Page 46 of Beautifully Damned (Sinful Fates #2)

Ayla

My phone hasn’t stopped buzzing for two days. I had to block Emir’s number after making sure he was alive because I’m not about to put him in more danger than he’s already in. Thankfully, Roman didn’t kill him. I thought he would. Honestly, I was bracing myself for it.

And yet… he didn’t.

I think I know why. Roman has finally figured out that whatever’s been simmering in him might actually be love. The problem? It took me almost dying for him to figure it out. And instead of feeling warm or fluttery, I just feel… empty.

The doctor came by again this morning to jab me with another rabies shot.

Roman was planted at my side the whole time, towering over us like he was about to stab me with a machete instead of a needle.

He hasn’t been to work in days; he just hovers over me, day and night.

Nobody’s ever looked this worried about me before.

Not even my parents. Emir texted that they’re concerned, but they haven’t reached out once—not since the wedding, not after the accident.

It’s like they tossed me into a fire and walked away.

I drag a brush through my hair, wincing at a knot the size of a small bird’s nest. Maybe if I look halfway presentable, I’ll feel human again. I open my bedroom door, only for Roman to tumble inside.

He gasps awake, eyes wild. “Were you—” I stop, staring at him. “Roman. Have you been sitting outside my door?”

“I told you I’m not leaving until I know you’re fine,” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes.

“I am fine. You’re the Pakhan; you can’t just… loiter in hallways. The Bratva needs you.”

“What kind of man leaves his wife two days after she almost died?” His voice is hoarse, but sharp. “The Bratva can wait.”

That floors me. Nothing in this world ranks above the Bratva for him. He eats, breathes, and bleeds for it. He married me for it.

“Roman, nothing’s changed,” I say quietly, shifting to my good leg.

He notices the movement instantly and scoops me into his arms before I can blink.

He’s carrying me so much these past few days that his stitches unraveled twice.

Seems like they will be unraveling again.

“Everything’s changed. You almost died.”

My palms push against his chest. “No. You don’t get to wake up one day and decide I matter only after my blood hits the ground. That’s not how this works.”

We’re still mid-argument when we reach the living room, and my words die in my throat. Flowers. Everywhere. Vases, buckets, crates—roses, lilies, peonies. The air is thick with perfume. Elena moves from bouquet to bouquet like a fairy.

“Oh, Ayla, look what Pakhan brought,” she says, lifting a spray of pink roses to her face. “Beautiful, no?”

I swat at Roman’s shoulder until he sets me down, though his arm stays locked around my waist, taking my weight like he doesn’t trust my legs.

“Why?” The word comes out barely louder than a breath.

Roman glances away for a second, his tongue running over his bottom lip. “When that Emir sent you flowers and you smiled… I realized I’d never given you any. Not acceptable. No man woos my wife but me.”

Elena beams, handing me a bouquet. “Emir got nothing on Pakhan.”

“Damn right,” Roman mutters.

The scent of the roses fills my head when I bring them to my face.

And I hate that—even now, even after everything—a part of me still softens at the smell.

I’m still Ayla—Ayla who loves gardens but hates bugs, who dreamed of being a vet but can’t stomach blood, who loves to love but hates heartbreak.

The thing about love is that it’s always just delayed heartbreak. One way or another, the person you love will hurt you—by choice, by indifference, by betrayal, or by leaving this earth before you.

I used to be brave enough to risk it anyway. Not anymore. Not since I became the Pakhan’s bride.

So whatever Roman’s feeling now—whether it’s love or guilt or some dangerous mix of both—it doesn’t matter. I’m done.

With my throat tight and my vision blurring, I set the roses down and head for the garden.

Roman trails me all the way to the garden, his steps so close I can hear the shift of gravel beneath his shoes.

The fountain is quiet except for the soft trickle of water, and I lower myself onto the stone ledge, my fingers skimming the cool surface. He sits beside me.

I can’t help remembering the time we both fell into this fountain. My lips twitch, but the smile is slow, faint, and more sad than sweet.

“Didn’t you like the flowers?”

Something in his tone reminds me of a boy hoping for approval, but I don’t have the energy to pretend. I lift one shoulder in a shrug.

“You lit up when Emir brought you a single bouquet. I brought you hundreds,” he says, almost pouting. “Why don’t you look happy?”

I let the silence sit for a moment before deciding not to dance around the truth. “Because I can’t tie you to anything that feels like happiness, or safety, or home.”

He flinches like I slapped him, but I keep going.

“I was willing to give you my heart. You said you’d try.

And I believed you. Then I woke up to a wedding where my family and I were humiliated in front of the entire city, where the world suddenly knew exactly what I’d given you.

After that, my family cut me off like I’d never existed.

You lit the match that blew up my life, then called me a pawn without honor.

” I wipe at the tear threatening to escape.

“I’m sorry.” His gaze drops to the ground.

“Revenge clouded my judgment. But none of what we shared before was fake. Not one moment. You’re the only person I’ve ever let see me.”

“I know,” I say quietly, because it’s true. “That’s what made me love you. But, Roman…” I shake my head. “You aren’t capable of love.”

His eyes snap up, sharp and quick. “And if I was?”

For a heartbeat, I let myself touch his cheek, my fingers memorizing the curve of bone, the faint roughness of stubble. “A man who can burn a woman after sharing his nights, his secrets, his laughter—he doesn’t know what love is. Whatever you think you feel for me… it isn’t that.”

I drop my hand and look back at the rippling water.

“What if I could change?” he asks, almost frantic. “What if I already have?”

“I don’t know,” I admit, my shoulders sagging. “But I doubt it. You’ve filled me with nothing but doubt and fear. I can’t look at you and see anything else.”

“That’s why you stabbed me? When I tried to touch you?”

The memory makes my stomach turn. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Yes. I’m sorry for it, but yes. When you touch me, I remember everything that came after—the destruction, the way you left me standing in the ashes.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Why?” My voice hardens. “Since when does the Pakhan of the Bratva get to be sorry?”

“I don’t have an answer. All I know is… I felt things with you I haven’t felt in years.

Maybe ever. The pull when you touch me. Jealousy that makes my blood boil.

Panic when you’re hurt. Terror when you’re gone.

And when I thought I’d lose you—” His voice breaks.

“Madness. The kind that makes you want to burn down the whole city just to get you back.”

His words heat my skin, crawling up my neck and into my ears. Once, they would have been sugar to me. Now I know how dangerous sugar can be.

“Is that love?” he asks softly, almost afraid of the answer. “I don’t know what love feels like. Maybe Mikhail came close. But no one else.”

Inside me, my heart and my mind start their old argument.

“When I found you with those dogs, when you didn’t wake up right away…

I knew if you left me, I’d become something even worse than I already am.

You’re the only one who’s made my chest feel like it’s not made of stone.

I’m so stupid for not acknowledging it sooner, little angel.

But please, you’d have to teach me what love is.

You’d have to show me what it feels like. So tell me—what else could this be?”

It sounds like love. It feels like love. And if I were still the girl I used to be, I might believe it. But I’ve already bet my heart on him once. I can’t do it again.

I force my voice steady. “It’s fascination, Roman. Nothing more.”