Page 31 of Beautifully Damned
Or his salvation?
?Chapter XX?
AYLA
I lean against the counter, sleeves rolled to my elbows, wiping down the already clean surface just to keep my hands busy.
“Enough,” Elena says, swatting the rag from my hand with a flick of her towel. “You hit your head yesterday. You should be resting. Not… wiping stove six times.”
I smile weakly. “I’m fine.”
“You are stubborn,” she mutters, stirring the pot of porridge. “This is not how girl takes care of herself. Not after fainting and hospital and…” She sighs. “You are not machine.”
I open my mouth to answer, but the front door slams, and the sound snaps my spine straight. Another slam echoes from deeper inside the house—the office door.
Elena curses softly under her breath, wiping her hands on her apron. She disappears into the pantry and reappears with a white tin box. The red cross on top is faded and scratched.
“Take,” she says, shoving it into my chest.
“What?”
“Pakhan is back. There was… problem this morning. He did not say, but…” She shrugs. “You go.”
My heart skips. “Elena, I’m not—he probably doesn’t want—”
“Go,” she says more firmly. “If he says no, he will say. But… I think he will not.”
She doesn’t wait for more excuses, planting her hand between my shoulder blades and gently pushing me toward the hallway.
The hallway feels colder than usual. Why do I care if he’s hurt? But the thought of him bleeding—of something happeningto him—makes something strange coil low in my stomach. I think it’s guilt, after the way he cared for me.
I knock once, light and unsure.
“Come in,” his voice growls from inside. Not inviting at all.
He’s seated behind his desk, one hand gripping a glass of whiskey, the other resting on the armrest. His shirt—white, buttoned up halfway—is stained with blood. His sleeves are rolled, revealing forearms smeared with dried crimson. There’s a gash on his face, cutting through the scar across his cheek, forming a perfect X.
His stubble is heavier today, but his black hair is slicked back, not a strand out of place. The blue in his eyes? Arctic. Frozen and furious.
His eyes flick to the box in my hands, then back to my face. “What do you want?”
“Elena asked me to check on you,” I say, stepping inside. “She said there was… an issue this morning.”
He scoffs, taking another slow sip from the glass. The ice clinks. “That woman has no boundaries.”
“She’s just worried.”
“So she sends you?”
I glance down. “She asked me to bring the kit. In case.”
The tension in the room thickens, clinging to my skin. Every instinct in me screams to back out and close the door.
But I don’t.
There’s a half-empty water bottle on his desk. I grab it, unscrewing the cap with stiff fingers, and open the first aid kit. I wrap some gauze around my hand, soak it, and gently reach for his arm.
He watches me the entire time, his body like stone. The first swipe of wet gauze over his skin turns a deep red. His forearm is warm, almost hot. I clean the dried blood slowly, tracing over therough cuts and scrapes that run along his skin like a roadmap of whatever hell he walked through this morning.
