Page 54 of Beautifully Damned (Sinful Fates #2)

Ayla

When I left yesterday, I told myself it was over. Despite how disappointed the Bratva was, I needed space. Distance.

But when I unlock my front door the next morning, a heavy body slumps forward, falling past the frame and into my hallway.

Roman’s curled on my doorstep, his face gaunt, his shoulders slouched against the wood. His eyes peel open, red-rimmed and heavy with exhaustion.

“Roman.” My voice cracks. “What are you doing here?”

He rubs a hand over his face, groggy from the abrupt wake-up. “I missed you.”

I press a hand against his arm to steady him. “You need to go back. They need you.”

He takes my hand before I can pull it away, turns it, and presses his mouth to the inside of my wrist. His eyes flick up, dark and almost boyish. “Not even a little excited to see me?”

He’s dangerous when he’s brutal, but his tenderness is what I can never defend myself against.

“I am happy to see you,” I admit. “But you know we need space.”

“No more space. No more distance.”

I open my mouth to argue, but then it hits me—he may not have eaten.

“Roman. Have you eaten?”

He shakes his head, and worry digs deep into my gut. I check the clock, noting that I’m late. Screw it, class can wait.

“Come inside.” I lead him by the hand toward the kitchen. His gaze drags through the space, and shame streaks through me. It’s my first place alone, and it’s an absolute mess.

I cook fast, scraping together eggs. I set the plate in front of him, and his eyes flick from the food to me.

“Did you eat?” he asks.

“Yes.” I lie.

He picks up the fork, playing with it, not really eating.

My pulse ticks hard. “Why aren’t you eating?”

“Feed me?”

The words should feel childish, but they don’t. They’re broken. A plea. He wants to eat, but he just can’t make himself. He’s still caught in that noose his father carved into him.

Rage simmers beneath my ribs. If I could build a time machine, I’d go back and slit his father’s throat myself.

I’d starve him, beat him, cage him, make him feel what Roman felt.

I always thought revenge was petty—that leaving it to God and karma was the best thing to do, that they were the best at revenge.

But with Roman’s father, I can’t help my murderous thoughts.

Old Ayla would insist I need an exorcism, and maybe she’s right. Roman’s demons haunt me now too.

I take the fork, cut the eggs, and lift them to his mouth. He eats, never looking away from me. When the plate is clean, I set it aside and press a kiss to his cheek before I can stop myself. That small, fast kiss betrays the love festering inside me. He closes his eyes, as if to relish it.

“I need to go to class,” I whisper.

His jaw tightens, fists clenching then relaxing, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he takes my hand and walks me to the door.

“Take care, Ayla,” he murmurs. “I’ll be waiting here.”

My teeth dig into my cheek until I taste iron. I nod, step out, and force myself to walk toward campus. Every step feels heavy with the eyes of his men trailing me, invisible but everywhere. Just like always.

Five minutes into my lecture, I realize I haven’t absorbed a single word. I can’t focus on anything other than the man waiting for me.

When classes finally end, I don’t linger. I gather my things, my heart already sprinting ahead of me, wondering if Roman stayed and what he’s doing now.

When my feet cross the threshold, it’s like a brand-new house.

I left it in disarray, but the air greets me with the scent of garlic butter and seared meat.

The floor gleams. Every trace of disorder has been erased.

I take off my shoes and walk into the kitchen to find Roman standing at the stove, sleeves rolled, plating steak and potatoes.

“You’re back,” he says with a smile. He pulls me into his chest, and his mouth claims mine before I can speak. The kiss is demanding. Though I don’t push him away, I don’t kiss him back either. I’m caught in the middle—drawn, resisting, bleeding into him all at once.

When he finally pulls back, my breath stumbles out in a ragged rush.

“You cleaned? Cooked?” I ask.

“Yes.” He guides me to a chair.

He sets the plate before me, and I shove food into my mouth too fast. I hope the distraction will anchor me against the surge of emotion clawing at my chest.

Roman Volkov, the man who once destroyed me, is now cleaning my floors and cooking my meals. My brain warns me this is dangerous, but my heart doesn’t listen. It’s already back in his hands, fragile and stupid.

He watches me more than his plate. “Do you think you’ll ever forgive me?”

The question lodges in my throat. I choke on steak, reach for water, and gulp it down.

Apologies. Gifts. Humiliation in front of men who’d kill for his respect. His childhood bared open before me. His body punished, starved, broken down—all for me.

If I’m honest, I already forgave him. Against my will, against my pride. My silence stretches too long. Roman stands, then lowers himself to his knees. Not satisfied, he falls forward onto his hands and crawls the short distance across the floor until he reaches me.

When his forehead drops against my thigh, his voice is a hoarse prayer. “I know I shattered your pride and crushed your heart. And I’m so sorry. But you told me you love me—that means you gave me your heart again. So what’s left is pride. Break mine like I broke yours, angel.”

“What?” The word scrapes out, horrified, because he has found the exact wound I couldn’t name myself.

“Kick me. Hit me. Spit in my face. Tear me down until I have nothing. Then watch me crawl back to you and rebuild myself at your feet. Do it, Ayla.”

I drop down beside him, my hands gripping his face hard enough to force him to meet my eyes.

“No,” I whisper. “No, Roman. That isn’t love. Love doesn’t mean violence.”

“Then teach me how it exists, Ayla. Please. Tell me what you want me to do—other than leaving you, because that will never happen—and I will do it.”

“I want you to stop.” The words rip out of me. “Stop starving yourself. Stop tearing your body apart. Stop hurting yourself for me.”

“If that’s what you want, that’s what I’ll do.”

Relief buckles through me. “Good.”

“But answer me, Ayla. Tell me what it will take for you to forgive me. Do you want me to give your family my men, my weapons, my empire? Do you want me humiliated again in the underground, crawling through blood for you? Tell me, and it’s yours.”

“No!” My scream shatters the quiet. “I would never ask that.” I already see myself as theirs. Not just his, but all of them. The Volkovs. Their fate is tangled with mine now. Giving their resources to my family—their ruin on a silver platter—isn’t what I want. At all.

“Then what do you need from me? Tell me, angel. I’ll give you anything.”

The truth is terrifying to speak aloud, but it needs to be said. “Just… keep showing me that you love me,” I whisper.

Because I still have my doubts, because I’m scared to believe. Because I need more. I’m a woman scorned, learning how to trust again.

His eyes fill with something I’ve never seen in him—hope. Pure and terrible. “I will.”