Page 25 of Beautifully Damned
There is something seriously wrong with Roman Volkov. That baklava-stealing, bread-sniffing, teeth-bearing asshole.
I genuinely feel like I fell down the rabbit hole, but instead of whimsical tea parties, I landed in a mafia dungeon where the Mad Hatter has a god complex and an arsenal.
I’m lying on the bed, legs propped up on the wall, head dangling over the edge of the mattress. My hair is a mess, and I haven’t even brushed it. It’s not like I have anywhere to go. Or anyone to impress.
I’m not trying to make the Bratva fall in love with me. Truly, I’m not. I bake because it keeps my hands busy, and I talk to the guards because I needsomeform of human interaction that doesn’t involve threats or intense glaring. They gravitate towards me, but not because I’m special. Just because it’s been years—maybe decades—since someone looked at them like they were anything more than weapons with heartbeats.
A soft knock sounds at the door, and I jolt upright. Roman doesn’t knock. So unless his personality did a complete one eighty while I’m rotting here, this isn’t him.
“Come in,” I call out, smoothing down my shirt.
The boy who walks in looks like he should still be in school. Barely seventeen, if I’m being generous. He’s one of the guards who tried my baklava earlier, one of the quieter ones. I remember him because he blushed when I handed him a piece. His hand hovers awkwardly over something in his pocket.
“Uh…” he clears his throat. “Sorry to bother you. I just, um, I wanted to give you something.”
I frown. “What is it?”
He pulls out an old phone and holds it out to me. “To call your family. If you want.”
My heart stutters. “What?”
“It’s just my old phone. Still works. I thought maybe… you’d want to have it.”
My whole body goes cold. I should be leaping out of bed and snatching that phone. But all I feel is a pit of dread blooming in my chest. I’m not taking advantage of this poor child’s naïveté. It’s not a smart choice, but I’m not built like that.
He doesn’t know what he’s just done.
Roman Volkov watches every inch of this place like it’s his personal chessboard. He knows when someone breathes different. The walls have eyes, and unfortunately for this sweet, naïve boy—they belong to the devil himself.
“I can’t,” I say quietly, walking toward him slowly. “Thank you. I mean it. But put that away. Right now. You can’t be here.”
His brows furrow. “Why not? It’s just a phone—”
“No.” I step closer, lowering my voice. “Listen to me. Don’t tell anyone you were here. No one.”
He looks even more confused. “But I thought—”
“Just go. Please.”
The door slams open behind me, and I don’t need to turn around to know that the devil himself just walked in.
And he heard everything.
He doesn’t speak when he enters, just lifts his shotgun like he was born with it in his arms.
“Roman,” I breathe, stepping forward, but he completely ignores me. Instead, his gaze is fixed on the terrified kid.
“You know what makes the Bratva run like blood through a body?”
The boy doesn't answer, frozen in terror.
“Lessons,” he says coldly. “Painful ones. Lasting ones. You don’t fuck with the order of things,unless you’re ready to bleed for it.”
“Roman,” I say louder, stepping in front of the kid. “He’s just a kid. He didn’t mean anything by it.”
Roman’s eyes flick to me, furious, incredulous. “I asked him a question. Why are you answering for him?”
“He’s trying to be kind! Something this mansion clearly doesn’t know how to handle.” I shake my head, spreading my arms out protectively. “You scare them all into obedience. But not all of us are built like that. Some of us aren’t made for your darkness, Roman. Some of us are… soft.”
