Page 36 of Beautifully Deranged

My stomach drops.He knows what I’ve done.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie.

He hums like he’s willing to let it slide. He’s not calling me on my bullshit, yet.

“Why the hell would I agree to this?” I yell, my patience fraying.

“Because if you don’t, we all get into trouble.” He pauses. “Your precious Mikhail included.”

“Why would I care?” I sneer. “He was nothing more than a convenient fuck.” Even I’m impressed by how easily that lie slips from my lips.

“You think I don’t know my brother? He never looks at the same woman twice. But you? You’ve ensnared him. He’s drowning in you.”

I don’t believe him.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he murmurs. “So I might as well say it now, welcome to the family. And don’t get me wrong,” he sighs. “I’m not exactly happy about this arrangement.”

I arch a brow.

“Women make men sloppy. And I don’t like sloppy.”

“Then you should’ve told Mikhail to keep it in his pants.”

“Like I said, it’s a lost cause. My brother’s already set his eyes on you. And when Mikhail wants something…” He shrugs. “He doesn’t let go. So don’t fight this. Don’t fight him.” Why does it sound like a threat?

“Accept his apology, Lola.”

“I’m not accepting shit.”

“Then he’ll show you.” That aura of darkness around him is something else entirely. “He’ll show you how your version of obsessed is child’s play.”

A shiver runs down my spine, but I keep my expression blank. And before he turns to leave: “You, Lola, will be the reason why Mikhail returns to us.”

?Chapter Seventeen?

Mikhail

I don’t know when exactly I lost my mind. Maybe it was the first time she snuck into my apartment. Maybe it was the first time we kissed. Or maybe it was after she left me. Maybe that was the moment I snapped. Now, there’s something inside me, something vile, something starving. It sits in my chest, whispering in her voice, mocking and taunting, always out of reach.Do something. Get her back.

She left her apartment again this morning. I should be at work. Instead, I’m here, pacing through my place like a fucking caged animal. My skin burns, my head feels like it’s splitting open. My body aches like I’m dying. Lara stopped by yesterday. She cleaned up the wreckage, swept away the shards of my TV, the broken glass from the whiskey bottle I shattered. She even wiped my blood from the wall where I punched it.

I was a fool. I thought I could have her like this, my lover in the dark, tangled in my sheets, but to the world, she’d be nothing. A convenient escape. I convinced myself I could keep her at arm’s length, close enough to taste, never close enough to lose. I thought I could let her go.

She didn’t want just my body. She wanted all of me. The parts I don’t give. The pieces no one gets to hold. And I gave her scraps, expecting her to stay. I pushed her away, thinking distance would protect her. Believing I could survive without her.

I was wrong. There is no life where I let her go. No reality where she walks away from me and keeps walking. I will drag her back,kicking and screaming if I have to. She’ll hate me. She’ll curse me. And she will be mine.

She thinks I can’t protect her. That I can’t keep her. Just the thought makes me see red. I did all of this for her. I kept my distance to keep her safe. But that space is killing me. And no matter what it takes, I will have her again. I can’t take it anymore. I need something of hers. Anything. Her scent, her space, a trace of her touch left behind in something she forgot.

I make it out of my apartment before reason can catch up. It’s pathetic, this sickness inside me, this fever only she can break. Her door appears in front of me before I even realize I’m moving. I drag my fingers over the lock, feeling the cold bite of metal under my skin. A locked door won’t stop me.

I pick it easily and slip inside. Her apartment is neat. Nothing out of place. Everything arranged with care. I spot the canvases, lined against the walls and propped on easels. Sunsets. Sunrises. Vast skies over empty fields. She doesn’t usually paint like this. Not this many. Not these kinds of views. These are commissions, aren’t they? Her way of drowning in work. Of forgetting.

She will never forget me. I swear it.

The scent of her is everywhere, filling my lungs. I close my eyes and inhale, slow and deep, letting her consume me. My hands tremble at my sides as I move, my body running on autopilot.

I’m drawn to her bed. It’s the only thing left untouched. Unmade. The sheets are tangled, like she tossed and turned all night, unable to sleep.

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