Page 13 of Beautifully Damned
"Promise you won’t touch me, and I will!" I yell back, breathless.
He bears his teeth. And the next second, I’m in his arms again. One massive hand wraps around both of my wrists behind my back. The other cups water, and then throws it into my face with vengeance. I choke, sputtering, eyes stinging.
"I said stop!" I squeal, twisting.
He doesn’t.
"Okay! Okay! Enough! Truce!" I gasp.
Finally, he stills.
We’re breathing hard, facing each other, chests rising and falling. He’s holding me against him, wet bodies pressed so tight there’s not a breath of space. And there’s something—oh God—somethingveryhard pressing into my hip.
My eyes shoot up to meet his.
His are already on me.
Dark. Stormy. Blazing.
Oh no.
?Chapter IX ?
Roman
The Pakhan of the Bratva does not leave urgent calls and unfinished files to storm into the garden because his hostage has her fingers on one of his men’s cheeks. He does not crowd her like a madman. He does not let her distract him. He does not allow himself to get pulled into a fountain like a fool with no self-restraint.
And if any of that did happen, it would have ended with a bullet between her pretty eyes. Not with him letting her splash him like a child, not with chasing her in circles, and definitely not with him getting hard in the middle of it all.
But I’m still holding her wrists, pressing into her, both of us soaked and breathless. Her face is red. So is mine. For different reasons; she is shy, while I’m raging.
What the fuck is this?
I let her go like her skin burns me, because it fucking does. Those fuckingtingleswon’t go away. She scrambles out of the fountain, gripping her back with a low groan. She limps up the garden path, cursing under her breath.
Rage doesn’t leave me as I rise from that damn fountain. I follow after her with menacing steps, grab her waist, and throw her over my shoulder.
“What are you doing?” she shrieks, pounding her fists against me.
“You injured yourself,” I bite out. “Because you can’t stop acting like a damn child. So now you get treated like one!”
"Put me down, you psycho!" she screams.
I carry her through the garden like a man possessed. The Bratva Pakhan doesn’t carry women. He drags them. Commands them. Leaves their bodies behind. But yet, here I am, carrying her because she’s in pain.
Matvey stands by the door with another guard. They avert their gazes, but their jaws hang wide open. Elena takes one look at me—soaked and livid—before her hands retreat behind her apron.
I take the stairs two at a time with her dangling off my shoulder.What the fuck am I doing?This isn’t me.I don’t chase girls into fountains. I don’t give a fuck if they’re limping or bleeding or crying.
I kick open the guestroom’s door and toss her onto the bed. She bounces, glares, tries to sit up, but her hand goes straight to her spine again.
My jaw ticks.
“You started it,” she huffs.
“I started it? You pulled me into a fucking fountain.”
“Because you made me fall in,” she fires back. “If you hadn’t crowded me like a damn bear—”
