there is no way I could ever run.
I move down the steps slowly, hands brushing against the railing. My steps echo, but no one stops me. Apparently I’m free to roam. Within reason, of course.
I just want to entertain myself. Maybe steal a book. Or find out where they’re hiding the knives. Kidding.Mostly.
The kitchen is warmer than the rest of this huge mansion. Sun spills in through the window, pooling across the tile floor. Something’s simmering on the stove again. I can hear the gentle clink of pots. I tiptoe in, and find the woman who set my plate yesterday, Elena if I’m not mistaken.
“Morning,” I say, hovering near the edge of the doorway.
“Afternoon,” she corrects without looking at me. Her accent is thick—Russian with clipped vowels. “And do not sneak like that. I nearly throw knife.”
“Noted.” I inch in further. “Elena… right?”
She nods, but doesn’t stop working. “Da.”
“I—uh—I was wondering…” My fingers fidget at my sides. “Can I help with something?”
She turns, eyes narrowed. “Help?”
“Yeah. I’m bored out of my mind. I’ve read the back of the shampoo bottle three times already.”
Elena blinks. “You want to clean?”
“I’ll wash dishes. Chop onions. Anything, Please.”
She looks at me like I just offered to do her taxes for free. After a long pause, she huffs. “Fine. You wash.”
She steps aside, jerking her chin at the sink. “You know how?”
I give her a look. “I’m not completely useless.”
She watches as I grab a plate and start scrubbing. The awkwardness loosens my tongue. “What you’re cooking smells really good,” I offer. “I used to make something kind of like that with my mom, but ours had` mint and lemon. Turkish twist.”
