Page 27 of Dirty Damage

Over here is the family cycle of impulsive choices you can’t seem to break.

And—you’ll love this—the inability to stay away from attractive, dangerous men has been remodeled to now include ex-bosses.

I’m too busy mapping out the breadth of his shoulders and the way his body moves under his tight dress shirt to notice the staircase descending below deck until he turns to face me.

My eyes ping from the bronzed skin I can see beneath the collar of his shirt to the stretch of wool pants over his thighs and finally, to his face.

To the gold eyes slipping down to my cleavage, lingering like a caress.

I cross my arms, wishing I’d worn a turtleneck.

Or a hazmat suit, maybe.

But no, standing in front of my mirror at home, I had to get allempowered. I told myself I wouldn’t let shame force me into hiding.

Now, I’d very much like to disappear, please.

The engine kicks on, as soft as the purr of a cat, but I startle anyway. I whip my head back towards shore, panic squeaking out of me as I see how far away land is.

“Have you ever been on a luxury yacht before?”

The rumble of his voice draws me back, focuses me in a way that is alarming. I hardly know him, but I clock the twitch of his lip that I’m starting to recognize as amusement—at my expense.

“Sure. I take my own personal yacht out every Friday. Sometimes, I race Jeff Bezos.”

The scars on his face catch the dying sunlight, making them look molten. Based on his stony expression, he takes my reply for the“obviously fucking not, asshole”that it was meant to be and turns back to the staircase.

He starts walking, expecting me to follow like a good little lamb. The rational part of my brain—the part that survived years of foster care and Sydney’s questionable life choices—screams at me to stay put.

Rich. Powerful. Dangerous.

Three excellent reasons to keep my distance.

But when he glances back, something in those amber eyes hooks into me and pulls.

“Are you coming?”

God help me, I am.

As we descend deeper into the yacht, my senses focus. I may be easily distracted by muscular biceps, but I’m also smart enough to map my exits.

The yacht’s interior is a study in masculine elegance—all dark wood and gleaming brass, leather worn to buttery softness. It whispers of old money and older sins.

Every surface screams,“Touch me”in a way that makes my fingers itch.

Or maybe that’s just the effect of watching Oleg move through his domain like a predator giving a tour of his hunting grounds.His two-word descriptions from above deck continue as we pass room after room, his stride never breaking, never slowing.

One thing is clear: This isn’t a pleasure cruise. The cheapest yacht Pavlov Industries sells costs more than I’ll make in three lifetimes.

I’m not a client.

So what am I?

“This is the second salon.”

He stops outside of a door at the end of a narrow hallway, gesturing for me to go in ahead of him.

The room is a circle of dark greens and gleaming brass. Oval windows are spaced evenly around the room, giving a sea-level view of how far we are from shore. Howalonewe are.

---