Page 5 of Beautifully Damned (Sinful Fates #2)

Roman

The day bleeds into the night. Still, I come home starving for something I can’t pinpoint, even though I’ve been hunting the whole day. There’s something wrong with me. I know that much. The hunger doesn’t quiet like it used to, and the blood doesn’t settle the noise in my head. I need more of it.

Sometimes I wonder—how long before I lose whatever part of me is still human? Or did that part die years ago?

I step into the mansion. It smells of lemon polish and roasted meat. The table is already set. As usual, Elena, the live in maid, doesn’t look at me when I come home with blood under my nails, shadows under my eyes. Most people are terrified of me, even those who work in my home.

The words crawl, bitter, from my throat. “Did she eat?”

The she is upstairs. My hostage. Collateral.

Elena smooths her apron. “ Nyet , Pakhan. I offered many times. She no eat.”

Refused?

Refused food in my home? Under my roof. With a stomach that’s been empty since the morning. White-hot fury tears through me. My boots slam the marble as I take the stairs two at a time.

She wants to play defiant? Fine. Let’s play.

I slam her door open without knocking. She startles violently, jerking up in the bed. A sound catches in her throat. She’s showered, wearing one of the hoodies and a pair of sweatpants Elena must’ve given her. Hair damp. She scrambles back until her spine hits the headboard.

“Eat,” I command.

“I’m not hungry.”

I step forward. She shrinks into herself. Arms pulled tight to her chest.

“Stay back,” she croaks, lifting one trembling hand between us.

I climb onto the bed instead, letting her see there’s nowhere else to go. My hand finds the back of her neck, and her breath stutters.

“No one goes hungry in my home, Ayla,” I growl. “Not even the ones I plan to break.”

“I said I’m not hungry,” she snaps, eyes locked on mine. “And I don’t want your food.”

My gaze drops to her mouth. Pink. Parted. I drag it back up to her eyes. Sharp green, even when filled with fear. My hand tingles where it touches her.

I frown. What the fuck—

I must be allergic to something. Some lotion girls use? Without thinking, I lower my head, pressing my nose close to her neck. I inhale. No perfume. No lotion. Just soap. And something else distinctively hers.

She twists her body sideways, and my grip slips. She ends up half-sprawled on the bed, my body still hovering above her. The tingling stops. I flex my hand, shaking it once. I must be coming down with something. A fever maybe.

I grab her by the wrist, careful to only touch fabric.

“You’ll eat.”

“Let go of me!”

I drag her off the bed, toward the hall.

“You’re insane,” she says, breathless.

She stumbles with every step, trying to keep up. In the dining room, I yank a chair out for her, but she just stands there, glaring.

“Sit.”

She doesn’t move. So I grab her shoulder and shove her down into the chair. Her body tenses like she might launch herself back up, but she doesn’t.

“Elena. Plate.”

Elena places a plate down in front of the girl and disappears without a word.

“I already told you I’m not hungry,” Ayla hisses. And then, right on cue, her stomach growls. I watch her face flush with embarrassment.

Something dark slithers through me. I lean forward, bracing my hands on the table. “You will be eating. If not by choice, then by force. Don’t test me. If I have to shove every bite down your throat myself, I will. It won’t be pretty.”

We stare at each other.

Her jaw clenches. Then she grabs the fork, shoving a bite into her mouth with reluctance. We eat in silence. Just the scrape of cutlery, the tension between us thick and bitter. And then my phone rings. I hit speaker, leaning back with a smile.

"Where is she?!" Ahmet’s voice roars.

Ayla jolts. Her fork slips from her fingers, clattering against the porcelain. It’s as if a ghost crawled through the phone.

She whispers, "Baba..."

I stare into nothing as I answer. "She’s with me," I say, casual, cold. "We’re having a lovely dinner."

"Roman, you sick son of a bitch. If you so much as scratch her—"

"You'll what? Plan another ambush? That went so well for you last time." I laugh.

"She has nothing to do with this."

"Is she not your daughter? The one in my home? At my table? In my clutches?" I taunt. "Humiliating you might be the most satisfying thing I’ve done in years."

"You’ll regret this," he spits.

Click. I kill the call, glancing at her again.

She’s not crying, but her eyes are hollow. She doesn’t move as I walk until I’m behind her. "My threat still stands," I murmur by her ear. "Eat... or my fingers will be down your throat, helping you chew."

She picks up the fork again. Out of pure survival. And I watch.

Always watching.