Page 80 of Beautifully Damned
A sob rips from me before I can swallow it down. I want to be strong, but nothing could have prepared me for this.
This is not my Roman. This is a man unraveling.
And he is unraveling for me.
His eyes land on me, but there is no spark, no anger, no relief. Nothing. It’s as though he’s staring through a ghost.
Elena curses in Russian under her breath. “Fever,” she mutters. “It takes him again.”
“Why is he looking at me like that?”
Her eyes soften. “Ayla, Pakhan sees you every time fever burns him. He thinks you are dream, hallucination. He not believe you are here. He not allows sheets to be changed since you left.”
Every wall I built, every attempt at strength, collapses. Because he isn’t as cruel and untouchable as he wants the world to believe.
I see you, Roman. I see you.
“Elena,” I whisper, “make something for him to eat. Please.”
She nods and disappears quickly, closing the door behind her.
I take slow steps toward him as his gaze follows me. When I touch his forehead, heat radiates against my palm. Sweat dampens his hair, sticking to his temples.
“You feel… more real than usual,” he mutters.
“That’s because I am real, silly man,” I murmur, pushing damp strands of hair away from his face.
He shakes his head. “I’m not falling for that again.” His mouth tugs, almost into a pout.
Flushing, my fingers tremble as I peel his shirt from his overheated skin. He lets me, though his eyes stay locked on my face, unblinking.
“Why are you… undressing me, angel?”
“Angel now?” My voice cracks. “I thought it was little lamb.”
His lips curve weakly. “Angel suits you better.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, face inches from mine. Even tired, he is intimidating.
“Are you real?” His pupils dart back and forth, searching.
“Yes.” I press a trembling kiss against his lips, the faintest touch. “Yes, Roman.”
His arms wrap around me. His grip is iron despite his weakness. “I missed you,” he breathes against my neck. Over and over, the same words. “I missed you. I missed you.”
My chest breaks open. “I missed you too,” I whisper.
“Why are you here?”
“Because you’re not taking care of yourself.”
He scowls, but I slip from his hold gently, coaxing him toward the bathroom. “Come. The fever will cook you alive if we don’t cool it down.”
He follows. The lukewarm water hits his skin and he hisses, but he doesn’t pull away. He only holds tighter, caging me to him. My clothes cling, soaked through, but I don’t care.
“Why?” I whisper under the stream, tears lost in the cascade. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”
“Punishment.” The word is blunt, and at this moment, I don’t think I have ever hated anyone more than I hate Roman’s father. How? How could he starve a child until the scars followed the man too?
