Page 69 of Beautifully Damned
“Why the hell would you do that? Don’t you ever do that again,” his voice breaks. “You hear me? Never. I don’t even know what I’d do if—” He cuts himself off, breath ragged. “Never again.”
I don’t want to give him the comfort he doesn’t deserve. But my arms betray me, winding around his back. He holds me so tightly it hurts, as though he’s afraid I’ll vanish.
He pulls back, sweeping my hair from my face, scanning every inch of me. My arms are bruised, my thigh wrapped in a thick bandage stained through with blood. An IV drips beside me. His hands roam over me again, as if making sure the doctors didn’t miss an injury.
His forehead presses to my stomach. His voice slips into Russian. I catch fragments.God. Please. Thank you.
The devil is praying.
After long minutes of Russian words I don’t understand, he lifts his head from my stomach.
“Where does it hurt? Tell me right now,” he asks.
“Roman, I’m—”
“Don’t say you’re fine,” he snaps. “You were on the ground bleeding. Those dogs—” His jaw flexes hard, his throat bobbing. “You could’ve…” He doesn’t finish.
I try to piece together why his eyes look glassy. This isn’t the man who spits venom when he’s upset, who looks straight through me when he’s done with me. This is someone I don’t recognize.
“Don’t ever run from me again,” he orders.
My pulse hammers.
“If I hadn’t found you… If those beautiful eyes didn’t open again…” His eyes are crazed, his pupils darting back and forth, studying every inch of my face. “You would’ve left behind an absolute monster.”
My ribs ache, my thigh throbs under the bandages, and my mind spins trying to reconcile this man—his voice breaking, his hands trembling—with the Roman Volkov I know.
The Roman I know doesn’t pray. The Roman I know doesn’t panic. But I do know this: he doesn’t get to decide he loves me only when my blood is drying on the ground.
?Chapter XLV?
Ayla
Roman hasn’t given me space since I woke up. If I shift, he notices. If I breathe too deep, his head turns. Last night he sat on the floor beside me for hours, his shoulder pressed against the frame, eyes locked on my face, analyzing every micro expression.
I tried to tell him he could go rest. Halfway through the sentence, the look in his eyes stopped me. This morning, he’s still there. His hand curls loosely around my wrist, thumb tracing my pulse in slow, steady circles even while he sleeps. It’s a strange thing to wake up to—the man who once cut me with words now measuring proof of my heartbeat with his own thumb.
I try to ease away without waking him, but the moment my skin slips from his, his eyes fly open.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I murmur.
“Wake me up when you do.” His voice is rough from sleep, but there’s no mistaking the order.
“Why?”
He blinks like it’s the stupidest question in the world. “So I can be there when you need me.”
My stomach knots. He’s on his feet before I can argue, scooping me up. The IV line sways beside us, trailing antibiotics into my arm.
“Roman, put me down. I can walk to the bathroom.”
“You’re not walking anywhere.”
“Roman—”
“You could fall. Tear the stitches. Get the bandages wet. You think I’m letting that happen?”
“I think you’re being ridiculous. I just need to shower. I’m pretty sure there’s a branch stuck in my hair.”
