Page 29 of Beautiful Villain
“And what are the rules?”she asked quietly.
“There are none,” I said.“Until you decide which ones are worth breaking.”
Her pulse jumped.I could see it in her throat.
“What’s in it for you?”she asked.“Because this—” she gestured weakly at the room, the guards, the careful stillness of it all—“you’re not doing this out of kindness.”
I met her gaze and didn’t look away.
“Kindness is a luxury,” I said.“And I don’t deal in luxuries.”
Her expression didn’t change, but something behind her eyes did—like she was bracing for a truth she already knew.
“Bad men can do good things, Mikayla,” I went on.“Because sometimes the right action aligns with their interests.”
She searched my face for the lie.For the crack.For the excuse.She didn’t find one.Because there wasn’t one.Bad men did good things all the time.They just never did them for free.
I pouredmyself a drink I didn’t need and didn’t touch it.The glass sweated in my hand, cold against my palm, anchoring me.Control always began with stillness.With not reacting.
She was already planning her exit.
I saw it in the way she talked aboutdays.Not weeks.Not months.Days—like time was still something she owned, like she could count it out neatly and walk away once it ran out.She didn’t understand that she’d already crossed the point of return.That a man like Archie didn’t forgive.He didn’t cool off.
If Archie Popovich was looking for her, it was for one reason only.
To kill her.
Not out of passion.Not even out of anger.But because after being exposed and embarrassed in public, the only thing that mattered to him was saving face.Men like Archie didn’t reclaim control—they erased the reminder that they’d ever lost it.
I hadn’t lied to her.He would never let this insult or the loss of power go.And he would certainly not let go of the woman who had reminded him—publicly—that he could bleed.
I saw her clearly now, without the rush of adrenaline or the shield of bravado.Injured, but alert.Afraid, but never small.She took up space even when she tried not to—when she believed she shouldn’t.
When I looked at her, I didn’t see a victim.
I saw fire.The kind that caused problems.The kind that made men shift their grip on the world.
I set the untouched glass down and moved to the window, scanning the grounds out of habit.The perimeter lights were steady, the guards in position.Everything was exactly where it belonged and exactly how it should be.
In a day or two, when the swelling faded and the pain dulled, she would try to leave again.I had no doubt she’d smile and thank me for my hospitality as she tried to convince herself she was ready.
I would let her heal, let her believe that the choice was hers.
And when the world outside reminded her how narrow her margin for error truly was, she would stay.
Not because I forced her, but because she’d realize there was no other option to ensure her safety.
I rolled my shoulders once, working out tension I rarely allowed myself to notice.
This was going to be messy.
Personal.
Dangerous in ways I usually avoided—not because I feared them, but because I understood the cost.Personal problems had a way of slipping past rules.They blurred lines and demanded attention at inconvenient moments and refused to stay contained.
But Mikayla.Mikayla was different.
I’d built my life on separation.On distance.On knowing exactly where I ended and everyone else began.People were assets, liabilities, or temporary complications.You handled them accordingly.Cleanly.Without attachment.
