Page 33 of Beautifully Damned
“Good evening, Matvey,” I say. He nods, blinking at my dress like I’ve grown a second head.
I let it slide. The grass is damp under my legs, and the earth is still warm from the sun. I lie back, arms out, eyes squinting up at the streaks of fading orange in the sky.
For a second, everything is quiet, but my thoughts won’t stop. I think of Emir. His terrible plan. I think of how tightly he hugged me, like he thought he’d never see me again. I think of Roman. Of his hands bleeding under mine. Of the way his eyes locked on mine while I touched him. I think of how I’m suddenly so full of questions.
I want to understand him. I want to tear his world open and pick apart the pieces. What makes him tick. What broke him. What still hurts. It’s morbid curiosity.
I wonder what my father is planning. Another deal? An ambush? The last one was a disaster. We lost good men. And if I’m being honest with myself—which I rarely am these days—we’re outnumbered. Outgunned. We don’t have the same resources. Their weapon stock is years ahead of ours, and their men are trained like machines.
I press my palms against my eyes until all I see are shapes of light. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I realize I’m waiting for him to come back. Not that I memorized his schedule or anything.
Not at all.
The sun disappears from my face, swallowed up in shadow. My lids twitch, and I squint. Roman’s silhouette is sharp against the sky. He’s not covered in blood today, the bruises on his knuckles faded slightly, and his shirt is clean.
He scowls.
At me.
No, wait—not at me. At the dress.
I push myself up on my elbows. “You’re back early.”
I can’t read his expression. His mouth is hard, his jaw clenched, his eyes like two sheets of glass, reflecting nothing.
“You’re not… covered in blood today,” I say, squinting at him from the grass. “That’s new.”
His brow arches, barely. “You sound disappointed.”
I huff a laugh. “Relieved, actually. Blood isn’t your best color.”
I push myself upright, brushing grass off my palms. He steps forward and grabs the hem of my dress, tugging it down with two fingers. His touch is barely there, but my skin lights up like it’s on fire.
I clear my throat. “I didn’t notice that it rode up.”
“I know,” he mutters.
I brush invisible dirt off my thighs, trying to pull the air back into my lungs. “I didn’t expect you back so early. I was just—”
“Lying on the grass. In a dress. In front of armed men.”
“I needed fresh air,” I say.
He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t leave either. That’s new.
I test the silence. “Where did you go?” I know it isn’t my place to ask, but I’m curious about everything related to him. And that’s scary.
He looks past me. “Warehouse.”
“Something bad happen?”
He doesn’t answer. Typical. But then he sits down next to me, close enough that I feel the warmth of him, radiating off his skin like heat from a radiator. I keep my voice light. “So… you don’t like the dress.”
“Didn’t say that.”
“You looked like you hated it.”
“I don’t like everyone else seeing it.”
