Page 80 of Beautifully Deranged

From the corner of my eye, I catch Ayla.

She’s slumped in a chair, looking miserable as hell, toying with her wedding ring.Yes, wedding ring.Roman forced her to marry him. Not out of love—though, let’s not kid ourselves, thefeelings are there, simmering just beneath the surface. No, the marriage was a chess move. A brutal one.

He married her to strike back at the Turks.

The ceremony was more humiliation than celebration. When they served him the traditional salted coffee, a Turkish custom to test the groom, he spat it out. She didn’t wear the red ribbon around her waist either. That ribbon means purity. She walked in without it, and everyone knew exactly what that meant. It was hard to watch.

But that’s how Roman plays the game. The Turks had been planning to marry her off to a Moroccan connection to secure their weapons supply. That marriage was the key to their alliance. And with Roman?Gone. Poof.No wedding, no alliance. The Moroccans pulled out. No weapons, no leverage. A big, messy, humiliating, public fuck-you. Ayla was the sacrifice. I held that grudge against her for a long time. Longer than I probably should have.

Ayla’s family nearly cost me my man, and I wasn’t about to let that slide. I’m not wired that way. But here’s the thing about Ayla—you can’t hate her. Trust me, I tried. She’s just... infuriatingly sweet. She even apologized to me after I dragged her by the hair and used her as a human shield when things went down. Not my proudest moment. Not my worst either. And fuck, if that didn’t physically stop me from being cruel to her.

Roman is struggling, pretending he doesn’t feel everything she does. His eyes follow her constantly, never straying far. Yeah. He’s in trouble. Deep.

I feel him before I see him. Mikhailhas always had this presence, like gravity bending just slightly whenever he walks closer to me. My body reacts before my mind does. He slides up beside me and slips his hand around my waist.

“You’ve been avoiding me all night?” he grumbles.

I have. I love making him crazy sometimes. Sue me. “You looked busy brooding in that corner,” I tease. “Didn’t want to interrupt your villain origin story.”

He huffs out a laugh. “You’re lucky I love your mouth.”

“You love my everything.”

“I do,” he says simply, turning me toward him. “Especially in this dress. Did you wear it for me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You wore red. That’s my favorite.”

“It’s everyone’s favorite,” I smirk. “Doesn’t mean it’s for you.”

“Lola,” he murmurs, voice dipping lower, heavier, “everything about you is for me.”

“You gonna behave tonight, or are you planning to fight someone who stares too long again?”

“Depends. You gonna let anyone stare too long?”

I roll my eyes. He leans his forehead against mine, and for a moment, the whole gallery fades out.

“This place is full of your soul,” he says, softer now. “You’ve built your world, Lola. And somehow, you let me stay in it.”

I take a breath, trying to play it cool, but my throat’s tight. “Well... you’ve been decent lately.”

“Decent?” He pulls back just enough to raise a brow. “I’ve got your name in every language burned into my skin, woman. Almost all your paintings are inked on me the second you’re done with them.”

I bite my lip to trap my laugh. When we were still fighting, I told him he could tattoo my name in every language on his skin and I still wouldn’t forgive him. He took that personally. God, teasing him is my favorite hobby. I’m obsessed with this man—today, tomorrow, and forever.

“I don’t want to do any of this without you anymore, Lola. Not one thing. The good or the bad. I can’t even remember how I lived when we weren’t glued to each other,” he says.

It’s the same for me. He completes me.

“I was gonna do this when we got home,” he adds, fumbling in his jacket. “But then I saw you across the room and I couldn’t breathe right. So... screw planning.”

He pulls out a box and opens it. Inside is the most ridiculous, gorgeous ring I’ve ever seen. He gets on one knee. The women stare, envy sharp in their eyes. The men pretend not to look. In this world, kneeling for a woman is weakness. But Mikhail doesn't care.

“I want you with me. For the rest of whatever we have,” he tells me. “Will you marry me? I wanted to ask you surrounded by everything you’ve built. Everything that’s yours. Because I want to be one of the things that’s yours too.”

He’s mine. No one else’s. Always. My chaotic, infuriating, beautiful man. All raw edge and soft center.

“Yes. A million times yes.”

He slips the ring onto my finger, hands a little shaky, mouth pressed to my cheek, and for the first time in a long, long time, I feel like I’m home.