Page 10 of Beautifully Damned (Sinful Fates #2)

Ayla

I try to breathe through the sting on my back as Elena spreads the cream. Her touch is firm but careful. Neither of us says much. Her fingers work the ointment into my bruised skin with diligence.

I don’t know how long we’ve been sitting here like this. My eyes sting more than my back does, but I’ve been holding the tears in like a dam. A full one .

“Sorry,” I whisper eventually. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble with him.”

“You didn’t,” she mumbles. “Pakhan… is always this way.”

The burn in my chest rises, and before I can stop it, a tear slips out. I hate how small I feel. I wipe my cheeks with the sleeve of my wet hoodie.

“You are in pain,” she says, and it’s not really a question.

I nod.

She adds more cream. Her hand presses a little slower this time. I close my eyes and let her work.

“I miss home,” I murmur.

Elena doesn’t say anything, but her hands pause again, just for a breath. I think she understands.

“He hates me,” I say, voice cracking again. “He absolutely hates me, Elena. He looks at me like I’m something he has to burn.”

“You are wrong,” she says.

I look back at her. “What?”

“It is not hate I see in his eyes,” she mumbles, capping the cream and brushing her palms on a towel. Her words are uttered like a warning. A warning of what, I don’t know.

I don’t have the energy to ask what she means.

“You should take warm bath,” she suggests, avoiding my gaze. “Get out of wet clothes. You will catch cold.”

I sit up slowly, wincing.

“Thank you,” I whisper, watching her leave.

A few hours later, a man in a black button-down places a tray on my nightstand. Apparently, I’m not welcome at the dinner table tonight.

I stare at the meal—some kind of roasted chicken, a few vegetables, and a scoop of rice. Something about it tastes like ash on my tongue. Maybe because I know I’m not welcome at the table.

Still, I eat. Because I’m not about to faint and embarrass myself again. But as I chew, my thoughts go rogue.

Why hasn’t Baba done anything yet? Surely he’s tried. He must’ve. So why am I still here? Why hasn’t Roman named his price? What does he want?

I scoop the empty tray up and carry it carefully through the hallway, ignoring the knot in my stomach.

But as I near the kitchen, I pause. Roman is there.

He doesn’t see me at first. He’s standing at the counter, his massive back to me, head slightly bowed.

His fingers hold a torn piece of bread to his nose, and his eyes are shut, like he’s somewhere else entirely.

My brows knit. Of all the things I expected this man to do, caressing bread with his face wasn’t on the list.

Why is everyone here so weird? Elena hides knives under her skirts and threatens to kill people. Matvey looks like the Hulk but has butterflies painted on his cheeks. And this one—the beast of them all—is standing there like he’s about to write a love song to carbs.

Before I can retreat, he turns.

Bread hits the counter with a soft thud .

His eyes lock onto mine like lasers. “What are you doing?” he snaps.

“I—I just wanted to put the dishes away. I didn’t know you were—” I swallow. “I should’ve knocked.”

The kitchen suddenly feels too small. I place the plate down on the nearest counter and back up a little. My elbow brushes a hanging ladle.

“Really,” I try again. “I’m just here to clean up after myself. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

He’s always way too close to me. The counter presses against my sore back as he crowds me. His breath smells like nothing. Like ice.

“Stop infecting my home with your fucking sunshine,” he growls. What’s his issue with sunlight? He said the same thing to me last time. In the same spot too. I force myself to meet his stare.

“If you don’t want the light in your darkness,” I whisper, “then take me back home.”

The vein in his neck pulses once. “Go back to your room. Before I do something I’ll regret.”

My heart kicks up a notch. I remember the fountain. His weight. The hard length of him pressed into my hip.

I push past him like he’s fire, running back to my room. Back to my quiet prison, where the walls don’t crowd me quite as much as he does.