Page 112 of Dirty Damage

Ichosethis.

His mother never cooked for him once in her life, but I’m really flashing my blue collar roots for this one. Oksana is probably going to laugh about this with all of her friends.

Maybe Oleg, too.

I’m probably embarrassing myself—not that I should care what any of them think.

But fuck me… I do. I really do.

Because Oleg Pavlov isn’t just my contracted baby-daddy-to-be anymore. He’s become an infection in my bloodstream, a fever I can’t break. When I close my eyes at night, I see his face—not the careful mask he shows the world, but the rare, unguarded moments when something real slips through.

The elevator pings and my heart stutters.

He appears in the kitchen doorway like a storm front rolling in. His scarred face is cast in shadow, but I catch the flash of gold in his eyes as they lock onto the spread laid out on the counter.

“You’re home early,” I manage, proud that my voice stays steady even as heat scalds my cheeks.

I grip the edge of the counter, needing the anchor. All of this feels silly all of a sudden.

What am I doing, trying to play house with Oleg Pavlov?

He moves closer, prowling really, and I catch the faint scent of his cologne mixed with winter air. “Disappointed?”

“Surprised,” I correct, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “Pleasantly surprised.”

His eyes rove over the stove, taking in the pot still gently steaming, the neat rows of dumplings waiting to be served. Something flickers across his face too quickly to catch.

“I cooked,” I blurt, too nervous to stay quiet. “For us. Pelmeni.”

The shock washes over him. He circles the island, double-checking like he doesn’t believe me. “How did you…?”

“Nanna helped me make them. Your mother gave me her number when I asked about your favorite foods.”

The silence grows between us, thick and heavy. I can see the muscles in his jaw working, the tremor in his hands as he reaches for the serving spoon.

The first bite seems to physically rock him—his eyes close, throat working as he swallows.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “They taste just like…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t need to.

They taste like when he was a kid.

When he was a protective big brother to Oriana.

When he wasOllie,not Oleg.

I see it in the way his shoulders have softened, the ghost of memory smoothing the hard lines of his face.

I’ve accidentally breached some carefully constructed wall. I should probably be scared, but watching this mountain of a man brought low by a simple dumpling, knowing I put this look on his face…

Itdoessomething to me.

My heart is a hummingbird in my chest as I turn away, pretending to fuss with the brownies in the oven, giving him space to process whatever emotions are warring behind those gold eyes.

But his hand catches my wrist, spinning me back to face him.

“How?” The word comes out rough, almost angry.

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