Page 152 of Dirty Damage

Oleg focuses on his own reflection, unscrewing the lid of what I realize after a few seconds is some kind of cream for his scars. I’ve never seen him apply it before—never even seen the tube.

He squeezes some into his palm and begins massaging it onto his face. I take it as a good sign that he’s willing to do it in front of me now.

“I’ve never seen you do that before. How often do you have to use it?”

“Twice daily, in theory. In reality, I do it when I remember.”

I frown. “And how often do you remember?”

He shrugs. “Couple times a week.”

“Oleg!”

“They’re not going anywhere. The cream isn’t a magic potion. It just helps with mobility.”

Before I can stop myself, I’m on my feet and reaching for the bottle. “Give it to me.”

His entire body goes rigid. “What are you doing?”

“If you won’t take care of yourself properly, I will.” I keep my voice firm. “Consider it part of our arrangement.”

“That’s not in the contract.”

“Neither was you being an asshole earlier, but here we are.” I wiggle my fingers. “Hand it over.”

For a moment, I think he’ll refuse. His expression darkens, that familiar wall threatening to slam down between us. But then, slowly, he extends the bottle.

My hands tremble slightly as I squeeze cream onto my palm. I’m not sure I thought this all the way through. This feels monumental somehow—more intimate than sex, more vulnerable than any conversation we’ve had.

I reach for his face, hesitating just before contact. “Is this okay?”

He nods once. I touch his scars with feather-light pressure, expecting him to pull away.

Instead, he leans into my hand, eyes drifting shut.

My throat tightens. How long has it been since someone touched him like this? With care instead of clinical detachment or pent-up revulsion?

“Tell me about Oriana,” I whisper, keeping my strokes gentle and even. “What was she like?”

His eyes snap open. “Why?”

“Because she’s part of you. Because these scars are connected to her memory. Because I want to know.”

His breath hitches. For a long while, there’s only the sound of waves and the feeling of rough scar tissue beneath my fingertips.

“She was… fearless,” he finally says. “I was always one to look before I leapt. She just dove in headfirst. Used to drive our mother crazy. And keep me busy.”

“You took care of her?”

Something dark passes across his face, but he doesn’t pull away. Not this time.

“I tried. I was only older by a few minutes, but I was still her older brother. It was my job to take care of her.”

I smooth my hand over his cheek, trying to imagine him without the scars, but I can’t. I’m not sure I even want to.

“And whose job was it to take care of you?” I whisper.

His throat works up and down, swallowing. Then he tugs my wrist, drawing me closer until we’re pressed together. My heart thunders against my ribs as his other hand cups my face.

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