Page 34 of Beautifully Damned (Sinful Fates #2)

Ayla

Shame claws at my chest. Shame, and fear, and sadness—all of it sinking its teeth in at once.

I’m curled up on the floor, knees to my chest, arms wrapped tight around my legs. I can’t stop heaving. The tears keep coming, and they won’t stop. This is the most traumatic thing that’s ever happened to me.

And yet... I feel guilty.

As if it’s my fault.

If someone got hurt—I will never forgive myself. I’ll rot in guilt. I can’t live like this, I don’t want to either. I’d rather die.

The door creaks open, and Elena walks in. I bury my face deeper between my knees. I don’t want to see her. I’m too ashamed.

She is one of them. One of the ones pointing guns at my family. And still, I consider her a friend. God help me, I don’t know who I am anymore. I’m scared for my family. But I’m scared for the Bratva too.

I’m a mess of contradictions.

Elena sits beside me, her body brushing mine. She starts cleaning the wound on my arm. It’s shallow, but it still burns like hell.

“It’s just a scratch,” she mutters, carefully placing a bandage over it.

“Are you hurt?” I sob.

She shakes her head. But her expression... it’s grim. My stomach turns.

“Is anyone else?” I whisper. “Roman? Lola? Mikhail?”

Please, no. Not Roman.

I don’t hate Lola. Not for what she did. I’m grateful, actually, she stopped it before it turned into something worse. A massacre. She pressed pause on the bloodbath we were heading toward.

But Roman hasn’t even checked on me once. Of course he hasn’t. I’m nothing to him.

Elena’s eyes darken. “Mikhail, hurt at second round,” she says quietly.

“How is he?” I scream, shaking.

Elena sighs, pain carved deep into her face. “He’s in surgery. No one knows anything yet.”

I break completely, and Elena wraps her arms around me. For the first time since I’ve known her, she cries too. We cry together. In silence. In pain. In helpless, useless grief.

“I’m sorry,” I say over and over. “I’m so sorry, Elena.”

She strokes my hair gently. “Not your fault,” she whispers. “Our world. This is what it does.”

I pull back to look at her. “Elena… my father made an offer. A good one. Roman refused it.”

“I know,” she says softly. “Word got around.”

“Why?” My voice cracks. “Why, Elena? This could’ve ended. All of it. Why wouldn’t he take the deal?”

She shrugs, because there’s no answer she can give me.

No one knows what’s in Roman’s head. And so we stay there for nearly an hour, crying into each other, clinging to what’s left of our sanity.

She tells me stories from when they were kids.

How she used to change Mikhail’s diapers.

How she’d put him to bed when his mother was too high to care.

And then she leaves to go check if there’s any news about Mikhail. I stay behind. Alone.

What did my father hope to achieve by doing this? If this is meant to be intimidation—if it’s just a fucking tactic to force Roman’s hand—and Mikhail dies in the process?

Then we’re finished. They’ll burn us to the ground.

What feels like hours later, the door creaks open. My head jerks up from where it rests on my knees, eyes swollen and blurry from crying. My heart skips a beat when I see that it’s Roman.

I swallow hard, but it does nothing. The fear claws its way up my throat. My mouth opens, then closes. Again.

Finally, I find my voice. “How is Mikhail?”

“He’s stable,” he says.

My hands tremble as they cover my mouth. “Thank God,” I whisper. “Thank God, thank God…”

Roman is watching me. I don’t know what to do with that look in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble, wiping at my face. “I’m so, so sorry, Roman.”

My body tenses as he moves toward me. He’s never laid a hand on me—never—but for some reason, I flinch like he might now.

Like he could snap.

But he doesn’t. Instead, his hands reach out, pushing the hair from my face. His thumb brushes my temple, right where the gun barrel left its mark. His eyes linger there before his lips press against it.

“Roman—” I whisper, confused, unsure.

His finger presses to my lips.

“No talking today.”

I obey. I don’t want to ruin this strange, terrifying moment of tenderness.

He scoops me up off the floor and lays me down on the bed. To my shock, he climbs in beside me, his arms wrapping around me. Roman cold-blooded Volkov is cuddling me. And I don’t pull away. Because I need this too. I let my body sink into his, my eyes fluttering shut.

But … something feels wrong.

Like the air is holding its breath.

Like this—this quiet—isn’t peace.

It’s the calm before the storm, and this is the last time we will ever be this close.