Page 15 of Beautifully Damned (Sinful Fates #2)

Roman

Emir.

Emir.

Emir.

A knight in shining armor. The man who’ll come galloping on a white horse to rescue my girl after I’m done tearing her family apart from the inside out. My girl . Huh. Pathetic. She’s not mine. She never will be. I don’t want her to be either.

Yet this thing —this rot—spreads in my chest when I see her talking to other men. Even mine. When her eyes light up at Matvey’s stupid butterfly cheek. When she speaks of this… Emir.

It can’t be jealousy. That’s a luxury for weak men. I’ve never felt it. Not once. I was raised in steel. Built from silence, blood, discipline. My father saw to it. Any flaw—gone. Any softness—crushed. You cry? You bleed. You stumble? You starve.

What came out of that process was me. Cold. Emotionless. Sociopathic.

And yet here I am. A fucking sack of emotion since the moment she stumbled into my world.

The leather of my chair groans under my weight as I shift again for the hundredth time.

The sun is almost gone outside my window, but the same untouched stack of files still sits on my desk.

The same cold cup of coffee. Same gnawing feeling.

I haven’t done a thing today. Because I can’t stop thinking about her.

I make a mental checklist. A catalog of all the ways she’s infected me: Tingles.

Fucking tingles. I am thirty-six. I’ve been with women in every city that matters on this planet.

And somehow, her accidental brushes make my body react like a virgin.

Worry . My jaw clenches at the word. It tastes like glass.

When she landed in that fountain and moaned in pain, I felt something twist inside me.

My first thought was her spine. Her skin.

Her safety. Distraction . I haven’t signed a deal.

Issued a kill order. Touched a file. My entire day, wasted, because I’m thinking about the girl who has no idea what she’s toying with.

And now? Now there’s fire in my veins because of a man named Emir. Her knight. Her protector. Her Emir .

I press the back of my hand to my forehead. Cool. No fever. If Elena weren’t the one preparing my food every day, down to the grain of salt and slice of meat—knowing my palate, my routines, my rules—I would have accused Ayla of poisoning me.

Because this can’t be normal. I shove the chair back and stand. My knuckles crack when I stretch my hands, stiff from clenching. I walk to the bar across the room. Pour two fingers of vodka into a crystal glass. It tastes like acid today.

I stare down into the liquid, watching the way the light bends through it. “She’s nothing,” I mutter to no one. “Just a pawn.”

A beautiful pawn with soft hands and louder thoughts than she thinks. With big green eyes. A girl who flinches like a little lamb, then talks back like a firecracker. Who walks into a kitchen with her empty plate, like she isn’t locked in a fucking mansion. Who smells like—

I slam the glass down hard on the bar. It breaks. I don’t care. I walk to the desk. Try again. I pick up the first folder. A weapons deal in Warsaw. I stare at it but don’t read a single word.

My mind goes back to her lips. Her voice saying his name. Her stupid smile when she told me Emir was “someone very important.” My molars grind together. I sit. Open the file. Close it again. Still untouched. I’m going to lose my goddamn mind.

No more. Tomorrow, I’ll speak to Mikhail.

I’ll double the pressure. I want movement from the Turks.

Either a real offer or a move that gives me an excuse to wipe them clean off the map.

Because if she stays here much longer, I’ll do something I won’t be able to walk back from.

She’s burrowing into the cracks I didn’t know I had.

And the only cure might be burning her out .

Something smells sweet. Rich—warm sugar, roasted nuts, cinnamon, butter—it pulls me from my desk to the kitchen. I glance at the clock, noting that it’s not dinner time.

As soon as I step into the hall, I hear laughter. I round the corner and—

What in the actual fuck?

My men—men who would slit throats without blinking, who’ve taken vows of silence, loyalty, blood—are huddled around the dining table like they’re at some frat house mixer.

And they’re eating.

No. Devouring.

Baklava.

Crumbs line the table. A dozen empty trays. Matvey is licking his fingers like he’s just found religion. Elena, who hasn’t touched carbs in eight years, is smuggling pieces into her apron. I haven’t seen half these staff members in years. It’s like someone summoned them from the underworld.

And at the center of it all?

Ayla.

She bursts out of the kitchen, flushed and chaotic, hair sticking to her cheeks, holding another tray like she’s Moses carrying down commandments.

She’s radiant. Disheveled. Wild-eyed. And beaming.

"The last tray!" she calls. They cheer. My men—fucking Bratva soldiers— cheer . Matvey slaps a hand on the table. One of the older guards stands to help her.

Last?

This is the last tray. And she didn’t even think to save me one. Not a single piece. Not one slice set aside.

She made them. She kneaded, baked, layered, glazed. Not for me. For them . For my men. For the Bratva. But she made them. Which means they're mine. Mine. I step into the room, and for once, not one of them notices me until I speak.

“No one is eating my baklava.”

Every head jerks. I see gulps, some of them go pale. They know conversing with and beaming at my hostage is wrong, so why the fuck are they doing it? Elena mutters something like bozhe moi .

Ayla blinks at me, brows furrowing. “Your…?”

“I said,” I grind out, striding forward, “no one is eating my baklava.”

I grab the tray from her hands and walk out. I don’t even check if she’s following. I know she is. We enter my office, and I slam the door behind us, setting the tray down on the desk.

She hovers, confused, arms crossing tight over her chest.

“What did I tell you,” I snarl, turning on her, “about making yourself at home here?”

“I wasn’t,” she snaps back, but there’s hesitation under her bravado. “I was… baking. To celebrate.”

“Celebrate?”

“Yeah,” she says, tilting her chin. “That I’ll be leaving soon.”

The tray of baklava in front of me suddenly looks like a funeral offering. I grab a piece of baklava and shove it in my mouth. I don’t even like baklava, that doesn’t mean she shouldn’t have offered me them first.

“Eat,” I growl around the flakes in my mouth.

She blinks. “What?”

“I said eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Eat anyway.”

She slowly picks up a piece, watching me like she thinks I’m losing my mind. She takes a small bite, and it’s immediately too much for me. Her lips shine with syrup. Her lashes flutter. She hums a little. I grip the edge of the desk.

A knock on the door sounds.

“Come in,” I growl.

Elena steps in with a tray and a smug smile. Two coffees, perfectly foamed, and a single slice of toast.

She sets them down on the coffee table without a word. Then she turns, walking out. I hate being coddled. Hate when people notice things about me. But somehow… in this moment, I’m grateful. Because madness is eating me alive.

I pick up the toast. Bring it to my face. Inhale , trying to make it subtle. I peek at Ayla from the corner of my eye. She’s watching me with that wary curiosity.

“Why do you do that?” she asks quietly after a sip of coffee. “Sniff bread?”

I set the toast down, fingers curling.

“None of your business.”

She huffs out a breath. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re softening them,” I say, redirecting. “My men. Turning them to mush.”

“They were just eating some baklava.”

“They’re trained killers.”

“They’re also human,” she mutters, brushing crumbs off her lap. “Or is that not allowed here?”

“They won’t help you escape, if that’s what you’re getting at,” I snap. “Not back to your little Emir .”

She stiffens.

“Emir, right?” I add. “That’s who you’re celebrating returning to?”

She doesn’t respond. I shove the tray away and lean forward, so close I see the flutter of her lashes, the pulse at her throat.

“Keep baking all you want,” I whisper, tone like smoke. “Just remember: sweetness won’t save you when this game ends.”