Page 31 of Beautifully Deranged

He nods. "Likewise."

I toss a few bills on the bar, nod at the bartender, and walk out. I can feel his eyes on me the whole way until I turn the corner. By the time I get to my room, I already know. If things had been a little different, tonight could’ve gone somewhere else entirely.

?Chapter Fifteen?

Mikhail

I’m calling. Calling. Calling.Her phone is off.The silence eats at me like acid, burning through my ribs, my throat, my mind. I dial again, fingers trembling, jaw locked so tight it’s a wonder my teeth don’t crack.Nothing.

Fuck.

I don’t leave a message. What the hell would I even say? Come back so I can ruin your life all over again?I hurl the phone across the room. Not satisfying. Not even close. I rip the nearest object off the shelf and throw it. The crash barely registers before I’m onto the next. A lamp. A chair. The whiskey decanter. Glass shatters at my feet, but I don’t stop.

I destroy everything in reach— but not the paintings. Never the paintings. The ones she made. The ones I bought because I couldn’t stomach the thought of another man owning them. Even in rage, I make sure her art stays untouched.

She heard me say she was nothing but a fuck. A sound tears from my chest, low, guttural, inhuman. My vision blurs with something red-hot and uncontainable.

I let go.

I drive my fist into the wall. Again. And again. Bone against drywall, until my knuckles split and blood streaks the white paint. A sharp pain shoots up my arm. I barely feel it.

Eleven PM.

She’s not home yet.

A horrible thought slithers in and wraps around my throat. She’s with someone else. Another man’s hands on herbody. Another man’s mouth on her skin. Taking what belongs to me.

I grab the scotch with my bleeding hand, pour, swallow. The burn does nothing. Nothing touches this.

I could call Roman. Tell him to find her. Have eyes on her within the hour. But that’s the problem. Roman doesn’t know how much she means to me. No one does. I spent so long keeping her a secret. Keeping her safe. Safe from the Bratva. Safe from me. This is for the best. She’ll finally be free. Finally be safe. Then why does my body itch to hunt?

Midnight.

Still not here.

I tell myself to let her go, but I don’t sleep. Not a minute. I sit in the wreckage of my apartment, surrounded by the remnants of whatever control I thought I had. The bottle of scotch is empty.

Where is she?

Who the hell is she with?

The thought alone sends a fresh wave of rage barreling through me. She’s mine. Every inch of her, every look, every moan, every thought in that pretty little head—mine. Yet she’s out there, somewhere, slipping through my fingers.

I stare at the clock. The hours crawl. Midnight. Two. Four. Six. My body screams for rest, for relief, but none comes.

I wait. I count the minutes.

Then—eight AM.

The sharp click of heels against pavement. I bolt upright. The sound is lighter than usual. Slower. She must be tired. Of course she is. She’s been out all night. I yank the door open, and there she is, unlocking hers. She doesn’t even glance at me as her door opens.

No.

No. No. No.

I wedge myself in before it can close, slam it shut behind me, and press her against it. Our breaths mix, but hers stays steady. Indifferent. "Where the hell were you?" I snarl.

She exhales, slow and measured, already over this. Over me. My bloody hand presses into her bare arm, staining her perfect skin. She doesn’t flinch. The Lola I knew would’ve grabbed my wrist. She would’ve kissed the wound. She would’ve cared. This Lola? She looks bored. Her eyes flick up to mine, flat and uninterested. “It’s not your business.”

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