Page 118 of Dirty Damage

Because none of this is ever going to be mine. Not really.

Even when I peel my sweater off and catch Oleg drinking in the sight of me in my bikini, it isn’t with love.

It’s with lust.

Temporary. Fleeting.

It burns hot, but fast.

And at this rate, it’ll be gone well before I’m ready for it to end.

Faye squeezes me tightly as we’re leaving, and I swear the smile on her face is pitying. Like she can see right through the happy, happy smile I’ve painted on my face.

“We’ll do this again,” she promises, squeezing my shoulder. “We’ll make this a regular thing.”

I try to agree, but the lie gets stuck in my throat.

They’re not mine to keep. None of this is.

We’ve been in the car for a few minutes when Oleg’s deep voice pulls me from my thoughts. “Something on your mind?”

I glance at Oleg in the driver’s seat of my shiny new SUV, his powerful frame making the luxury vehicle feel suddenly small. Water droplets still cling to his broad shoulders, catching the sunlight like diamonds on bronze. His shirt hangs open just enough to reveal the brutal geometry of his chest, a deliberate tease that makes my mouth go dry.

The bastard doesn’t even have to try.

While I squeezed myself into a scrap of fabric masquerading as a bikini to get his attention, all he has to do is leave a single button undone and I’m fighting the urge to climb him like a tree.

Life’s funny that way.

Not funny likeha-ha, but funny in the same way Child Services showing up at our door when I was a kid was funny.

The kind of funny that leaves scars.

“Nope,” I lie, popping the ‘p’ like the emotional equivalent of bubblegum.

“You’ve been quiet since we left Artem and Faye’s.”

I release a breath that feels too heavy for my lungs. “Just thinking about families. How different they can be. I would have killed for a home like that growing up. Two parents who actuallyloved each other… You can’t put a price tag on that kind of normal.”

“Some people try to.”

The implication is obvious:People like me. People who sign contracts promising babies in exchange for security. People who think they can buy their way into happiness, one desperate decision at a time.

“When Nanna was helping me cook,” I say, if only to change the subject, “she made it sound like you and Oriana were really close.”

The temperature in the car goes frigid. His knuckles whiten on the steering wheel, and I watch his walls slam up like rocket ship blast doors.

“We were kids. It was a long time ago.”

I should take the hint. Let it go.

But for some reason, this feels like a lifeline. Like, if I can tug on this thread, it could turn into a tether. Something to hold us together.

“But it made you who you are. Oriana and Elise, they were important. If you want to talk about them with me, then you?—”

“Don’t.”

The single syllable is cutting. Final.

---