Page 111 of Dirty Damage

She pats my cheek, leaving a dusty handprint. “Of course, dear. I’m just glad I could see one of my kids settled and happy. Ollie deserves that.”

One of her kids. Not Oksana’s son. Not the Beast. Just…Ollie.

The image of young Oleg, before the scars and the reputation, is bewildering. What happened to that boy? Where did he go?

“These pelmeni,” Nanna explains as she shows me how to fold the dough around the meat filling, “were his absolute favorite. He’d beg for them two, three times a week.” Her fingers move with practiced grace, creating perfect little dumplings while mine look like they’ve been mangled by a drunk toddler. “Make these for him, my dear, and he’ll never let you go.”

I laugh, but something twists in my chest. A foreign ache.

Like homesickness for a place I’ve never been.

The hours slip by in a haze of flour and stories. Stories about a boy who loved sailing and his twin sister who’d have followed him to the ends of the earth and beyond.

A boy who’d sneak extra dumplings to the kitchen staff when his mother wasn’t looking.

A boy who became a beast, though Nanna doesn’t talk about that part.

By the time we finish, the apartment smells like heaven and childhood memories I never had. The dumplings float in their savory broth, tiny clouds of deliciousness.

“He’s going to love them. Thank you, Nanna.”

“The pleasure is mine, dear. Call me if you need anything at all.” She grabs her purse, ready to waddle back to her retirement of game shows and grandchildren.

“You’re leaving?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve been so happy to cook for Ollie again and meet his bride, but I don’t want to get in the way of young love.”

Young love.That’s what this must look like. The perfectly set table. The hours spent learning his favorite childhood dish. The way I keep checking my phone, hoping to see his name.

I sink into a chair, staring at my evening’s work through new eyes.

When did I become this girl? This woman who waits by the phone, who learns to cook Russian dumplings, who gives a shit about what makes a rich, powerful man tick?

I’ve dated before. Had flings. Relationships that looked good on paper but felt like wearing someone else’s shoes.

But this… this is different.

Heis different.

And that terrifies me more than any beast ever could.

32

SUTTON

My hands shake as I shove a batch of brownies in the oven.

Pathetic.

I’mpathetic.

This thing between us was supposed to be simple. I signed a deal that explicitly required that. The fine print said nothing about making his favorite childhood dish like some 1950s housewife desperate to please her man.

And yet…

My fingers are raw from crimping edges and my lower back aches from standing at the marble counter. I now have a really good idea why Nanna retired early. If a kid was requesting this kind of meal from me two or three times per week, I’d need a break, too.

But Oleg didn’t even request this from me!

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