Page 63 of Beautifully Deranged

She stiffens. Mask goes up. That fake cool she pulls on when she feels control slipping through her fingers.“Maybe he saw me back when you didn’t.”

And everything goes black. I grip the railing so hard I might rip it off the wall. Just to stop myself from putting my hands on her. From shaking the smug off her.

She opens her mouth again. Probably to throw another spark. But she stops because she finally notices the storm behind my eyes. If it wasn’t for that murder simmering there, she’d have made sure to choke me on my own jealousy.

“Misha.” Her hands grab my forearm. “He’s a friend. That’s it. Don’t—please don’t hurt him.”

“Did he touch you? Did he fuck you, Lola? Did he put his hands on something that belongs to me?”

“No!” she bites out, eyes blazing. “He didn’t—I wouldn’t—god, look at me.”

So I do.

Because I always do.

Even when I’m losing it. Especially when I’m losing it. And fuck me, she’s beautiful. Even now. Especially now.

“You don’t get to sketch him,” I snap. “You don’t get to pour that energy into another man. You have any idea what that felt like? Seeing his face in your sketchbook? Knowing your hands traced him the way they used to trace me? I’ve been scanning every goddamn face in every goddamn room since that day. Waiting for the moment life throws him in front of me.” My hand slides up to her throat. Just a touch. Not choking. Just claiming. “And now he’s here.”

“Misha, if you’d asked me about the sketch when you found it, I would have—”

“I should snap his fucking neck.” I cut her off.

“No! No, don’t. Only you,” she breathes. “He didn’t touch me. He didn’t even try. You’re it. You’ve always been it.”

And I believe her. Because words can lie. But her body? It’s clinging to me like it knows what’s coming if it doesn’t.

“If I ever catch you making art out of another man again... you won’t be holding a pencil when I’m done with you.”

She lets out a breath. One of those breathless, hot, fucked-up sounds that go straight to my spine.

“Promises, promises.”

?Chapter twenty nine?

Mikhail

Roman is pacing, a cigarette burning between his fingers. His jaw ticks as he mutters, half to himself, half to me. "The fucking audacity of those Turkish bastards," he spits, exhaling smoke through his teeth. Now that the forgery shit isn't hanging over our heads, his focus has turned back to the Turks.

I lean back against the desk, arms crossed. "What are you planning to do?"

"You’ll see."

I narrow my eyes. "When?"

He stubs out the cigarette. "Today."

The room falls silent for a beat, just the distant sound of footsteps and the faint hum of conversation beyond the office walls. Roman never wastes words. Whatever he has planned is already in motion.

I push off the desk. "Fine. Just keep it clean."

"Clean? Brother, you know better."

I leave him to it, my mind elsewhere. I really didn’t want her to come. I told her as much. But Lola had looked me in the eye, standing tall with that fire burning behind her gaze, and said, "I want to be included. You can’t hide me away. I want to know your people."

And then she smirked, a cruel little thing, and added, "Besides, as long as I’m still figuring out how to forgive you, you don’t get to tell me no. Not once."

What she doesn’t know, what I hope she never realizes, is that I can’t imagine telling her no. Ever. I rub my temples as I enter the living room, expecting to find her quietly observing,maybe drinking wine, staying out of trouble. Instead, I’m greeted with a sight so absurd I have to stop and blink. Matvey, one of our deadliest men, a killer who has spilled more blood than most men have in their bodies, is kneeling in front of her while she paints glittery butterflies all over his face.

---