Page 74 of Beautifully Deranged

My girl doesn’t tolerate weakness, in herself or in the men who pretend to be monsters. She’s pissed. And not because Ayla’s resisting, but because Roman’s poking at a girl who still believes in things like kindness and safety.

Ayla probably volunteers at shelters and cries during documentaries. Too bad she was born into a world that bleeds instead of bends.

Roman grabs the plate of untouched food on the table and slams it in front of her. “You’re under my roof. You eat when I say.”

“I’m not your prisoner!”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he growls, leaning down so close she can probably taste the venom in his words, “You’re exactly that.”

Roman’s still standing over her like he wants to shake sense into her—or protect her.

It’s hard to tell with him. He doesn’t love people. He claims them. Buries them in control. Calls it protection. I sip my coffee slowly, meeting his eyes across the table.

“Should’ve just shoved the food down her throat, Roman,” I joke dryly. “You’re losing your edge.”

He flips me off without looking. And I chuckle. Ayla’s eyes go glassy at my words.

“You scared the shit out of her, you brute,” Lola hisses in my ear. I look down at her, brows raised. But she’s not kidding.

Roman’s nostrils flare. He lets out a dark, frustrated growl and drags the chair beside Ayla back with a loud scrape.He grabs the plate he slammed down earlier.What the fuck.He reaches over, cups the back of her head—no, her hair—grips it harshly in one hand, immobilizing her, and starts feeding her. With his other hand. No utensils. Just fingers, bread, and sliced fruit shoved between her lips. And it’s not gentle at all. I’m pretty sure his fingers are reaching the back of her throat.

She just takes it. Swallows. Looks down. Fucking terrified. Lola, mid-bite into her toast, freezes. Her eyes go wide, her mouth still half-open. I stare too, slowly chewing, watching something unfold that I can't make sense of.

This isn’t the Roman I know. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t comfort or hand-feed anyone. He’s violence in a suit. And yet here he is…handling her like he owns her. Maybe, in that twisted brain of his, he thinks he does.

A few minutes pass. Silence. Chewing. Watching. Ayla turns her face, lips pressed tight.

“I’m full,” she mutters. Roman's hand slides out of her hair. His fingers twitch. He glares at her. With two fingers, he jerks his hand toward the stairs.Go.

Ayla bolts. She’s up and off that chair like it burned her, racing up the steps two at a time. Lola leans across and presses a kiss to my cheek.

“I’m going after her,” she says, already sliding from her seat.

Roman doesn’t reply. His eyes are still locked on the stairs, particularly on Ayla’s ass, up until she disappears at the top. Roman rubs a hand down his face, and mutters something under his breath that sounds like a curse or a prayer. I’m not sure what the fuck just happened. But I know one thing for sure. He’s in deeper than he’ll ever admit.

?Chapter Thirty Five?

Lola

If Mikhail hadn’t witnessed the abomination downstairs with me, I would’ve thought I was hallucinating. The big bad Bratva boss, hand-feeding collateral? When I reach the top of these way-too-long stairs, I barge into Ayla’s room without knocking. She’s too skittish to answer anyway. Ayla whips around like she’s ready to scream bloody murder. Her lips part, chest rising fast.

“Roman, leave—” she starts. But the name dies in her throat when she sees me.

“Sorry,” she mutters quickly.

“Does he do that a lot?” I ask, blunt.

“Do what?”

“Barge in like that,” I clarify, jerking my chin toward the door.

Her face turns crimson. “Yes,” she says softly, eyes on the floor.

Huh.

I wonder if there’s more to that answer. Are they sleeping together?

I don’t ask. She’d combust from embarrassment if I did. I cross my arms and lean against the wall. “You okay?”

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