Page 27 of Beautifully Damned (Sinful Fates #2)

Ayla

The water is scorching hot, punishing, just the way I need it. It runs down my body in angry rivers, steam thick in the air. I run the razor over every inch of my skin. For him.

The worst part is I don’t even know if he’ll come. Maybe I’m losing it. Getting ready for a man who might not show, who might not even think of me while I lie here hoping he does. That’s the humiliating part—the way I want him. The way I wait for him.

I step out of the tub, skin flushed pink, and wrap the towel tight around me. I dab my skin dry and slip into the prettiest pajama set from Elena’s mismatched pile of hand-me-downs.

I crawl into bed and turn. And turn. And turn. Sleep never comes. I keep asking myself the same questions. Over and over. Where the hell is Roman? Who’s he with? What’s he doing? Is he safe? Did he eat?

When the door finally creaks open, my breath stops mid-throat. Every hair on my body stands. And without looking, I know it’s him. Without turning to face him, I ask, “Did you eat?”

“No,” he says.

Goddammit. I roll over, finally meeting his eyes. I sit on the edge of the bed for a second, grounding myself, and gathering whatever scraps of strength I’ve got left before I rise. I cross the space between us, my fingers wrap around his forearm, tugging gently.

“Come,” I whisper.

The kitchen is dim, lit only by the soft yellow light above the stove. I flick the lights on and feel his eyes on my back as I pull open the fridge, fetching the leftovers.

“You hungry?” I ask.

He gives me no response, clearly he’s not interested in small talk right now.

Not that he ever has been, though. I heat up leftovers, my hands working on autopilot.

I motion for him to sit. He obeys. He’s not being difficult, and that sets off alarm bells in my head.

I try to fill the air with anything to lessen the awkwardness.

“How was your day?”

Nothing.

“Busy?” I try again.

One word finally slips out.

“Yeah.”

I fix him a plate and place it in front of him, sitting beside him, shoulder brushing his. He picks up the fork, scoops a bite, and chews like he hasn’t eaten in days.

“You never skip meals, Roman. Why today?”

The fork stills halfway to his mouth. His eyes drop to the plate, like the answer’s buried beneath the food.

“Punishment,” he mutters.

“For what?” I screech.

“You don’t get that answer for free.”

I swallow hard. “What’s the cost?”

“That’ll cost more than a few kisses, little lamb,” he whispers.

God, I’m messed up. Because I want the answer…and I want the price.

I lick my lips. “I figured.”

He scoffs down the rest of the plate, pushes the plate away, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. I squeal, laughter bubbling up as he throws me over his shoulder.

“Roman,” I gasp between giggles, “put me down—”

“Not a fucking chance,” he mutters, carrying me up the stairs. My laughter dies out slowly, replaced by the thrum of nerves and anticipation building with each step.

I know how scandalous this is. I’m not stupid. If anyone in the underworld even sniffed out what’s happening between us—if my father ever found out I laid with the enemy—it would be over. I’d be branded, disowned.

I know Roman could use this. Weaponize it.

Lord it over my father’s head just for the thrill of it.

But he also knows I won’t give him anything unless he gives me something in return.

That’s our game. Sex isn’t off the table, because the tension between us is thick enough to choke on.

We both want to burn it all out of our systems. But for that to happen, I need something from him.

A secret. A piece of him. That’s the unspoken deal.

Yes, I like playing our little game because I want to understand him.

I want to peel back the layers and see who the hell this man really is underneath all the control and cold rage.

But I’m not playing along out of some starry-eyed fantasy alone.

I’m doing it because I won’t be the only one with something to be held over the head with.

I won’t be the only one who can be blackmailed.

If he’s going to kiss and tell, we’ll both bleed for it.

And Roman seems to want me enough to agree to those unspoken rules.

He kicks my door open with his foot and tosses me gently onto the bed. I stare up at him, heart hammering.

I was raised with the goal of marrying for alliance, for name, for honor.

Four kisses. That’s all I’ve had to speak of at twenty-four years old.

Three. Any person I would have tried to give myself to, would have ended up dead in a ditch somewhere.

Mafia princess don’t sleep around. I wasn’t going to put anyone on my conscience for a bit of fun.

That’s something I don’t have to worry about with the powerful Roman.

So, yes this is selfish, reckless too. But it might be the only chance I have to give my virginity to someone I chose.

Not some man my father picked for me to marry.

I’ll take what I can from the Bratva monster.

And then I’ll go home. I’ll marry whoever my father says I will, and pretend to be the pure, innocent mafia princess the world expects me to be.

I will only remember this night with my hands down my pants, or with a couple tears down my cheeks if these utterly stupid, still forming feelings for Roman don’t go away after tonight, if they don’t turn out to be the result of sexual tension alone.

I bite down the sharp twist of unexpected sadness in my throat and shove it deep, deep down where it can’t ruin tonight.

Because tonight is about Roman.

About losing myself in the arms of this tortured man.

And unraveling him, secret by secret.

Even if it destroys us both.