Page 11 of Beautifully Damned (Sinful Fates #2)

Roman

Mikhail, my brother, pours us vodka in my office. “Shipment arrived early. Clean, no loose ends.”

I nod, fingers drumming on the desk.

“Payments cleared by noon,” he adds. “They’re good for the next round.”

Good. No mess, no noise. Just the way it should be. My eyes drift to the window, catching the darkening sky.

I take a long pull from my glass, then ask, voice low, “How’s my future sister-in-law?”

Mikhail chuckles, shaking his head. “Still giving me hell. But I’d spend the rest of my life on my knees if that’s what she wanted.”

I smirk, but inside, I tighten. Whipped .

That’s what he is. And I know deep down I’ll never be that for a woman.

I don’t kneel. I don’t beg. Women are just itchy skin I scratch when I need to.

I don’t let them own me. Lola’s got Mikhail by the balls, and may god help him, he enjoys it.

I can’t, and will never understand how. But if he’s happy, I’m satisfied.

My brother’s the only person in this world I feel warmly about.

And unfortunately, I can tell Lola is going to be on that one person list very soon.

The more people you care about, the softer you become, the more you lose.

“So,” Mikhail says, shifting the topic, “what about the girl?”

I stare at the glass, thinking how she’s thrown my routine into chaos in less than a fucking week.

She’s a wild card, a constant itch beneath my skin, and I hate it.

She’s been a thorn in my side since she walked into my life.

I try to keep her contained, but she upends everything—my plans, my calm.

I hate the way she unsettles me. I need the Turks to make their move—either bring me a deal worth taking or start this war for real.

Then I’ll show them what it means to cross the Bratva.

“Ahmet’s furious, but no one’s opened fire yet. For now, we play it nice.”

Mikhail raises an eyebrow. “They offered a trade?”

“A cache of weapons,” I say, teeth grinding. “Trying to calm things. But I’m waiting for the Turks to either make a move or offer something real. Let them show their hand.”

“They won’t play nice much longer. Desperation makes people reckless.”

“Then let them come. I’m ready to tear them apart.” I hiss.

He doesn’t respond, and my mind drifts back to yesterday. The garden. That stupid fucking fountain. Her mouth. Her spine arching when she fell. The sound she made when she hit the stone. I hadn’t meant to make her fall. I wonder if her back still hurts.

And that thought slithers through me like poison. What the fuck do I care if she’s sore? I don’t. I’m just... pent up. Need an outlet. A reset.

“I'm heading out,” I mutter, standing. I clap Mikhail once on the back. “Club. You coming?”

He doesn’t even pretend to think about it. “Nah. I’ve got a woman who’ll kill me in my sleep if I smell like perfume.”

“Whipped.”

“I’d rather spend my days on my knees for her over going to your clubs.”

He think it’s love; I think it’s a disease. If “love” was real, we would have gotten it from our parents first and foremost. We would have felt it for our parents when we were born, unconditionally, no matter what. Neither I nor Mikhail felt that—and neither did they.

The drive clears my head a little. The city lights smear across my windshield, and I push the accelerator harder than I need to. There’s a woman waiting for me somewhere, nameless, faceless, and already undressed. I’ll forget the girl tonight. I’ll burn her out of my bloodstream like a bad drug.

The moment I step into the club, the world bends to me. Posture straightens. Conversations die.

A man in a sleek black shirt rushes to my side, nervous in his shoes. “Pakhan. The VIP room is ready for you. What would you like to drink?”

“Vodka. Cold. Straight.”

“Yes, sir.”

He scrambles ahead to open the door. The room is dim and private, walled in by dark glass, giving me a full view of the club beneath me. The poles are alive with bodies, women writhing in sweat and sequins, hips rolling, legs spreading. Bass thuds like a heartbeat under my feet.

I settle into the leather couch with a sigh, loosening the buttons of my shirt. A cold glass is placed on the table beside me, the server vanishing before I acknowledge him.

I scan the room below. I want to pick someone. That’s why I came. Pick, fuck, empty it out of me and move on. My gaze moves slowly, deliberately, across the floor. All of the women here are conventionally attractive, yet no one grabs me.

Until I realize, disgust curling hot in my gut, that I’m not scanning for just anyone. I’m looking for her. Dirt-blonde hair. Green eyes. Mouth that talks too much. Small. Too small to make this much noise inside me.

My free hand presses to my thigh. I close my eyes and try to think about something else— someone else. Faces I never bothered to remember. Backs arched. Knees spread. Nails dragging across my chest.

I try to picture what I’ll do when I pick one. I imagine taking her hard, bending her over the leather, pulling her hair until she screams my name—

But nothing happens.

I stay limp and useless in my pants. I slam the vodka back, throat burning. Still no relief. If I don’t fuck soon, I’ll lose my goddamn mind.

I down the rest of my drink and snap my fingers. The man rushes in like he's been waiting outside the door. “Bring me one,” I say.

His eyes widen. “One, Pakhan?”

“The best you've got. The best on these fucking poles.”

He nods like his head might roll off, then bolts. A few minutes pass. Long enough for my patience to rot. Then the door creaks open.

I nearly laugh.

Blonde.

Green eyes.

Small frame.

Looks too much like her.

She walks in slowly, closing the door behind her, red lingerie clinging to her skin.

"Good evening, Pakhan," she purrs, voice silk and smoke. "They said you needed someone who could help you… unwind."

Her perfume arrives before she does—overpowering, artificial. Like someone poured syrup over rotting flowers. Nothing like Ayla. That fucking thought makes bile crawl up my throat. I slam my fist down on the table.

The girl jumps, but she doesn’t stop. Trained well, or stupid. She places one manicured hand on my shoulder and squeezes gently, “I can be anything you want tonight. Anything.”

Nothing stirs. Nothing fucking moves. I stare straight ahead at the glass, at the world I built, and wonder, not for the first time in the span of a couple days, what the fuck is happening to me.

“You’re tense. Let me help, Pakhan.”

Her hand on my shoulder might as well be a leech. She trails her fingers down to my collarbone, but she knows not to go further without my permission. And right now all I want to do is throw her off me.

“Let me take care of you, Pakhan, it would be my pleasure.”

Not a twitch. Not a throb. My cock is fucking betraying me.

My brain floods with one image. Dirt-blonde hair in a wet bun. Eyes too green. That sharp mouth of hers. My shoulder twitches under the blonde’s hand. The tingles I feel whenever Ayla touches me never come. There’s no charge. No reaction. I feel like a corpse letting someone paw at me.

I used to own women like her. Now I can’t even stomach their scent. Tingles . Fucking tingles. What am I—a hormonal boy? A clown in heat?

I picture Ayla’s soft gasps in the fountain. Her tiny fists slapping at the water. The fire in her when she yanked me in, knowing full well I could snap her in two.

"Pakhan?" the blonde probes, asking permission to continue.

With a flick of my fingers, I point to the door. Her mouth opens like she might argue, but one look from me and she turns, rushing out without another word, heels clicking behind her.

And I’m still sitting here. Hard for no one . Furious. Un-fucking-satisfied.