Page 9 of Beautifully Damned (Sinful Fates #2)

Roman

The Pakhan of the Bratva does not leave urgent calls and unfinished files to storm into the garden because his hostage has her fingers on one of his men’s cheeks.

He does not crowd her like a madman. He does not let her distract him.

He does not allow himself to get pulled into a fountain like a fool with no self-restraint.

And if any of that did happen, it would have ended with a bullet between her pretty eyes. Not with him letting her splash him like a child, not with chasing her in circles, and definitely not with him getting hard in the middle of it all.

But I’m still holding her wrists, pressing into her, both of us soaked and breathless. Her face is red. So is mine. For different reasons; she is shy, while I’m raging.

What the fuck is this?

I let her go like her skin burns me, because it fucking does. Those fucking tingles won’t go away. She scrambles out of the fountain, gripping her back with a low groan. She limps up the garden path, cursing under her breath.

Rage doesn’t leave me as I rise from that damn fountain. I follow after her with menacing steps, grab her waist, and throw her over my shoulder.

“What are you doing?” she shrieks, pounding her fists against me.

“You injured yourself,” I bite out. “Because you can’t stop acting like a damn child. So now you get treated like one!”

"Put me down, you psycho!" she screams.

I carry her through the garden like a man possessed. The Bratva Pakhan doesn’t carry women. He drags them. Commands them. Leaves their bodies behind. But yet, here I am, carrying her because she’s in pain.

Matvey stands by the door with another guard. They avert their gazes, but their jaws hang wide open. Elena takes one look at me—soaked and livid—before her hands retreat behind her apron.

I take the stairs two at a time with her dangling off my shoulder. What the fuck am I doing? This isn’t me. I don’t chase girls into fountains. I don’t give a fuck if they’re limping or bleeding or crying.

I kick open the guestroom’s door and toss her onto the bed. She bounces, glares, tries to sit up, but her hand goes straight to her spine again.

My jaw ticks.

“You started it,” she huffs.

“I started it? You pulled me into a fucking fountain.”

“Because you made me fall in,” she fires back. “If you hadn’t crowded me like a damn bear—”

“You dragged me in.”

“You tripped me!”

“You splashed me.”

“You deserved it!”

I step forward. She shuts her mouth instantly.

“You’re lucky I haven’t thrown you in the basement yet.”

She rolls her eyes, but I see how tightly her fingers grip the comforter. No matter how strong she pretends she is, she’s still scared. And she should be. “Then why haven’t you?” she asks.

I don’t fucking know, and I leave before I say something I’ll regret.

The second I slam the door to her room, I go straight to my office. I shove a stack of folders off my desk. They crash to the floor, spilling open. I knock over the decanter next, amber liquid spilling over the edge.

I breathe. Try to breathe.

It doesn’t help.

That girl.

That fucking girl.

Touching my men. Smiling at them. Splashing me. I press my fingers to my throbbing temple, bracing my arms onto the desk. I need to get her out of my system.

Instead, and without thinking, I bark, “Elena.”

The door creaks open. She peeks in, eyes wide. The damage in the room speaks for itself. She wrings her hands in front of her apron and bows her head slightly.

“ Da … Pakhan?”

“Go upstairs. To the girl’s room,” I hiss. “Check her back. See if she hurt herself when she fell.”

“I… Yes, Pakhan.”

“If she’s bruised, put something on it. Cream. Ice. Whatever you need.”

“Of course.”

“And don’t speak to her. Just do your job and leave.”

Elena nods, face pale. “Yes, Pakhan.”

The door shuts behind her. I stand there, staring at the mess I’ve made. At the spilled liquor. The scattered files. The shards of what little control I had left.

I. Fucking. Hate. Her.