Page 39 of Beautifully Deranged

He grins, tongue swiping at the blood. “What line? Telling her the truth? You mad because she’s not your little secret anymore?”

My second punch lands harder. He stumbles this time, catches himself against the wall, still smiling like it’s a goddamn joke. “I never meant for it to go that far,” I grind out. “I was trying to keep her safe. From this. From you. From me.”

“That’s cute. Didn’t know you were such a coward. Hiding her away like she’s fragile. You think that makes you noble? Or is it that you don’t believe you can actually protect her?”

I shove him back against the wall, hard. I Grab the front of his shirt and hold him there. “You know I can.”

“Then what are you doing?” His smirk is gone now. “Why lie to her? Why pretend she’s not already neck-deep in this shit?”

“She’s not.”

“She is,” he fires back. “Long before you ever touched her. And the fact that you don’t see it? That’s the problem.”

I want to tell him he’s wrong, but the words don’t come. Because part of me knows he’s not.

“We need her.” He grumbles.

“No.”

“She’s good. And with how into you she is? She won’t talk.”

I lunge, but he catches my wrist. Doesn’t matter. I twist out of his grip. “This doesn’t touch her,” I snap. “She doesn’t get dragged into this filth. Not for any of us.”

He goes still, watching me like he’s trying to decide whether I’m insane or just stupid. He lets out this breath that sounds like it’s been sitting in his chest for years. “You’d pick her over me, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Without thinking twice.”

Over him. Over myself. Over the Bratva.

He laughs, bitter and dry. Slams his fist into the desk, which groans under the hit. He leans on it, head low, shaking it once. “Then go fix it,” he mutters. “Win my future sister in law back.”

We lock eyes, and there’s this moment where neither of us says a thing. The kind of moment that says more than a dozenconversations ever could. He pulls me into this rough, one-armed hug. A subtle brotherly congratulations.

?Chapter Nineteen?

Lola

I wake up, and for a second, I’m not even sure Iamawake. My apartment looks like someone murdered a florist in here. Blood-red petals everywhere, on the floor, the bed, climbing up the sheets like they’re trying to bury me. I sit up slowly, my fingers bunching the fabric. What the actual fuck?

Swinging my legs over the side, I push through the mess, petals sticking to my skin. I spot Mikhail standing on the balcony, leaning on the rail, bare-chested and cocky as hell. Just boxer briefs and ink. Morning light hits him just right, like he’s been carved out of obsession and bad decisions. The universe is trying to make a painting out of him to taunt me.

Of course. Of fucking course.

“You’re awake,” he says. His voice sounds like he smoked the night instead of sleeping it.

I cross my arms. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He smiles, and it makes me want to punch him and fuck him in the same breath. “You really asking me that?”

“How did you even get in?” I snap. Stupid question. Because we both know I’ve broken into his world more times than I can count. I’ve stalked, slipped in through shadows, pushed past boundaries like they didn’t exist. Me calling him out is a joke.

He closes the gap between us, but he doesn’t touch me. He fills the air, makes it harder to breathe. One of his tattoos catches my eye. It looks red. I squint to analyze it, and my mouth drops open when I see my name inked right across his chest.

“You’re out of your goddamn mind!”

“You’re just figuring that out?”

I want to touch it. I hate that I want to. My arms fold tighter, locking my body in place. “You could tattoo my name in all the languages in the world, and I still wouldn’t forgive you.”

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