Page 26 of Beautifully Damned (Sinful Fates #2)

Ayla

It seems like the more I stay here, the shorter my clothes get.

Not on purpose—at least, that’s what I tell myself.

It’s not to tease Roman… definitely not.

But part of me wonders if I’m lying to myself, if some twisted part of me likes the way his eyes burn when they land on me.

Maybe I’m being swallowed by the same darkness that built him.

Yesterday, a man died because of me. The old Ayla would still be reeling, curled up somewhere questioning morality and justice, wondering if she could have done something, anything, to stop it.

But this version—the one Roman’s hands and lips are sculpting into something new—has forgotten the blood the moment his mouth claimed hers.

What does that say about me? That no matter what my heart tells me, no matter how deep this false intimacy goes, I’ll go back home someday with too much knowledge about a monster… and with memories of how that monster kissed like he could devour every part of me.

“Here,” Elena says, handing me a bowl of peeled potatoes. “Cut into small pieces. Like this.”

I nod and copy her movements.

“Elena,” I start quietly.

She hums without looking at me.

“What was Roman’s father like?”

She pauses mid-slice. “He was very good Pakhan,” she says simply. “Did best for the Bratva. Always.”

“And for Roman?”

“I said he was good Pakhan,” she says slowly, “not good father.”

“Did he—”

She shakes her head before I finish. “I said too much. You want to know more, you ask Roman. Not me.”

There’s no anger in her voice, but there’s a warning. No matter how much she likes me, her loyalty is, and will always be, with Roman. I retreat into silence as I go back to chopping.

Last night, after Roman kissed me like he was starving and I was his last meal, he just..

. left. He doesn’t strike me as the type to indulge in softness.

Roman is jagged edges and tight control, the kind of man who only touches things he intends to break.

But that opens a door I don’t want to walk through. If he doesn’t kiss... then why me?

Elena fixes a plate, sets it on the counter, then pulls over a stool and sits. I serve myself a plate and slide onto the stool beside her.

“He’s not coming down for dinner?” I ask quietly, pretending I’m just making conversation.

“Busy.”

“Hmm.” My fork scrapes the plate. “He never misses meals.”

“Maybe he ate already,”

“Maybe.” I mumble.

“Sleep well last night?” she asks, sipping from her glass of water.

I choke on my bite. “Uh... yeah. Why?”

She shrugs. “I just... saw Pakhan sneak out room.”

My entire body flushes. “Nothing happened,” I blurt. “Seriously.”

Elena giggles.

“I’m serious!” I hiss, covering my face with my hands. “We... we kissed. That’s it.”

“I not ask for details.” She wipes her eyes, still grinning. “You’re the one blurting confessions over soup.”

I grab my plate and shove another bite in my mouth just to shut myself up. My face is on fire. I don’t even finish my plate. The second I get the chance, I excuse myself and make a beeline upstairs.

I lean against the bedroom door, trying to breathe.

What am I doing?

What is he doing?

We’re two people who were never meant to collide. And yet here we are—spinning around each other like a lit match and a puddle of gasoline.