Page 63 of Beautifully Damned
She’s been in the kitchen since morning. I round the corner and stop to stare at her. She’s barefoot, her hair pulled back with one of those ugly scrunchies. She and Elena are elbow-deep in spices and plates.
“It needs more sumac,” Ayla says, grinning. “Emir loves kebabs. They’re his favorite. I’m thinking of making another plate.”
Emir this. Emir that.
Does she even know whatmyfavorite food is? I clear my throat. Ayla’s smile falters the second she sees me.
“Elena,” I say, “take over. She’s done enough.”
Ayla bristles. “I’m not—”
Elena cuts her off. “It’s okay, Mrs. Volkov. We’re finished. I’ll make extra plate. You taught me how.”
Ayla tears her glare from me to Elena after she calls her Mrs. Volkov, just like I requested, then her glare comes back to me. I hold her gaze. There’s a war in her eyes, and I welcome it.
“Out,” I say again. She walks past me, stiff and silent, and I follow. Because I can’t let her stay in that kitchen one more second thinking abouthim.
She bolts up the stairs. And of course, I follow.
When she slams the door I just had fixed after breaking the last one—right in my face, I pinch the bridge of my nose like it’ll help me find a trace of patience somewhere in the mess of wire and flame that I’ve become.
She’s angry. Fine. That’s fair.
I sold her on the idea that maybe we could be something. Said I’d try. Took her virginity. Then tore through her family like a storm. I don’t expect gratitude. Or warmth. Or her in my bed. But it appears like I can’t tolerate her coldness.
I’m not sure what the hell this is that I feel. What name it has. But I know it turns my stomach when she talks to anyone else with that voice. I know my hands go tight when she looks happy and I’m not the reason.
And I know I’m losing control of it.
She doesn’t come out for hours. When she finally does, it hits me like a gut punch.
Who gave her that fucking dress?
It’s red. Hits right above the knee. Nothing vulgar about it. But it fits her like it was made with her in mind. The color lights up her skin, makes her look...exquisite. Her hair’s twistedup, neck bare. Just lipstick. That’s all. And it’s enough to make something primal crack open inside me.
I’m opening my mouth to tell her to take it off. To wipe the lipstick off. To remember she’s not dressing forhim, when then the doorbell rings.
And she goes to answer it. I’m right behind, breathing down her neck.
And there he is. Emir Kaya.
The man who kissed my wife before I ever touched her. The one who thinks he knows her better than I do. Who wants to still.
He’s holding two bouquets.
“Hi,” she beams. Her voice is warmer than anything I’ve gotten from her in weeks.
He leans in, going for her cheek. I slide between them before he gets the chance.Try it, you little shit.
“Brave of you to show up here, considering everything the Turkish mafia’s done lately,” I say, quiet enough that Ayla won’t catch the full tone.
He grins. “Water under the bridge. You married our princess, didn’t you? That practically makes us family.”
The way he says it—clipped, forced—tells me exactly how badly he wishes it were him instead. Not in this lifetime, or the next, or any lifetime for that matter.
He holds out one of the bouquets to her. “These are for you. This one’s for Elena. You mentioned you liked her.”
My stomach turns. She’s been talking to him. How much? About what? Has she told him how she bled for me? That I was the first to really touch her? That she knows things about me no one else does?
