Page 13 of Beautifully Damned (Sinful Fates #2)

Ayla

My table privileges are back.

I stuff pancakes in my mouth like I’ve never seen food before, chewing so aggressively I nearly bite the inside of my cheek. I’m stress eating.

Roman’s sits at the head of the table, glowering. I pretend I don’t feel his stare burning a hole into the side of my head. My stomach curls around itself, but I keep chewing.

What is wrong with this man?

He storms into my bedroom after a night out, reeking of perfume, looking like sin dressed in wrath. He throws my pillows and blankets out the damn window like a toddler in a tantrum, then proceeds to climb on top of me and growl about how I’m tempting him.

Tempting. When I looked like I had just crawled out of a grave. No makeup, breath of death, hair a nest. Honestly, I should win a medal for trying to disgust him away from me last night.

I sneak a glance at him from under my lashes. His fingers drum once on the table. My throat dries. I sip water to cover it up.

I want to ask him why he’s looking at me like he’s two seconds away from snapping my neck. But I know better now. Speaking out of turn could land me flat under him again, with that furious, barely restrained something in his eyes.

I try to focus on my plate, but my fork trembles in my hand.

I’m not stupid. I know exactly what this is, if his restraint slips even once—I’m going to end up on my back.

Unwilling. And I’d love to say he would never do that.

That he’s a man of twisted honor, that somewhere behind those eyes is a conscience.

But I’ve seen no proof of that. He's a certified sociopath. And right now, he’s looking at me like I’ve personally offended his entire bloodline.

I force another bite of pancake past my lips, syrup clinging to my chin. My fork scrapes the plate, the sound too loud in the silent dining hall. Why is he staring at me like that?

My foot taps restlessly under the table. My eyes flick toward the window. Then, finally, he moves. Just a slight tilt of his head. I swear the air drops ten degrees. I clutch the edge of the table and brace for whatever storm he’s about to bring.

“Forget last night,” he hisses.

I wipe the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand. “Done,” I say, a little too fast. I reach toward the fruit tray, piling grapes and slices of melon onto my plate, just to have something to do with my hands. The tension makes the skin between my shoulder blades itch.

“I’d pay money to forget it.” I mumble under my breath.

“What was that?” he asks.

“Nothing.” I shove the grape in my mouth. “Just... hope you got a good night’s sleep.” Because I certainly did not.

Elena comes out of the kitchen, holding a tray of food.

Her hair’s in a low bun, her apron neat and tight.

She walks past us to where one of the guards stands—one I’ve seen posted near my hallway before.

Tall. Buzz cut. Broad shoulders. Elena hands him the tray.

They speak in hushed voices. I strain to hear.

Eavesdropping is rude, yes. But I’ve been kidnapped. I think the rules of basic manners no longer apply. And what if it’s about me? What if my baba finally called the right person, threatened the right man, offered the right deal? What if this whole thing is about to be over?

“... Podushka, ” I hear the guard say. That’s pillow, right? He scratches his head, looking deeply offended.

“Pillow falls on head.” He taps his temple, deadpan. “I move. Two seconds later? Full blanket. Boom.” He throws both hands in the air. “On face.”

I choke on my orange juice.

Elena raises an eyebrow. “You sleep on shift again?”

Elena’s accent makes sense now; she never leaves the house and spends most of her time with newly shipped men from Russia.

“ Nyet ,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “I stand post like good soldier. Ghosts came for me.”

Elena hums. “I think girl with sunshine face threw them in a tantrum, and you get collateral damage.”

“I take bullet for Pakhan. I did not sign up for home decor from sky.”

Elena laughs.

“You laugh now, but maybe tonight—fork fall. Knife. Whole mattress next,” he warns her.

My face is the reddest it’s ever been. I’m sure I look guilty as charged. So much for deleting last night from my memory.

“You’re eavesdropping,” Roman accuses, his jaw ticking.

“I’m not, they just speak loudly.” I lie. “But hey, at least they talk like normal people.”

“I see,” he says, leaning back, arms folded. “You want casual conversation? Should I discuss the weather with you while we throw around furniture, little lamb?”

“I wasn’t the one who threw the pillows out the window,” I mutter.

“No? You just enjoy throwing them at me then?”

“You were— you were hovering over me like a demon. My fight or flight kicked in.”

“More like throw-and-regret,” he bites.

I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again. “Why were you even in my room?”

“You talk too much.”

“You barged in. Sat in my chair. Then climbed on top of me. Like yeah okay, you can be blood thirsty, but creepy too?”

“You tempted—”

“Tempted? I was wearing a t-shirt and drooling on a pillow!”

He says nothing, but he looks like he wants to strangle me and maybe himself too. We both fall silent again.

Across the room, Elena smacks the guard lightly with the edge of her tray. “You’re dramatic.”

“I deserve hazard pay.”

“Shut up and eat.” She orders, but there’s a small smile on her face.

And even though the command wasn’t meant for me, I do just that.