Page 73 of Beautifully Deranged

“You know I’m right,” I say softly.

His nostrils flare. He looks like he wants to throw something. Or punch a wall. Or throw me over his shoulder and lock me away. Instead, he leans down. Close enough that I can feel the heat of him, the pulse behind his restraint.

His voice is almost a growl. “You want this? Then you do it my way. You don’t go anywhere without me. You don’t meet with anyone I don’t approve. I’m stuck to you like your fucking shadow, Lola. I breathe when you breathe. If you’re in, I’m in. But if one drop of blood touches you, I will drown this city for it.”

I nod slowly, eyes on his.

“Deal.”

And there it is.

The moment Roman’s eyes shift. The exact beat I see the smirk drop for something real. It’s what he wanted all along—his brother back in. I’m just a bonus.

“Now that,” Roman murmurs, “changes things.”

?Chapter Thirty four?

Mikhail

We’re sitting around a table in Roman's mansion like this is just another normal day. Like Lola didn’t just claw her way into the underworld and make a fucking throne out of blood and sheer will in under a week. She sits across from me at Roman’s kitchen table, barefoot, legs up on the chair, one hand lazily cradling a coffee mug while she scrolls through files on her phone. She’s glowing. Dangerous. She got what she wanted—a seat at the fucking table.

Obmanshchitsa. The Deceiver. Feminine form. Perfectly fitting. She’s not just forging anymore. She’s rewriting narratives. Fake identities. Faked transactions. Fake lives. And fake deaths, if needed. She was born for this. In a matter of days, she’s turned Roman’s operation into a tighter, cleaner, deadlier machine.

Roman's thrilled. He got me back in, and it came with a bonus—her. I always knew I’d end up back here. No matter how many times I ran, the Bratva was always home. Its rot is stitched into my skin. But something was missing. A hollowness I couldn’t name.

It was her.

She’s the difference between breathing and living. She goes where I go. I go where she does. That’s the deal. We’re a team, by oath and by nature. I function better when she’s within reach. I think clearer. Move faster. Kill smarter. Even if I hate the idea of her being surrounded by this chaos.

I fought her on it. Pushed back. Told her that I bleed so she doesn’t have to.

But Lola's not the type to watch from the sidelines. And deep down, I knew I was already losing that battle. Because she’s already in, whether I like it or not. The Bratva already considers her one of us. And as much as it kills me to admit, I’d rather have her inside, armed and protected, than naive and in the dark. Especially since I plan to marry her. When that happens, with my ring on her finger and my name in her blood, she’ll be involved either way. Bratva rules don’t spare wives. The only thing working in my favor is that she wanted in on her own terms.

She chose the danger. She chose me. And I’ll be damned if I let anyone, even Roman, treat her like anything less than she is. Because if hell is where I belong, then she’ll rule it beside me. And anyone who tries to pull her down? They’ll learn real fast that her man is the danger.

And she’ll have no one but me. Always.

Roman stomps down the stairs like war itself. Slung over his shoulder is a writhing, kicking, cursing mess of limbs—Ayla. He hauls her in like a sack of trouble, fury carved into every muscle of his face. She pounds her fists against his back, clawing, screaming something about human rights.

He drops her onto one of the chairs at the long dining table, her body jolting from the impact.

“You’re eating. Now. Your little hunger strike ends today, princess. This ain’t a protest rally.”

Ayla glares up at him, breathless, tangled hair in her face. But despite the tremble in her hands, she doesn’t cower.

“I’ll eat when I’m home,” she snaps. Her voice is small, but sure. “With my family.”

Goddamn.

Roman doesn’t do guilt. Doesn’t do please or why. If someone isn’t a soldier or a threat, they’re nothing. He doesn’t give a fuck if collateral damage eats, breathes, or rots.

Unless...

Unless it’s not just collateral to him. He’s standing too close. Looking at her too long.

That vein in his neck? That twitch in his jaw? Yeah. That means something.

“Jesus,” Lola mutters beside me, arms crossed, watching the train wreck unfold with a scowl etched into her face.

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