Page 9 of Beautifully Damned
She’s still staring at me like I have two heads.God, Ayla. Shut up.But I don’t. I never do.
“I love cooking,” I add with a shrug. “I mean, not that anyone in the family really cares. I think my Baba’s convinced I’ll chop off my fingers one day, but I haven’t. Yet.”
She goes back to stirring the pot, her face unmoved.
“I used to sneak into the kitchen at night to make baklava,” I blurt out, because my mouth clearly has no brakes. “Burned it so bad once I had to throw out the pan. Cried over that. And then made it again the next night.”
She tuts her tongue at me, and I have no idea if it’s pity or interest. “You talk too much,” she says.
I wince, laughing under my breath. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m chatty. It's a curse.”
“Hmm,” she replies.
I put the last of the dishes to dry, toweling off my hands.
“Surprisingly good… for mafia princess.” She comments on my dish washing skills.
I snort. “Is that a compliment?”
“No,” she deadpans, but there’s a twitch at the corner of her mouth.
I grin and dip my hand into the soapy water, gathering a small blob of foam. Without thinking—completely caught up in the temporary normalcy of it all—I flick it at her.
It lands squarely on her lip. The foam sits there like a ridiculous little Santa Claus beard, and I clamp my mouth shut, trying not to laugh.
Elena stares at me, not even blinking. For the first time, I notice the silver glint of something fastened to her thigh. A gun.
Oh no.
Her expression goes from stunned to unreadable. My heart skips. Did I just make the dumbest mistake of my life?
“Must you be so childish?” she mutters, turning back to the sink.
I open my mouth to apologize, cheeks burning—
Until she turns back around, a wicked glint in her eyes, hand full of foam. She throws it straight at my face. It splats on my cheek, sliding toward my chin. I gasp, and she grins.
“Game on,” I whisper, scooping a fresh handful.
The next few minutes are chaos, foam flying through the air. There’s laughing, dodging, squealing. At one point I duck behind the counter, shrieking as she chases me around the island, dish towel in one hand, soap in the other. We’re both breathless, dripping with suds, when she finally calls a truce.
“You crazy girl,” she mutters, wiping her cheek, her once neat ponytail explodes in frizz.
I feel it first. A searing heat licking between my shoulder blades. I turn, slowly, almost hoping I’m wrong. I’m not. Roman is there, standing in the doorway like he’s been there for a while. Elena stiffens beside me, startled, the cloth slipping from her fingers and landing in the sink. She smooths her apron, trying to pull herself together. But he’s not even looking at her. His eyes haven’t moved once. They’re on me. Watching. Unblinking.
Great.
?Chapter VII ?
Roman
There’s something infuriating about the way she exists. Her back is to me, and she doesn’t notice I’m there, too busy playing house. Her laugh is foreign to these walls. It shouldn’t sound in a place like this. When she feels my gaze, her green eyes widen.
“Elena,” I say without taking my eyes off the girl. “Go fix yourself. This isn’t a fucking carnival.”
“Yes, Pakhan,” she murmurs, nearly tripping over herself in her hurry to leave the room. The door clicks shut behind her, and silence takes its place.
I turn back to the sink. Ayla’s frozen there, suds sliding off her fingers. Every part of her is stiff, but she doesn’t run, or speak, or even fucking breathe it seems like.
