Page 45 of Beautifully Damned (Sinful Fates #2)

Ayla

Roman hasn’t given me space since I woke up. If I shift, he notices. If I breathe too deep, his head turns. Last night he sat on the floor beside me for hours, his shoulder pressed against the frame, eyes locked on my face, analyzing every micro expression.

I tried to tell him he could go rest. Halfway through the sentence, the look in his eyes stopped me.

This morning, he’s still there. His hand curls loosely around my wrist, thumb tracing my pulse in slow, steady circles even while he sleeps.

It’s a strange thing to wake up to—the man who once cut me with words now measuring proof of my heartbeat with his own thumb.

I try to ease away without waking him, but the moment my skin slips from his, his eyes fly open.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I murmur.

“Wake me up when you do.” His voice is rough from sleep, but there’s no mistaking the order.

“Why?”

He blinks like it’s the stupidest question in the world. “So I can be there when you need me.”

My stomach knots. He’s on his feet before I can argue, scooping me up. The IV line sways beside us, trailing antibiotics into my arm.

“Roman, put me down. I can walk to the bathroom.”

“You’re not walking anywhere.”

“Roman—”

“You could fall. Tear the stitches. Get the bandages wet. You think I’m letting that happen?”

“I think you’re being ridiculous. I just need to shower. I’m pretty sure there’s a branch stuck in my hair.”

“You can’t shower. You’ll soak the wounds.” His gaze drops to my leg. “I’ll help you.”

Heat floods my face. “Absolutely not. You’re leaving the room. I’ll manage.”

“I’m not leaving.” His voice rises, cracks, then drops again. “I can’t. You don’t understand. I need to know you’re safe.”

I stare at him, wondering if this is the pain medication making me hallucinate. “Elena could help me. She’s here, isn’t she?”

He shakes his head, eyes dark. “No. I don’t trust anyone with you right now. Besides, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” he tries to convince me, the words meant to be coaxing, but they twist in my chest.

“And then you weaponized it,” I remind him. “So forgive me if the idea doesn’t make me feel warm and fuzzy.”

His face drains of color. For a second, I almost feel bad. Almost.

“You’re right,” he says finally. “I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

It’s the first time I’ve heard those words from him. I’m pretty sure it’s the first time he’s ever apologized in his life.

“I’m not asking for anything more than this,” he goes on. “Let me help you, Ayla. Keep your underwear on. Just… let me do this so I can breathe. Please. Let me help you. If I can’t, I’ll lose my mind.”

I’m too stunned to answer, my body moving before my brain catches up. I peel off the loose shorts someone must have dressed me in after the hospital, then my shirt. He turns away while I use the toilet, but he’s there again before I can step into the shower.

“Wait,” he says, hands gentle on my arms. His eyes don’t drop from mine. “Sit.” He points to the closed toilet lid.

I do. He disappears and comes back with plastic wrap, covering the IV site and my bandages with careful hands.

Then he washes me. The water is warm, his hands warmer, and there’s not one moment where I feel him look anywhere else but my eyes. I can feel the sting of tears in mine, because I’m overwhelmed. I’m confused.

When he finishes rinsing my hair, his hands still. “Do you… feel comfortable taking these off?” He touches my bra strap cautiously. I shake my head.

“Alright,” he says, and there’s no push behind it. He shuts the water off, takes a towel, and wraps me in it. Then he turns his back, stepping just far enough away that I know he’s giving me privacy. “Tell me when you’re ready.”

I manage the awkward shuffle of changing my underwear on my own, my hands clumsy from the IV. “Okay,” I say, and he turns, holding out clean clothes. He eases me into them piece by piece, steadying me when my balance falters.

Then he scoops me into his arms again. I expect to be carried back to bed, but the thought makes my chest feel tight. “Downstairs,” I mumble.

“You need to rest.”

“I’ve been in bed for hours.”

“You’re still not going—”

“I’m going,” I cut in. His eyes narrow, but something in my stubbornness gets to him. He exhales through his nose, muttering something under his breath that I can’t catch. Then he shifts his grip and carries me toward the stairs.

The moment we enter the living room, Matvey is there, his hands hovering like he’s ready to catch me if Roman drops me. “Pakhan, you should’ve told me—”

Roman ignores him.

Elena’s the next to appear, and the second her eyes land on me, they well up. She’s at my side the moment my feet touch the couch, her hands cupping my face. “Stupid girl,” she breathes, half-crying, half-scolding. “Don’t you ever do that again.”

Someone sets a tray on the coffee table—tea, toast, eggs that smell faintly of butter.

Matvey sits on the arm of the couch, his expression softer than I’ve ever seen it. “Eat,” he says. Behind me, Roman is still looming.

“Go shower,” Elena tells him, dabbing at her eyes with her sleeve.

“I’m not leaving her.”

I look up at him. “Roman. I’m in safe hands. Go wash up. You smell like blood.”

With a tick in his jaw, he gives in. “I’ll be fast.”

He walks out backward, like he can’t quite stand turning his back on me. I manage a weak smile, still trying to process all this… concern. As I eat, Matvey and Elena don’t take their eyes off me.

“He had me hunt the dogs,” Matvey says quietly, almost like he knows he shouldn’t. “Wouldn’t let me come back until each one was taken out.”

I almost choke on my toast. “Matvey… I walked into their home. They didn’t walk into mine.”

That’s when Roman steps back into the kitchen, freshly showered, damp hair pushed back, a clean shirt clinging to him. That must be the fastest shower of all time.

“I killed men for you,” he grumbles. “Why wouldn’t I kill dogs?”

Yeah, never mind. Same old Roman.