Page 64 of Beautifully Deranged

What the actual hell?

Sergei is beside her, holding up tiny jars of paint, laughing his ass off. In the meantime, he’s also ruining Roman’s white couch with streaks of pink and gold, but neither of them seem to give a shit. Lola, my little menace, looks up at me with a wicked smile, brush poised mid-air. "Oh hey, Misha. Did you and Roman finish plotting your crimes?"

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Sergei is nearly doubled over, laughing like a damn lunatic as he watches Lola swipe another streak of shimmery purple across Matvey’s cheek. "You should’ve seen this guy," he chokes out between laughs. "Dead serious. Said his little girl is turning two today, and her mom planned a party. He figured she'd love seeing him covered in butterflies."

Matvey shrugs, unbothered. "She loves butterflies."

Lola grins, dipping her brush into more glitter. "She has great taste."

She looks so pleased with herself, and Matvey... well, the poor bastard is taking it like a soldier.

"She told me she’s the one who did your tattoo. Don’t let the men hear that. They’ll be lining up for tattoos next." Matvey says.

"Like hell they will," I snarl. "My girl isn’t touching them with a five-foot pole."

Sergei snorts, shaking his head. "Calm down, beast."

Lola's lips curl because, she loves seeing me stew in my own jealousy.

Suddenly, shit hits the fan, loud and fast. Chaos rips through the room. Screaming. The sound is sharp enough to slice through the easy banter. The laughter dies instantly. Two of our men stalk in, dragging someone between them. A girl. Young, maybe twenty-three. Her dark blonde hair flies around as she thrashes, her wails bouncing off the walls, shrill and panicked.

I recognize her instantly. Ayla Aslan. The daughter of Ahmet Aslan, the head of the Turkish mafia.

Roman wants this war to be bloody.

Lola shoves off the couch, eyes flashing. "What the hell? Let her go!"

I grab her waist, yanking her into me. My lips brush her ear. "Be quiet, sweetheart."

She stiffens. For now.

Roman prowls in. A beast stepping into the light. Ayla stops struggling when she sees him. Her breath stutters, her terror radiating off her in waves. She tries to back up, but the men hold her firm. Roman watches her, waiting for her to break first.

"You’re making a mistake," she finally chokes out, her voice shaking. "My father—"

"Your father is a dead man walking," Roman says, his tone calm. Matter-of-fact. Like he’s discussing the weather. "And you, little lamb, are the first sacrifice."

Her face drains of color. "P-please—"

Roman grips her chin, forcing her face up so that she looks at him. "Begging already?" He tsks, amused. "I expected more fight from a lion’s cub."

She’s terrified.

Poor thing.

Roman puts his lips by her ear. "Welcome to hell, Ayla. You’re mine now."

He cuts off her wailing with a sharp command. "Go upstairs. The bedroom on the left is yours."

The men let her go.

Ayla stumbles, her knees hitting the floor hard. A choked sob rips from her throat, her long hair falling forward, shielding her face. Lola jerks against my hold, trying to break free, but I tighten my grip. "Stay put," I murmur. I hate that she has to see this. The ugliness. The cruelty. It was always inevitable. Sooner or later, she was going to see how far we go. And as much as I want to shield her from it, I know one thing for sure—I can’t. Her entire body vibrates with tension, but I don’t let go.

Ayla pushes herself up, her legs shaking so badly she nearly collapses again. She’s too thin. Fragile. It’s delusional she thought she could break out of the hold of our men.

"I want to go home!" she screams.

Roman’s patience is razor-thin. "You have two choices, sweetheart," he murmurs. "You go upstairs on your own, or I carry you there myself. And if I do, you won’t be in that room alone."

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