Page 6 of Beautifully Damned (Sinful Fates #2)

Ayla

I’ve eaten three times and it’s not even noon.

No one told me being held hostage by a man who makes the devil look underdressed would be this… uneventful. I thought there’d be yelling, threats, a gun to the temple. Maybe a backhand to the face if I got mouthy. But nope.

I swing my feet over the edge of the bed, the mattress creaking under me.

This is what I’ve been doing for hours. Swinging my legs. Pouting into the void. Mentally preparing for a war that still has not started fully.

The only action I’ve had was hearing my father scream over the phone. I shut my eyes for a second.

Baba.

This can’t be good for his heart. He already stresses over everything and anything. Now his daughter’s been snatched from under his nose like a rookie mistake. I hope he isn’t blaming himself. I hope... I hope he’s okay.

And Emir.

God, Emir.

I wanted to rip that phone from Roman’s perfectly scarred, cigar-smelling hand and ask Baba if Emir’s okay. But I didn’t, because I can’t be reckless without consequences. If not for my safety, at least for my dignity.

There’s a small mirror near the closet. I glance at it. Yikes . My skin is a little sallow, and my eyes are puffy. I definitely look like I’ve been rotting in bed.

I grab the black slippers, slide them on, and head for the door. It’s not locked, Roman knows there is no way I could ever run.

I move down the steps slowly, hands brushing against the railing. My steps echo, but no one stops me. Apparently I’m free to roam. Within reason, of course.

I just want to entertain myself. Maybe steal a book. Or find out where they’re hiding the knives. Kidding. Mostly .

The kitchen is warmer than the rest of this huge mansion. Sun spills in through the window, pooling across the tile floor. Something’s simmering on the stove again. I can hear the gentle clink of pots. I tiptoe in, and find the woman who set my plate yesterday, Elena if I’m not mistaken.

“Morning,” I say, hovering near the edge of the doorway.

“Afternoon,” she corrects without looking at me. Her accent is thick—Russian with clipped vowels. “And do not sneak like that. I nearly throw knife.”

“Noted.” I inch in further. “Elena… right?”

She nods, but doesn’t stop working. “ Da .”

“I—uh—I was wondering…” My fingers fidget at my sides. “Can I help with something?”

She turns, eyes narrowed. “Help?”

“Yeah. I’m bored out of my mind. I’ve read the back of the shampoo bottle three times already.”

Elena blinks. “You want to clean?”

“I’ll wash dishes. Chop onions. Anything, Please.”

She looks at me like I just offered to do her taxes for free. After a long pause, she huffs. “Fine. You wash.”

She steps aside, jerking her chin at the sink. “You know how?”

I give her a look. “I’m not completely useless.”

She watches as I grab a plate and start scrubbing. The awkwardness loosens my tongue. “What you’re cooking smells really good,” I offer. “I used to make something kind of like that with my mom, but ours had` mint and lemon. Turkish twist.”

She’s still staring at me like I have two heads. God, Ayla. Shut up. But I don’t. I never do.

“I love cooking,” I add with a shrug. “I mean, not that anyone in the family really cares. I think my Baba’s convinced I’ll chop off my fingers one day, but I haven’t. Yet.”

She goes back to stirring the pot, her face unmoved.

“I used to sneak into the kitchen at night to make baklava,” I blurt out, because my mouth clearly has no brakes. “Burned it so bad once I had to throw out the pan. Cried over that. And then made it again the next night.”

She tuts her tongue at me, and I have no idea if it’s pity or interest. “You talk too much,” she says.

I wince, laughing under my breath. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m chatty. It's a curse.”

“Hmm,” she replies.

I put the last of the dishes to dry, toweling off my hands.

“Surprisingly good… for mafia princess.” She comments on my dish washing skills.

I snort. “Is that a compliment?”

“No,” she deadpans, but there’s a twitch at the corner of her mouth.

I grin and dip my hand into the soapy water, gathering a small blob of foam. Without thinking—completely caught up in the temporary normalcy of it all—I flick it at her.

It lands squarely on her lip. The foam sits there like a ridiculous little Santa Claus beard, and I clamp my mouth shut, trying not to laugh.

Elena stares at me, not even blinking. For the first time, I notice the silver glint of something fastened to her thigh. A gun.

Oh no.

Her expression goes from stunned to unreadable. My heart skips. Did I just make the dumbest mistake of my life?

“Must you be so childish?” she mutters, turning back to the sink.

I open my mouth to apologize, cheeks burning—

Until she turns back around, a wicked glint in her eyes, hand full of foam. She throws it straight at my face. It splats on my cheek, sliding toward my chin. I gasp, and she grins.

“Game on,” I whisper, scooping a fresh handful.

The next few minutes are chaos, foam flying through the air.

There’s laughing, dodging, squealing. At one point I duck behind the counter, shrieking as she chases me around the island, dish towel in one hand, soap in the other.

We’re both breathless, dripping with suds, when she finally calls a truce.

“You crazy girl,” she mutters, wiping her cheek, her once neat ponytail explodes in frizz.

I feel it first. A searing heat licking between my shoulder blades.

I turn, slowly, almost hoping I’m wrong.

I’m not. Roman is there, standing in the doorway like he’s been there for a while.

Elena stiffens beside me, startled, the cloth slipping from her fingers and landing in the sink.

She smooths her apron, trying to pull herself together.

But he’s not even looking at her. His eyes haven’t moved once. They’re on me. Watching. Unblinking.

Great .