Page 28 of Beautifully Damned (Sinful Fates #2)

Ayla

Roman looms over me, tall and broad and terrifying in a way that makes my stomach twist. He could crush me with a single hand. And yet, for the first time in my life, I feel powerful.

His shadow blankets the bed, his presence heavier than gravity.

My back sinks into the mattress, and my eyes roam up to meet his.

God, the size difference alone is enough to send a shiver down my spine.

What woman doesn’t want a beast like him?

One who gets on top of her and begs for a few kisses like a starving man?

I’ve never felt powerful, not once. But here… like this… I do.

“Ask your questions, little lamb,” he mutters. “But be ready for the price.”

I try to lift myself up on my elbows, but he presses a hand flat on my chest, and shoves me back down. My pulse kicks up, pounding like a warning in my throat. This is happening.

This is actually happening.

“Tell me the price first,” I murmur, barely recognizing my own voice.

“Ask the question,” he growls. “Then I’ll name the cost.”

“Why didn’t you eat today?” My voice cracks. “You said it was punishment. What for?”

He sits back on his heels, unbuttons the first few buttons of his black shirt, and then keeps going. Slowly.

Roman is… not pretty or polished. But he’s beautiful in a way that makes you ache. Thick, scarred arms. A wide chest. His body isn’t for show — it’s for war. And the scars — there are so many. Lines. Burns. And I can’t look away.

He watches me watch him. “You want to stop?” he asks, one brow raised.

“No,” I say. If he thinks those scars are enough to send me running, he doesn’t know me at all.

“What’s the price?” I ask again.

Roman’s hand drags down his chest, across his stomach, lower, until it hovers just above his belt. “Here.”

My breath catches.

“You want my answers,” he says, “you’ll earn them. With your hands. Your mouth. Your fucking attention. You give, I give. You ask, I answer. But nothing’s free, little lamb.”

If I’m going to make a deal with the devil, I’ll be damned if I walk away empty-handed. “Okay… talk. Then I’ll pay.”

He cages me again, pushing me down into the mattress like he owns every inch of space I take up. His arms are braced on either side of my head, his scent invading all my senses.

“You want the truth?” he asks. “Fine. I didn’t eat today because I needed to suffer.”

“Why?” I whisper.

“Because wanting you is a mistake,” he grits out. “Being here—doing this with you—is a fucking mistake. I shouldn’t be touching you. I shouldn’t be in this bed. But I can’t stop. That’s why I’m punishing myself. Because no matter how wrong this is, I want you anyway.”

I shut my eyes. A mistake . That word guts me more than I thought it would. I’m not stupid—I know what I am to him. A means to an end, a curiosity, a fleeting fascination. But hearing it out loud… it burns.

I won’t let him see the way it stings. I let my hands drift to his chest. My palms glide lower, across hard planes and rough scars.

I pause at his hips, skin flushed. Then, I press my lips to the space just beneath his ribs.

Softly. Then again. I keep kissing. His eyes are closed, but his body is taut.

“Open your eyes,” I whisper.

He does.

“You think this is a mistake,” I murmur, “but I don’t. And if I’m going to give myself to someone, then I want it to be my decision. This is the only time I’ll ever get to choose.” I say. “So, I want to make it clear. This is not a mistake to me.”

His brows draw together. “The only time you’ll get to choose?”

“What do you think will happen to me after this, Roman?” I sigh. “My father will marry me off like a bargaining chip. A way to rebuild what's been burned. He’ll hand me to the Moroccans, or someone else who’s interested, the moment you’re done gutting what you want from the family. ”

His face goes cold, all the color has drained out of him.

“So yes,” I whisper, “I want my first time to be mine to choose. Even if it’s only this once.”

The tension becomes something vicious. His arm snakes up and clamps around my throat. “Don’t,” he grunts, “talk about other men when you’re under me. Don’t even think about them while you’re in my house.”

His fingers flex around my neck. On any other night, I would’ve put up a fight. But tonight, I don’t want to ruin this. I raise my hand and trail my fingers across his forearm, trying to calm the devil down.

“I want to ask another question.”

“Fuck.” His hand drops. “Ask,” he barks.

Right. Back to the clipped answers. Why does it matter to him who I end up with? Why is he so torn up by something that shouldn’t matter?

“Why is food such a sensitive topic for you?” I ask. “Why do you use it as a punishment?”

I know I’ve hit a nerve. At this point, I’m certain this night’s about to blow up in my face.

But instead of answering, his fingers trail from my neck downward, until they cup both of my breasts. My skin burns, embarrassingly reactive. Then I realize… this is the next reward. He’s going to kiss me here. He’s waiting for permission.

I steel myself, and then I nod. His mouth meets the base of my neck without warning. "Roman!" I gasp. "Answer first!"

His mouth trails higher, pressing another kiss under my jaw, then lower again.

"I said—" I try to twist away, but he locks me in place. "Answer!"

He lifts his head an inch. "Because food was the first thing ever used to break me." He doesn’t stop kissing my neck and pulling more heat from my body even as his voice punches holes into my heart. The contradiction makes me dizzy.

"My father—" he starts, then pauses, breathing in deep. "He trained me to become a Pakhan before I even knew how to spell the word. Everything was a test. Everything had consequences. He used belts, cigarettes, fists. But food—"

He pulls back, and I can see his eyes. They’re hollow.

"Food was different," he says. "He’d starve me for days. Weeks, sometimes. One mistake—one fucking slip—and I wasn’t allowed to eat. He’d sit me at the table with the others and watch me watch them. He’d call it discipline. Character-building. I’d beg. I remember begging. "

I can't move. I can't even breathe right.

“I was four the first time he beat me for crying,” he says, voice flat.

“Eight, when he burned me with a cigarette for missing a shot at the shooting range. Ten, when he started withholding food. Sometimes, Elena would sneak a piece of dry bread into my room. I think she was thirteen when she started doing that….and if she were caught at the time, she wouldn’t be breathing today.

I remember I’d lick the crumbs off my palm like a starving dog.

” He exhales a bitter laugh. “He said hunger builds discipline.

That if I could learn to control my body, I could control the world.

I taught myself how to disassociate from the pain until all feelings just.. . disappeared."

He leans back in again, mouth brushing the top of my shoulder. "But then you came," he murmurs. "And suddenly all that discipline went right out the window."

My arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him to me.

I don’t know how else to hold the pain he just spilled into the room.

There is nothing more I want to do than cry for him, but I know that he won’t appreciate that.

I stifle a sob, and he shakes his head against my skin, because he doesn’t want my pity.

I do the only thing I know might reach him. Without overthinking, I pull off my top. I don’t think he needs comfort in the form of words or cuddles. Roman isn’t a man who lets himself be held. I grab his face in both hands and crush our mouths together in a bruising kiss.

His mouth breaks away from mine, trailing down, down, until it closes around the side of my breast.

I thread my fingers into his hair and tug, lifting his face back to mine. “One more question,” I whisper.

We don’t bother with bargains anymore. No talk of price. He already knows he's getting everything.

“Do you think you’ll ever be capable of love?”

“I’ve never loved anyone,” he confesses. “Never been loved. I don’t know what it looks like. So no, little lamb. The only person I care about is Mikhail, and I don’t even know if that’s love. Don’t believe it’ll ever happen.”

I force down the sting. He dips his head back to my chest, biting the underside of my other breast.

“Do you think you’ll ever… try? I need to know before we continue, Roman.”

“Maybe,” he mumbles.

“You’ll try?” I ask again.

After a few moments of hesitation, “I’ll try.” He finally agrees.

That shouldn’t mean anything to me. But God, it lodges in my chest like a sliver of light, and I hold onto it.

When his mouth returns to my nipples, his tongue circles, then sucks. I writhe beneath him, moaning. But when he starts trailing down, lower and lower, a wave of insecurity crashes into me. I close my legs slightly, instincts kicking in.

I’m not the curviest. I’m not toned. Not soft in the right places or sculpted like the women I imagine have passed through his bed. I’m just… me .

He bites the inside of my hip. “Beautiful,” he murmurs. He spreads my legs wide and pins them there, forcing me open beneath him. I’ve never felt more exposed. But when his mouth meets me there, everything inside me shatters.

I see stars. My hands fly to his hair as pleasure tears through me. The orgasm hits before I can beg for it, and it’s nothing like the quiet, sad little climaxes I tried to reach alone in the dark.

“You’re so responsive, little lamb,” he says, tongue still lazy against me. “So fucking pretty. The prettiest I’ve ever seen.”

That stings. I stiffen. “Don’t mention other women when you’re in my bed,” I snap.

With my folds still in his mouth, he lifts his head just enough to say, “Ask me how many women I’ve gone down on.”

“No,” I mutter. “Not doing that.”

He bites down gently on the sensitive skin just beside my entrance. I yelp.

“Ask,” he commands again, dark and amused.

I roll my eyes, grumbling, “Alright. Oh, mighty king of the underworld, most desired bachelor of them all—how many women have you kissed between the legs?”

He laughs. “None. Only you.”

My entire body sinks into the mattress as a rush of possessiveness floods my system. He climbs back up my body, kissing his way to my lips. I can taste myself on his tongue, and I don’t care.

His hardness brushes my heat, and when he pushes in, pain rips through me. I cry out, instinctively trying to twist away, but his arms keep me in place.

“Don’t run from me, little lamb,” he whispers against my throat. “Don’t run. I promise it’ll feel good soon.”

I stop resisting. He starts to move, slow at first, then deeper, and the pain gives way to pleasure. He groans into my neck. “That’s it. Take it. Just like that.”

And I do. His hand slides between us, fingers circling my clit. “Give it to me,” he growls. “Come for me, little lamb.” I shatter with a cry, my body arching into his, every nerve alight. He doesn’t stop until he follows, spilling inside me.

Later, when we’re tangled in the sheets and drenched in sweat, he pulls me close. And in his arms, I let myself believe—just for tonight—that maybe this darkness between us could turn into something more.

But morning doesn’t bring peace. It brings a nightmare.