Page 40 of Beautifully Damned (Sinful Fates #2)

Roman

Emir Kaya.

Twenty-seven. Turkish mafia blood running thick in his veins. Raised on a battleground, trained to take bullets before most kids knew how to drive. He became Ayla’s personal shadow at twenty. But they’ve known each other longer than that—shared milk teeth, scraped knees, and bedtime stories.

He kissed her once. I believe her when she says it was innocent. Kids. I believe her when she says he’s like a brother. But I don’t believe him.

No man who’s tasted even a fraction of what Ayla is made of—her softness, her light, her maddening refusal to be anything but herself—comes out of it unscathed.

She makes me wonder if what I feel for her is love. And I’m not even capable of feeling that. All I know is that when she ignores me, my skin crawls. When she gives someone else her smile, something sharp coils inside me. I want to destroy whatever pulled her attention away.

And now he’s coming here. For dinner. With my wife .

She’s been in the kitchen since morning. I round the corner and stop to stare at her. She’s barefoot, her hair pulled back with one of those ugly scrunchies. She and Elena are elbow-deep in spices and plates.

“It needs more sumac,” Ayla says, grinning. “Emir loves kebabs. They’re his favorite. I’m thinking of making another plate.”

Emir this. Emir that.

Does she even know what my favorite food is? I clear my throat. Ayla’s smile falters the second she sees me.

“Elena,” I say, “take over. She’s done enough.”

Ayla bristles. “I’m not—”

Elena cuts her off. “It’s okay, Mrs. Volkov. We’re finished. I’ll make extra plate. You taught me how.”

Ayla tears her glare from me to Elena after she calls her Mrs. Volkov, just like I requested, then her glare comes back to me. I hold her gaze. There’s a war in her eyes, and I welcome it.

“Out,” I say again. She walks past me, stiff and silent, and I follow. Because I can’t let her stay in that kitchen one more second thinking about him .

She bolts up the stairs. And of course, I follow.

When she slams the door I just had fixed after breaking the last one—right in my face, I pinch the bridge of my nose like it’ll help me find a trace of patience somewhere in the mess of wire and flame that I’ve become.

She’s angry. Fine. That’s fair.

I sold her on the idea that maybe we could be something. Said I’d try. Took her virginity. Then tore through her family like a storm. I don’t expect gratitude. Or warmth. Or her in my bed. But it appears like I can’t tolerate her coldness.

I’m not sure what the hell this is that I feel. What name it has. But I know it turns my stomach when she talks to anyone else with that voice. I know my hands go tight when she looks happy and I’m not the reason.

And I know I’m losing control of it.

She doesn’t come out for hours. When she finally does, it hits me like a gut punch.

Who gave her that fucking dress?

It’s red. Hits right above the knee. Nothing vulgar about it. But it fits her like it was made with her in mind. The color lights up her skin, makes her look...exquisite. Her hair’s twisted up, neck bare. Just lipstick. That’s all. And it’s enough to make something primal crack open inside me.

I’m opening my mouth to tell her to take it off. To wipe the lipstick off. To remember she’s not dressing for him , when then the doorbell rings.

And she goes to answer it. I’m right behind, breathing down her neck.

And there he is. Emir Kaya.

The man who kissed my wife before I ever touched her. The one who thinks he knows her better than I do. Who wants to still.

He’s holding two bouquets.

“Hi,” she beams. Her voice is warmer than anything I’ve gotten from her in weeks.

He leans in, going for her cheek. I slide between them before he gets the chance. Try it, you little shit.

“Brave of you to show up here, considering everything the Turkish mafia’s done lately,” I say, quiet enough that Ayla won’t catch the full tone.

He grins. “Water under the bridge. You married our princess, didn’t you? That practically makes us family.”

The way he says it—clipped, forced—tells me exactly how badly he wishes it were him instead. Not in this lifetime, or the next, or any lifetime for that matter.

He holds out one of the bouquets to her. “These are for you. This one’s for Elena. You mentioned you liked her.”

My stomach turns. She’s been talking to him. How much? About what? Has she told him how she bled for me? That I was the first to really touch her? That she knows things about me no one else does?

She blinks fast, holding back tears before taking the flowers.

“Come in,” she says softly, taking his fucking hand, pulling him in with her fingers wrapped around his.

I follow them, fists curled. I catch Elena at the table, sniffing her stupid bouquet with a dreamy look on her face. I don’t say a word. Just look at her once, and she must sense the absolute malice dripping off me. She drops the flowers like they burned her and scurries off.

Now it’s just us.

Three at the table. Dinner spread like a celebration. Ayla gets up, smiling that soft smile again as she places a couple kebabs on his plate. She turns to go back to her seat, but doesn’t serve me. I grab the plate from her hand and scoop every last kebab onto mine. No more for Emir.

I hope he chokes on her cooking. Because I’m already choking on all this rage, and if he looks at her like that again, I’ll make sure this night ends with something far messier than dessert.

The entire dinner, Emir barely touches his plate, and I barely touch mine.

He hides behind polite conversation and smiles Ayla’s way like I’m not sitting right here.

And she plays along with him—surface-level talk, safe and civil.

But I see the way her fingers tap against the glass, the way her shoulders sit stiff, and I know she feels the weight of my stare.

Despite the assortment of food on the table, all I do is tear my bread apart and bring it to my nose, slow breaths in—keeping myself grounded, keeping myself from reaching across the table and killing him. Because Ayla would never forgive me then, and I can’t afford any more of her hatred.

But there is something about this Emir that itches at the back of my skull. If he was the guard with her that day in the stable, it was too dark for me to know….but I’m sure I’ve seen him before. I just can’t place it.

And finally, fucking finally, dinner’s done. I push back my chair and say, “Dinner’s over. It’s time for you to leave, Emir.”

He glares at me, eyes full of hate. Envy. Like he wishes she were his. I reach for Ayla, grab the back of her head, and kiss her. She fights me, but for one second, I swear she kisses me back.

The kiss is long enough for him to see himself out. Long enough for me to remember what it felt like to touch her, to taste her, to have her near me without that damn wall of cold silence. Long enough to remember how much I miss her.