Page 73 of Beautifully Damned
Roman
Ayla’s gone again. My chest tightens, my lungs burn, and I can’t tell if I’ve been running for minutes or hours. My legs shake under me, my calves screaming in protest. The woods stretch endlessly, and every shadow feels like her. Every rustle of leaves makes my stomach knot.
She’s been alone. Hungry. Cold. God, has she been hungry? Has something bitten her? My stomach twists. The thought of her suffering, starving, bleeding out while I wasn’t there—it’s unbearable. I gag on it, almost retching. My Ayla. My impossible, infuriating, beautiful Ayla.
I run, I sprint, I stumble, I claw through the underbrush, and I swear I hear her voice in the wind. Hours? Days? I can’t tell anymore. And then I see her—skin and bone, bitten and torn. I scream in silence. I wake up with my heart pounding so hard it’s a drum in my chest, my sheets drenched in sweat.
I almost crawl to her room, because my legs keep buckling. She’s there. Safe. Breathing. Warm. My chest heaves, relief and rage tangling so tightly I can barely think.
I sit beside her, staring at the curves of her face, the faint rise and fall of her chest. My fingers twitch. I want to touch her hair, her cheek, trace every line, memorize every scar and freckle. I want to hold her until the world stops spinning. But I don’t, because I know she equates my touch with nothing but pain and humiliation. My nails dig into my palms until they hurt.
“What are you doing here?” she says groggily, as if sensing me and waking up.
“I had a nightmare,” I say.
She laughs softly, the sound fragile, cutting through the darkness in my chest. “And what, am I the cure to Roman Volkov’s nightmares?”
Her laugh dies when I stay silent. Of course she is. She is both the source and the solution. My torment. My craving. My only tether to anything human.
“What are you doing here, Roman?” she asks again, getting up from the bed, green eyes half-lidded, still clouded with sleep, but venom hidden under the surface now.
I drop to my knees. She stares, confusion curling the edges of her mouth. I’ve never knelt before, only ever for her. Not for my father, not for any man, not for anyone. My knees hit the carpet hard, and I ignore the sting. My eyes never leave hers.
“Won’t you teach me how to love?” I’m raw. I’m fractured. She’s the only thing that keeps me from tearing apart completely.
“Roman… what are you saying?”
I reach for her hand, and she recoils. The flinch hits me like a punch to the chest. “Ayla,” I whisper. “I can’t live without you. I’m tethered to you.”
Her eyes widen. She opens her mouth, but I press a finger to her lips. My other hand shakes as I cradle her wrist. “I’ve killed men for you. I’ve torn through my own rules for you. And if I ever lost you… if your eyes ever closed on me for the last time… I would become something unrecognizable. Something worse than anything the world has seen.”
I tilt my head, searching her face. “Teach me how to love you, Ayla. Because I don’t know anything else, and I refuse to let the only thing that makes me human slip through my fingers.”
I’m on my knees, my hands gripping her wrists, my chest rising and falling, but I don’t care. I’ll kneel. I’ll beg. I’ll burn myself raw if it means I can keep her here, in my sight, in my life.
And even as she hesitates, even as she doesn’t say the word I’m dying to hear, I know one thing for certain: without her, I’m nothing but a predator with no prey, a shadow with no weight, a man who has lost everything he was ever capable of feeling.
“You’re not capable of love,” she whispers.
“Stop saying that,” I growl. “You don’t know—God, you don’t know what you mean to me!”
“I know enough, Roman.”
I shake my head. “You think I’m cold, heartless. You think everything I do is fascination. But you… you don’t see what you’ve done to me, Ayla.”
I stay on my knees. “Do you know I told Elena to stop making piroshki because you hated it? I’ve never cared about someone enough to change how things are just because they don’t like it. You were the first person I celebrated my birthday with. The first woman I ever kissed. You’re the only person I’ve ever been playful with. I’ve sold my deepest, darkest secrets for a couple of kisses from you. Do you understand? I traded pieces of my soul for you, Ayla, and you—you’re the only person who’s ever mattered. Not fascination. Not games. Me. Obsessed with you. I’m obsessed, Ayla. Obsessed, and I need you to see it. I need you to guide me. Don’t… don’t shut me out like this. Please.”
“I… I can’t,” she whispers finally, pulling her hands back, tears falling down her cheeks. “Roman… you need to go back to your bed. You’re suffocating me right now. I can’t…”
My hands fall to my sides, and I feel my knees weaken. She’s not denying me outright. She’s not saying I don’t matter. She’s… she’s telling me she needs space. And the thought of her walking away, even for a moment, claws at my mind like acid.
“Fine,” I mutter, finally getting back up. “I’ll go. But know this, Ayla…” My gaze burns into her, dark and raw, and even as I walk away, even as I turn toward my room, my soul aches inevery direction her presence touches. “I won’t ever stop needing you.”
?Chapter XLVIII?
Ayla
I’m in a red dress, diamonds hanging from my ears, climbing my wrists, even coiled around my ankles. All Roman’s gifts. He’s planned an event tonight—a gathering of mafia syndicates. Mine won’t be attending, even though Roman invited them.
