Page 52 of Beautifully Damned (Sinful Fates #2)

Ayla

The moment the car stops, I’m out of it before the engine settles. My knuckles slam against the Bratva’s door until the wood threatens to splinter. The drive back was torture, every mile an agony. I need to get to him. Now.

The door swings open and I nearly stumble inside.

Matvey stands there, exhaustion etched into his face. When his eyes meet mine, relief floods them, and his arms wrap around me before I can speak. He smells of smoke and metal, of the house that was once my cage and somehow became my home.

“Thank God,” he mutters against my hair.

I let him hold me, just for a heartbeat, then pull away. There’s no time for comfort when Roman is somewhere upstairs, wasting away.

Elena is next, kissing my cheek, her hand slipping into mine. Her fingers squeeze, grounding me as we move deeper inside.

Mikhail has his face buried in his hands, shoulders trembling. When he looks up, his eyes are red. Beside him, Lola hovers, her hand clutching his arm.

A thousand memories strike me at once. Her gun pressed against my temple.

The cold dismissal at her art exhibit that I was dragged to attend only days after the nightmare of a wedding, her refusal to even look at me as though I were beneath her, even though I apologized to her there.

The world fawning over her perfect little fairytale while my own life felt stripped bare.

But the woman who rushes toward me now is not that woman. “Please,” she says, the word distorting her beautiful face. I can tell that she rarely says it. “Please, fix this. Fix him.”

“I’ll try,” I whisper. I don’t know if I can fix whatever Roman has decided to break in himself, but I will tear myself apart trying.

I start toward the stairs, my pulse racing with dread, when her voice calls out again.

“I’m sorry!”

I turn, confused.

“That day… when I pointed the gun at you.” Her hand finds my shoulder.

“I did it because it was the only way I could save Mikhail. I’m sorry you were caught in it, but I’m not sorry for choosing him.

I would do it again. And now it’s your turn,” she says.

“Do everything you can to fix him, Ayla.” A single tear slides down before she wipes it away, almost violently.

Overwhelmed, I nod. Words feel impossible. Elena seizes my hand again and pulls me up the stairs.

Mikhail’s voice echoes after us, cracked and angry. “Why is he doing this? Why does he refuse to eat?”

I don’t stop moving. “Ask him yourself,” I call out.

Elena leads me not to his bedroom, but to mine. My hand hesitates on the door. My chest rises and falls too fast. I whisper a prayer before I push the door open.

Roman sits on the edge of my bed, though he barely looks alive. The man who once filled every room with his presence is shrunken, pale. His body, always carved from stone, has lost lots of its muscle mass. On the nightstand beside him rests a plate with a single piece of toast, untouched.

A sob rips from me before I can swallow it down. I want to be strong, but nothing could have prepared me for this.

This is not my Roman. This is a man unraveling.

And he is unraveling for me.

His eyes land on me, but there is no spark, no anger, no relief. Nothing. It’s as though he’s staring through a ghost.

Elena curses in Russian under her breath. “Fever,” she mutters. “It takes him again.”

“Why is he looking at me like that?”

Her eyes soften. “Ayla, Pakhan sees you every time fever burns him. He thinks you are dream, hallucination. He not believe you are here. He not allows sheets to be changed since you left.”

Every wall I built, every attempt at strength, collapses. Because he isn’t as cruel and untouchable as he wants the world to believe.

I see you, Roman. I see you.

“Elena,” I whisper, “make something for him to eat. Please.”

She nods and disappears quickly, closing the door behind her.

I take slow steps toward him as his gaze follows me. When I touch his forehead, heat radiates against my palm. Sweat dampens his hair, sticking to his temples.

“You feel… more real than usual,” he mutters.

“That’s because I am real, silly man,” I murmur, pushing damp strands of hair away from his face.

He shakes his head. “I’m not falling for that again.” His mouth tugs, almost into a pout.

Flushing, my fingers tremble as I peel his shirt from his overheated skin. He lets me, though his eyes stay locked on my face, unblinking.

“Why are you… undressing me, angel?”

“Angel now?” My voice cracks. “I thought it was little lamb.”

His lips curve weakly. “Angel suits you better.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, face inches from mine. Even tired, he is intimidating.

“Are you real?” His pupils dart back and forth, searching.

“Yes.” I press a trembling kiss against his lips, the faintest touch. “Yes, Roman.”

His arms wrap around me. His grip is iron despite his weakness. “I missed you,” he breathes against my neck. Over and over, the same words. “I missed you. I missed you.”

My chest breaks open. “I missed you too,” I whisper.

“Why are you here?”

“Because you’re not taking care of yourself.”

He scowls, but I slip from his hold gently, coaxing him toward the bathroom. “Come. The fever will cook you alive if we don’t cool it down.”

He follows. The lukewarm water hits his skin and he hisses, but he doesn’t pull away. He only holds tighter, caging me to him. My clothes cling, soaked through, but I don’t care.

“Why?” I whisper under the stream, tears lost in the cascade. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”

“Punishment.” The word is blunt, and at this moment, I don’t think I have ever hated anyone more than I hate Roman’s father. How? How could he starve a child until the scars followed the man too?

“You need to eat, Roman,” I beg.

“How can I eat when I am nothing? Unworthy of you. Not even man enough to kneel at your feet.”

His voice fractures, and so does my heart.

I switch off the water and guide him back. He strips the last of his clothes without shame, but I look away, covering him with the blanket quickly.

When a knock sounds at the door, I open it, taking the food from Elena, thanking her, and closing the door fast, shutting out the world. I place the bowl by the bed. Before I can coax him, I lift the piece of toast that sits untouched and hold it beneath his nose.

“What are you doing?”

“I know the smell comforts you.”

“I tried, after you left. It doesn’t work anymore.”

“Then what does?”

He buries his face in my hair. A groan escapes him, raw, guttural. “You.”

Guilt tears through me. Did I do this to him? I force myself to push him back and raise the spoon. “Eat.”

His lips twist. “I’m not worthy. I should starve. Starve until nothing remains of me.”

I shiver, whether from wet clothes or his words, I don’t know. “No one deserves starvation. Watching you suffer like this—it destroys me. Please, Roman. Eat.”

Something flickers in his eyes. Horror. “It hurts you?”

“It guts me.”

He only eats then. Spoon after spoon, until the bowl of porridge is empty. His fever softens when I touch his forehead again. His eyes grow heavy.

Just before they close, his lips part. “I more than love you… Ayla. Do you love me?”

My truth slips out before I can stop it. “I do.”

And when sleep takes him, body warm and stomach full, I do the only thing I know how.

I run.