Page 20 of Beautifully Damned (Sinful Fates #2)

AYLA

I lean against the counter, sleeves rolled to my elbows, wiping down the already clean surface just to keep my hands busy.

“Enough,” Elena says, swatting the rag from my hand with a flick of her towel. “You hit your head yesterday. You should be resting. Not… wiping stove six times.”

I smile weakly. “I’m fine.”

“You are stubborn,” she mutters, stirring the pot of porridge. “This is not how girl takes care of herself. Not after fainting and hospital and…” She sighs. “You are not machine.”

I open my mouth to answer, but the front door slams, and the sound snaps my spine straight. Another slam echoes from deeper inside the house—the office door.

Elena curses softly under her breath, wiping her hands on her apron. She disappears into the pantry and reappears with a white tin box. The red cross on top is faded and scratched.

“Take,” she says, shoving it into my chest.

“What?”

“Pakhan is back. There was… problem this morning. He did not say, but…” She shrugs. “You go.”

My heart skips. “Elena, I’m not—he probably doesn’t want—”

“Go,” she says more firmly. “If he says no, he will say. But… I think he will not.”

She doesn’t wait for more excuses, planting her hand between my shoulder blades and gently pushing me toward the hallway.

The hallway feels colder than usual. Why do I care if he’s hurt? But the thought of him bleeding—of something happening to him—makes something strange coil low in my stomach. I think it’s guilt, after the way he cared for me.

I knock once, light and unsure.

“Come in,” his voice growls from inside. Not inviting at all.

He’s seated behind his desk, one hand gripping a glass of whiskey, the other resting on the armrest. His shirt—white, buttoned up halfway—is stained with blood.

His sleeves are rolled, revealing forearms smeared with dried crimson.

There’s a gash on his face, cutting through the scar across his cheek, forming a perfect X.

His stubble is heavier today, but his black hair is slicked back, not a strand out of place. The blue in his eyes? Arctic. Frozen and furious.

His eyes flick to the box in my hands, then back to my face. “What do you want?”

“Elena asked me to check on you,” I say, stepping inside. “She said there was… an issue this morning.”

He scoffs, taking another slow sip from the glass. The ice clinks. “That woman has no boundaries.”

“She’s just worried.”

“So she sends you?”

I glance down. “She asked me to bring the kit. In case.”

The tension in the room thickens, clinging to my skin. Every instinct in me screams to back out and close the door.

But I don’t.

There’s a half-empty water bottle on his desk. I grab it, unscrewing the cap with stiff fingers, and open the first aid kit. I wrap some gauze around my hand, soak it, and gently reach for his arm.

He watches me the entire time, his body like stone.

The first swipe of wet gauze over his skin turns a deep red.

His forearm is warm, almost hot. I clean the dried blood slowly, tracing over the rough cuts and scrapes that run along his skin like a roadmap of whatever hell he walked through this morning.

He exhales through his nose. His head tips back, resting against the leather chair behind him, eyes closed. That’s when I realize that most of the blood isn’t his. There are scratches, bruises, yes. A few open cuts. But they’re shallow, not deep enough to have soaked the shirt like this.

His fists, though… those tell another story. I reach for his hand. He lifts his head, looking down at my fingers as they cradle his knuckles. The skin is busted open at the edges. I begin cleaning it, dabbing the disinfectant gently.

“Enjoying playing doctor?”

As always, my mouth has no filter in awkward situations. “I always wanted to be a vet.”

His brows lift slightly. “What stopped you?”

“Our world.”

There’s a silence. Then I add, quieter, “Maybe… maybe once I get out of here, I’ll try.”

I don’t miss the way his whole body tenses. His eyes are on me, colder than before. I reach for his face.

“Don’t.” He says it too late.

The moment my fingers touch his cheek, brushing past the dried blood, everything else falls away. I use the pad of my thumb to brush away the smudge of dirt near his jaw. His lashes are so long. Dark.

This feels… obscene. Like touching him like this is more naked than undressing in front of him.

I finally speak. “What happened?”

“The usual.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push.

I dab the cut on his cheek. The heat between us coils, stretches, expands until it’s impossible to ignore. When I drop the gauze, I barely breathe. He leans forward a fraction. His breath ghosts over my mouth. I can smell his cologne, faint now, mixed with sweat and blood.

A knock at the door makes me jolt backward so fast I nearly trip over the stool behind me. Roman’s nostrils flare, and he growls, low and guttural, “Come in.”

The door creaks open. Elena pokes her head inside, a knowing smile on her face. “Dinner is ready,” she says.

I practically flee the office. By the time I slide into my chair at the dinner table, I’m still breathless. My mouth feels too dry. My skin too hot.

Roman enters a minute later. Elena brings in the dishes, carefully setting them down on the long table. The smell hits first—some kind of stuffed vegetables. I didn’t love them the last time she made them.

Roman grunts from across the table, “She didn’t like this the last time.”

Heat rushes to my face in an instant. “No, it’s okay,” I say too quickly. “I’ll eat it. Really.”

Elena makes a clicking noise with her tongue. “Nonsense,” she mutters, already picking up the plate. “You like pasta, da ?”

“Yeah. Pasta would be amazing.”

She gives a little nod and sweeps out of the room, leaving Roman and me alone in the vast dining room, trying to process what happened mere minutes prior.