Page 57 of Beautifully Damned (Sinful Fates #2)

AYLA

The second my foot crosses Roman’s threshold, the house exhales around me.

Warmth, smells, movement—life that isn’t mine alone.

Elena bursts forward, arms wrapping me in a hug that tightens until my chest aches.

“Welcome back, Ayla,” she murmurs, voice pressed against my hair. I hold her longer than necessary.

Matvey lingers behind her before giving Roman a one-armed hug. Roman stiffens immediately, jaw tight, fingers tapping his thigh. He isn’t built for this. I bite back a laugh at the way he awkwardly pats Matvey’s back.

Elena turns to him, wrapping him in her small frame.

She scolds him softly in Russian, and he only stands straighter, barely moving.

I know that before me, no one would have dared stand near him without fear.

But I’ve softened him for them, made him human.

Made him reachable. And for that, I am grateful.

Roman isn’t a monster. He carries darkness, trauma, scars from everything he’s endured, but he has a heart. He shields it, keeps it locked, claims no one else can enter—but I see him.

Matvey mutters under his breath, “Welcome back, Mrs. Volkov.”

I frown at the coldness, but the second Roman turns away, Matvey leans slightly forward and whispers, “Missed you, Ayla.”

I laugh, bending over and clutching my stomach. Everyone knows how possessive Roman is of me. Matvey freezes, horror flashing over his face, fingers pressed to his lips, signaling for me to shush. Roman turns back, and Matvey straightens, pretending everything is ordinary.

A boy peeks from behind a wall—the same one who tried to hand me a phone last time. He blows me kisses, then ducks as Roman glances toward him.

This place, these people—they fill a void I didn’t know I carried.

My family gave up on me completely. Every attempt to reach me is another demand, another attempt to rebuild what Roman destroyed, but never to ask about me.

I never understood why my grandmother left for Istanbul years ago, warning that the family here had lost its soul.

She lived out her last days surrounded by relatives in Istanbul, managing the international operations.

She died there, surrounded by them. I understand now.

Our family has not been a family for a long time.

Guilt gnaws at me because I chose this world. I took on more than my share of darkness. But I cling to the thought that I can bend it to something better. I can be the hand that steadies Roman when his wrath blazes too hot.

The truth is that I’m tethered here. We’re all tethered.

No one leaves this life unscathed, unmarked.

And yes, I am in love with the most dangerous man in it.

My love has carved its own edges in me, reshaped my morals, shifted the boundaries I once held sacred.

I am not proud of it, but I am entirely, irrevocably his.

Roman slips behind me, arms wrapping my waist, lips pressing to the back of my neck. He murmurs instructions in Russian to Elena, telling her to move my things to his bedroom.

Elena hums as she skips toward the bedroom, carrying boxes, arranging my life alongside his. I watch her, feeling a strange, grounding sense of belonging. My heart pounds, raw and alive, and for the first time in a long time, the world outside this house fades into insignificance.

I am home. Here, I have a family that accepts me. Here, I have a man I love, dangerously, completely. And even if the darkness lingers, even if I am forever bound to this life, I belong.

After a while, Elena’s hum drifts down the stairs. “Room ready, Ayla,” she calls over her shoulder.

My hand brushes the railing as I climb the stairs, heart pounding. I’ve never been inside Roman’s room before.

I push open the door, and the room smells of him—wood, faint smoke. The bed is wide, sheets dark, inviting. My eyes roam, imagining it softening under us, ours. I think of small touches I could add, a photo of us, something to make this space ours.

I move to the closet. His suits are stamped across every hanger. In the middle, my clothes hang. Mine. Among his. Our lives, tangled, messy, joined. Husband and wife.

Roman leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me. “You look good here, wife,” he says.

“You look good, husband.” The word tastes strange and delicious.

He closes the distance, hands firm on my waist, tilting me toward him. Our lips meet in a searing kiss.

He whispers against me, words catching in his throat, “Thank you… for this. For being mine. For letting me be yours. For teaching me how to love.”

I press my hands to his chest. “You don’t have to thank me,” I murmur. “We… we just are.”

“You’re mine, and I’m yours. You made me human again.”

“I didn’t do anything magical,” I whisper. “I just… loved you. I still do.”

“No, Ayla. You taught me how to breathe. How to feel without breaking. How to exist… for someone else. You’re everything.”