Page 65 of Beautifully Deranged

Ayla turns so fast she nearly trips over her own feet as she rushes up the stairs. The second she disappears, Lola whirls on me, eyes blazing. "What the fuck?"

I flick a finger. Without hesitation, Matvey and Sergei slip out of the room. Lola bulldozes toward the stairs, but Roman moves faster, blocking her way, his hand pressing lightly against her shoulder. The touch is almost gentle. It’s the only reason I don’t go berserk.

"You don’t have my permission to go to her," Roman says smoothly.

Lola doesn’t back down. If anything, her fury burns brighter. "There’s a girl up there who looks barely legal, alone and terrified, and you think I give a damn about your permission?"

Roman’s expression doesn’t change. "She’ll adjust. This is not your concern."

"Not my concern?" She’s exasperated. "You don’t get to decide that."

For the first time in his life, someone tells Roman no and doesn’t end up with a bullet between their eyes.

Because it’s Lola.

His future sister-in-law.

He knows he has to tolerate her defiance.

She turns, heading for the stairs, but she pauses at the bottom. "Pakhan," she mocks, voice dripping venom. "Bedroom on the left, right?"

"You brought us a fucking headache, Mikhail," Roman groans.

?Chapter thirty?

Lola

I take the stairs quickly. My hand hesitates at the door before I knock, soft and unsure. There's no answer. Just sobs. Deep, broken, and coming from the gut. I bite the inside of my cheek. I knock again. Nothing. Just more of those cries. I decide to turn the knob and push the door open.

She’s in the corner, hunched over. Her hair is long and wild, draped over her like a curtain trying to hide her from the world. She looks like a sad mop, I think bitterly, except mops don’t sound like they’re dying.

My scowl deepens. This is what I hate. The strong trampling the weak because they can. Because no one tells them no. Because they think money and fear make them untouchable. And people like her? Just collateral damage. But here’s the thing: I agreed to this. I told Mikhail I could handle his world. That I wanted in. But watching her break, all I can think is: does being part of this mean I’m supposed to look the other way?

I’m not going to act like I’m better than Roman or the rest of them. I’m not. I’m carved from the same rot, just wearing a prettier face. I’m selfish. Lowkey psychotic, depending on who you ask. I manipulate. I lie. I play games most people wouldn’t survive. But I’ve got one rule: I don’t break people who haven’t earned it. I don’t cut where there’s no wound.

And this girl? Sitting there like roadkill in a dress? I don’t know what she did to end up in this mess, but I can’t convince myself she deserves what’s probably waiting for her.

I sink to the floor beside her, cross-legged, not touching. Her sobs don’t stop. They pour out of her like a wound that won’t clot. Me, with my bloody moral compass spinning out of control. And her—just dragged into the lion’s den, helpless and bleeding. Roman’s mansion is no place for her. Mikhail might know how to smile and seduce and distract, but Roman? He doesn’t hide the monster. He flaunts it.

I glance over, speaking low. “What’s your name?”

Her whole body stays curled in on itself, she’s hoping if she’s small enough, she’ll disappear.

I sit with her anyway. My fingernails scrape against my palm, trying to quiet the war in my chest.

This is betrayal. Maybe not yet. But close. One wrong move, and I’m choosing her over Mikhail. And even though I’m still pissed at him, I don’t think I’m capable of choosing anyone over him.

Then, she speaks. “Ayla.”

I nod, even though she doesn’t see it.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Ayla.”

Her breathing is erratic, shallow.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” I say. “I know you’re scared. You should be. But not of me.”

She’s filthy. Dirt streaks down her arms, and there’s some bruising along her wrists. Her dress, if you can even call it that, is torn and wrinkled.

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