Page 18 of Beautifully Damned (Sinful Fates #2)

Roman

Sometimes in life, we become people we don’t recognize. The kind we used to mock. The kind we were raised to despise. Some people take years to notice the shift. Subtle cracks. A slow crumble.

Me? It took seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours with that girl in my house, and I began questioning everything I’d built. Every iron rod my father bent into my spine. Every lesson carved into my back with the sharp end of a belt.

I was forged, not raised. I was taught to speak with blood. I became the Pakhan because I didn’t blink when men begged. Because I didn’t hesitate when they cried. I climbed my way to the top of this godforsaken empire by stepping over corpses and calling it progress.

I should’ve put a bullet through the boy’s hand. A clean hole. A proper lesson. That’s what the Bratva demands, and what I was raised to deliver.

But instead?

A graze. A fucking graze.

And now, I’m holding a plate of dry, crustless sandwiches like I’m running a damn daycare, because the second I heard her stomach growl, something inside me short-circuited.

I open the hospital room door to see her in a wheelchair. She’s pale, looking like she just saw a ghost. But it’s not her that grabs my attention.

It’s the man behind her. He’s in scrubs, with a nurse’s badge clipped to his chest. Not one I’ve seen before. Something prickles down my spine. My gut clenches like it’s warning me— something’s wrong.

I take a step forward, grip on the plate tightening. Where does this fucker think he’s taking her?

Before I can say a word, she blurts, “I need to pee!”

What?

“I really need to use the bathroom,” she repeats. Her eyes won’t meet mine.

The nurse nods politely. “She called for assistance. I’m taking her.”

The fuck you are.

“You’re not.” My eyes fall on her again. She needed help and she didn’t call me? I’m the one who brought her here. I’m the one who made sure the best doctors saw her. The idea of her being handled by someone else in something so personal , so vulnerable—

It does something unholy to me.

My mouth is tight, voice low. “Leave. I’ll take her.”

The nurse hesitates before letting go of the handles, and I take them.

“Next time you need something, anything… you ask me first,” I command.

I push her out into the hallway, the chair wheels rattling beneath my fingers. She shifts awkwardly, “Actually... I think I can go by myself.”

I lift her up into my arms. She squeals. “Roman!”

“You fainted less than a few hours ago. Sit still.”

She mumbles something about dignity and independence under her breath. I stop just outside the bathroom door, putting her down, but I don’t close the bathroom door. I’m not trying to peek inside, I’m just worried she may slip and hit her head again.

“Roman,” she hisses. “Close the door.”

My jaw tightens. I nod once and pull the door shut until it clicks. After a minute, she comes out.

“I’m done,” she says quietly, not meeting my eyes. She’s flushed, clearly mortified.

I scoop her up again before she can argue. We reach the bed. I settle her gently onto the mattress and sit beside her, unwrapping the sandwich and holding it out to her.

She eyes it suspiciously before grabbing it. “Thanks.”

She takes a big bite, and I can hear her chewing. Her mouth is full when she speaks again.

“You’re doing it again.”

I frown. “Doing what?”

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Sniffing bread.”

My ears burn. I’m not sure why that makes me feel so... caught. I didn’t even realize I was doing it.

“I wasn’t sniffing anything,” I snap, even though I was. Every goddamn day since she got here.

“Personally, I like the smell of vanilla more. Or oranges. If we’re talking food,” she says cheekily.

I run my tongue over the inside of my cheek, annoyed by the warmth crawling up my neck.

“Eat your sandwich,” I mutter.

I shove off the bed, needing distance. Air. Sanity.