Page 159 of Dirty Damage

A ripple of nervous laughter breaks the tension. I lock eyes with my mother, giving her a grateful nod. She returns it with the ghost of a smile.

Victory tastes sweeter than I imagined.

And all I can think about is sharing it with Sutton.

I mean to leave the office early. But one celebratory glass of champagne turns into four, and then the vodka comes in to dance, and hours later, I’m being driven home by Uri because I’m too buzzed to be behind the wheel.

Still, it’s early enough that Sutton should be awake. I can’t wait to hold her and?—

But the kitchen is empty. And the living room.

I’m in too good of a mood to be worried as I walk into our bedroom.

Then I hear it—soft, broken sobs filtering through the bathroom door. The sound saws right through my drunken haze. My chest constricts.

All at once, I know I’d do anything, kill anyone, to make those sounds stop.

46

OLEG

I pause in the doorway of our bedroom, rigid at the sight before me. Sutton is hunched over the vanity, her shoulders trembling as she desperately tries to muffle her sobs.

My first instinct is to find whoever made her cry and make them bleed. But the rational part of my brain knows it’s not that simple.

Not when the person causing her pain might be me.

“Sutton?”

She pulls away from the vanity, hastily wiping her eyes. Her cheeks flush pink as she avoids my gaze in the mirror. The afternoon sun streaming through the windows catches the tears on her lashes.

“Y-you’re home early,” she stammers, trying and failing to compose herself.

I cross the room in three long strides. “What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head, still not meeting my eyes. “You’ll think I’m silly.”

“Try me.”

“I just…” She draws in a shaky breath. “We’ve only been trying a few months. But…”

Realization hits me between the eyes. There is a kernel of disappointment, yes, but nothing that comes close to the regret I feel seeing Sutton this upset.

“You started your period.”

She nods miserably. “I was three days late. I was so sure… I wanted to tell you this morning, but you’d already left for the office.”

“Fuck.” I run a hand through my hair, despising how broken she looks in front of me. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’ve got things to do, places to be. Unlike me,” she hiccups. “Who apparently can’t do any of the jobs she’s hired for.”

The self-loathing in her voice makes my jaw clench. I think about the dreams I’ve been having lately—a little girl with Sutton’s golden hair and my eyes, her tiny hand wrapped around my finger.

My chest tightens every time I picture it.

This arrangement is about an heir, about securing my lineage. I can’t let myself think about it being anything else.

It’s too pure, and my hands are stained with blood.

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