Page 61 of Beautifully Damned
I don’t love conditionally. So why am I so easy to throw away?
I made one mistake—Roman. And now I’m the shameful daughter, the pawn who moved wrong on the board. But who the hell set the board in the first place? Who pushed me into the devil’s hands?
I invited Emir over for dinner. I don’t know if it’s stupid or brave. But I do know I’ve finally decided to stop waiting for this life to feel like mine. This house, this body, this marriage—it’s a nightmare. But I’m tired of living like I’m waiting for parole. Maybe it won’t get better. But I’m here. I’m breathing. And it’s time I at least try to turn things around.
The door handle rattles, I freeze with the brush still tangled in my wet hair. The knob jerks violently again.
“Ayla. Open the door.” Roman roars.
I stare at the handle, my stomach curling.
“Open this door. Now,” he orders.
I shoot to my feet. “No!” I shout back.
His full weight slams into the door, once, then again. It shakes in the frame, hinges groaning with the impact. I back away instinctively, nearly tripping on the towel that slips from my grip.
“What do you want?” I yell. “You’ve made it clear you hate me, so why can’t you just leave me alone?”
I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood. Because if he breaks through that door, I don’t know what he’ll do.But he’s not the only one who can rage.And I’m done letting him have his tantrums while I watch silently.
The door doesn’t open. It detonates. A blast of splinters and pressure from his shoulder sends it crashing inward, and he storms through the mess like something thrown out of hell.
His eyes find me instantly, and I forget how to breathe. There’s anger, and then there’sthis. He crosses the room in three strides, grabs my arms, and slams me into the wall. My spine hits so hard I see flashes. A small sound slips from my mouth.
“I need you,” he mocks. His face is inches from mine, breath hot.
“Oh, Emir,” he mimics. “I need you so bad. Save me. Fix me. Protect me from the big bad man.”
I don’t know what comes over me, but laughter rips out of me before I can stop it. His grip tightens, my shoulder pinching between his fingers and the wall.
My mouth hovers near his. “Our marriage is fake,” I whisper. “You don’t get to care who I talk to—not when you’re the one who made me need someone else to begin with.”
His eyes look darker than they should, and I don’t mean color. I mean they don’t look human.
“If I need another man to help me put myself back together, that’s on you.” I mumble.
He lets go, and I stumble forward a step, but catch myself.
“If you’re so ready to call him your savior,” he snarls, “let’s see how well he prays without his tongue. Or hands. Or dick. I’ll wrap them in silk and set them at your feet. Would that make you feel protected, wife?”
Wife.
“You want me afraid,” I say quietly. “But I’m more afraid for him. So stop the caveman act. You’ve made your point.”
He lets out a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “You remember all the bullshit you told me about him?‘He listens to me, he sees me, he cares’?”
He’s trying to do my voice now. It doesn’t suit him. How does he even remember what I told him about Emir? And why the hell did I make it seem Emir and I were a couple? What was I trying to do then? I forgot, and I can’t believe he remembers.
“What?” he barks. “Is it really so hard to say it out loud? That you want him?”
“I don’t,” I say.
His eyes narrow.
“I love him,” I correct.
The muscles in his face stop moving. I press on, even though my mouth is dry. “He loves me too. But it’s not romantic. He’s family. I consider him a brother, not a man.”
