Page 46 of Beautifully Deranged

She tilts her head at me. “Am I?”

I lean in, voice low enough for only her to hear. “You already have.”

She rolls her eyes at me. The waiter approaches, and my eyes rake over him. Ever since I saw that damn drawing, the one she left behind, I’ve been watching. Hunting. My gaze roams over every man I see, searching for the one she sketched.

Maybe it’s him. Maybe fate handed me a gift tonight, placing him right in front of me so I can teach him exactly what it means to intrigue my woman. The waiter stops at the table, pen poised over his notepad.

Lola orders something light. I order steak, bloody. Roman orders whatever the fuck he orders. I barely register it. My eyes are locked on the waiter’s face, scouring every angle, looking for something familiar, something telling.

But there’s nothing.

Not him.

The waiter scribbles something, then moves along, and I force my hands to unclench from the edge of the table.

“So,” Roman muses, far too casual. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Dangerous,” Lola murmurs, tipping her glass to her lips.

“You’re an amazing artist.”

“You’ve mentioned.”

His fingers tap against the rim of his glass. “It’s a waste.”

“Excuse me?” Lola mutters.

“Your skill,” he clarifies. “Your mind. You could recreate things. Things people would pay a fortune for. Things that would change the—”

“No.” I spit.” This is a dinner, not a fucking recruitment meeting.”

“I’m just saying—”

“No. She’s not interested.”

Lola says nothing, but she’s shifting in her seat, clearly uncomfortable.

“He doesn’t know, does he?” Roman muses.

I don’t like the way her breath catches, or the way she pales.

“How you lived in the darkness long before he came into your life,” Roman continues.

Lola flusters. That’s fucking enough. “It’s either you quiet down,” I say, voice low, dark, warning, “or we leave.”

“Fine,” he shrugs, appeasing me. “We’ll talk about something else.”

I reach under the table, letting my fingers graze over hers, grounding her. She flinches but doesn’t pull away. Roman struck a nerve. I don’t know what it is. But I will.

The waiter sets down our plates. We start eating in silence, the clinking of cutlery filling the space between us. For a moment, things feel normal. I shatter the illusion. “You remember that day?” I try to remember the speech I spent the whole day memorizing. “That day,” I murmur, “when you overheard me on the phone?”

“I was talking with him.” I jerk my chin toward Roman. “I told him things,” I continue. “Things that weren’t true. Things that made you believe you were nothing more than convenience to me. I owe it to you to clear up those lies. Right to the person I said them to.”

Roman raises a brow, clearly enjoying this far too much. I ignore him. My eyes are locked on Lola. “You’re everything to me. I apologize for making you think otherwise. You were never some convenient fucking arrangement. You were never just an easy fit for my life. You are—” I shake my head. “You are the only thing I want.”

Roman snorts. “Jesus Christ.”

My pride hurts, but this is what she needs to rebuild hers. “Your work is exceptional,” I tell her. “You are exceptional. And I—I was a coward. I fucked up because I was scared.” I gritmy teeth. “Scared that being with me, being associated with me, would put you in danger. That my world, my name, the Bratva… that it would take you from me. But make no fucking mistake. Anyone who so much as looks at you wrong will be dismantled. Piece by fucking piece. I can’t let you go. I pulled you into this world because I’m selfish. Because I don’t give a fuck about morality or redemption or what’s right. I only give a fuck about you. You want to be free of me?” I smile, sharp and humorless. “Too fucking bad.”

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