Page 66 of Beautifully Deranged

“You should take a shower,” I suggest. “You’ll feel better.”

She finally glances at me. “I don’t have any clean clothes,” she murmurs.

“I’ll bring you some,” I promise.

Her lips tremble, but she doesn’t cry again. She’s already emptied herself. I can see her steeling herself for something, and a moment later, I find out what.

She opens her mouth, then closes it. Swallows. “Can you help me escape?” she finally whispers, terrified. She’s asking me to choose. Her, or them. Her pain, or the world I stepped into with my eyes open. I knew what I was getting into. I asked for it.So I sit there, silent for too long, and that’s all the answer she needs.

“Coward,” she spits.

If it was anyone other than her, scratch that, even if it was her, but under different circumstances, I would’ve ripped her a new one. But I don’t kick people when they’re already on the ground.

“You’re angry. Good. Stay angry. It’ll keep you sharp,” I say. “But don’t confuse my no with indifference. I’m not throwing you to the wolves.”

Her brows furrow.

“I’ll talk to them,” I tell her. “Find out what the hell they’re planning for you. Try to convince them to let you go.”

She throws herself against me, arms wrapping around my middle. My arms hover before I tap her back, once, twice—awkwardly.

“I’m sorry for calling you a coward,” she whispers. “And thank you.”

“Come on,” I say gently. I guide her to the edge of the bed and sit her down. “I’ll get you some clothes. Give you space to breathe. Just… hold on.”

She nods, biting her lip. I walk to the door, glancing back at her once before slipping out. It’s not the choice she wanted. But it’s the only one I can live with. Nothing and no one comes before Mikhail in my books.

?Chapter Thirty one?

Mikhail

Lola sits in the passenger seat with that scowl that makes my blood heat. Her arms are crossed, legs wrapped in black denim, and her bottom lip is caught between her teeth. Roman had already ghosted by the time she made it downstairs, which pissed her off more than anything. She wanted to talk to him about Ayla, probably to try to convince him to go easy on the girl. But Roman doesn’t do gentle. He was raised on blood and brutality. Anyone soft gets gutted. I know that better than anyone.

Before she even stepped into the car, Lola made me promise: no one touches Ayla for the day. Get her food. Clothes. Let her breathe. Fine. That I could manage. But when Roman walks back through those doors, there’s no saving her. He’ll rip her to pieces with a smile on his face.

I try to change the subject. “My groveling isn’t over yet, is it?”

She clicks her tongue. “Next time you screw up, I’m kicking your ass.”

Fair enough.

***

She drags me to the mall next. Rodeo Drive-level chaos, though we’re not even in L.A. Every store she walks into, she walks out of with something obscene. Balenciaga sunglasses she doesn’t even try on. Alexander McQueen boots. A Gucci handbag she says could double as a weapon. I trail behind her, a black card in my hand and a half-hard cock in my pants just watching her move.

“You’re quiet,” she says, not even turning around as she swipes my card again. Prada this time. “You scared of the bill?”

“I love watching you spend my money. You know that it makes my cock hard.”

Her wicked eyes glint. “Hmm. I’ll buy another pair of shoes, then. Or five. Might even grab something for Ayla.”

“You could burn the whole store down, and I’d pay them double for the ashes.”

She raises a brow. “You’re so desperate to get back in my good graces, it’s embarrassing.”

“It’s not desperation,” I say. “It’s obsession.”

“Same thing.”

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