Page 62 of Beautifully Deranged

My hand grips her hair. “You think you can wear this dress, defy me, sit here all pretty, and not expect consequences?”

“And what consequences would those be?” she teases.

“You’ll be screaming my name so loud, they’ll think I’m fucking killing you.”

Her pupils dilate.Good girl.

“What the fuck is this little stunt, Lola?”

“Stunt? That’s where you still don’t understand, Misha.”

I narrow my eyes. “What the fuck don’t I understand?”

She sets her glass down. “If you want me—really want me—then you take all of me. I don’t hide. I don’t shrink. I fucking shine.”

“And you don’t give a fuck who gets drawn to that light?”

“No.”

“You’re a magnet for trouble.”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re the one stuck to me. And yet,” she breathes, eyes locked on mine, “you think you can keep me in a cage. That’s not how this works, Misha. If you want me, you have to stand beside me, not behind me, trying to pull me into the shadows.”

Blood rushes to my ears. I’m hot all over. “And if the shadows are the only damn thing keeping you safe?”

“Maybe I was never meant to live safe.”

“Don’t say that,” I growl

“What? The truth making your chest tight?”

I could kiss her. Or slam her against this wall. I honestly don’t know which. Probably both. Definitely both. “You’re mine,” I snarl. “And if you think I’m just gonna stand by while you set yourself on fire—”

“Then burn with me.”

God must’ve stitched her together just to wreck me. I’m about to respond when my eyes snag on movement. No. Not movement. A man. Blond. Tall. That fake charm bullshit smeared all over his face. I know that fucker. I’ve seen him.

In her sketchbook.

Everything in me short-circuits. I’m moving before I realize. Only one thought screaming through my skull: tear himapart. Lola’s in front of me before I can reach him, hands on my chest, trying to anchor me.

“Mikhail? What the hell is going on?”

I don’t answer. Can’t. I’m not looking at her. I’m staring straight through her. She turns. Follows my gaze.And fucking beams.

“Misha,” she sings, casual as hell, brushing her dress smooth. “Try not to murder anyone while I’m gone, okay?” She walks off toward him, and I’m three seconds away from losing my fucking mind.

Something inside me combusts. I grab her by the back of the neck and haul her out to the balcony. She stumbles, but she doesn’t resist. Of course she doesn’t. She knows what she’s doing. She’s playing with fire and she likes it.

The night air hits us. Cold, sharp. It doesn’t help. I’m still a furnace. I press her against the railing, my chest flush against her back.

“Who the fuck is he?” My voice isn’t even mine anymore.

She laughs. That soft, wicked laugh that says she knows exactly how far she’s pushing me.

“Oh, Misha...”

“Don’t. Who the fuck is he? Don’t play with me. I saw the sketch.”

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