Page 78 of Dirty Damage

“The way Oleg looks at you when you’re not watching. Trust me, disinterest is not the problem.”

I roll my eyes. “Right. That’s why he spends all his time avoiding me.”

“Have you considered that maybe he’s avoiding himself?” When I frown in confusion, Faye continues. “Look, Oleg doesn’t exactly have the best track record with letting people in. That’s intentional.”

“What do you mean?”

“All that dark, brooding energy? The dangerous mystique? It’s armor.” Faye glances at the kids to make sure they’re still occupied. “It’s how he protects himself.”

“From me?” I blurt.

“From feeling anything at all.” Her eyes soften at the corners, a sad smile playing on her lips. “He’s been through things… experiences that made him build walls.”

My heart thuds. “What kind of things?”

“That’s not my story to tell.” Faye’s expression grows serious. “But I will say this: The fact that he chose you, that he’s letting you into his life at all? That means something.”

“Yeah, it means he needs an heir.”

“Girl, if all Oleg wanted was an heir, he could have his pick of socialites desperate to land a billionaire husband. Instead, he picked you.” She gives me a pointed look. “Think about that.”

I do think about it, watching Noah build his train tracks while Lily conducts an elaborate lesson for her stuffed animals.

The sight makes my chest ache with longing.

“Maybe I’m just convenient,” I suggest weakly. “No family connections to complicate things. No fortune hunters in my background.”

“Or maybe he saw something in you that none of those polished, cultured socialites have.” Faye’s voice turns gentle. “Something real.”

Faye’s words are still echoing in my mind when my phone buzzes hours later. I expect it to be Oleg.

Another late-night message telling me not to wait up. Another blow-off. Another night spent alone.

I’m partially right.

ItisOleg.

But I won’t be spending another night alone.

OLEG:Meet me at the Pavlov Boatyard in half an hour, princess. It’s time we talked.

Even after how we left things this morning, hope flutters in my chest.

I don’t even respond to the message.

I just bolt for my room, already wondering what to wear.

23

SUTTON

The rumble of the yacht’s engine vibrates beneath my feet as Oleg steers us farther from shore.

He’s been playing professor for the past hour, lecturing me about bilges and flybridges and other boat parts I couldn’t care less about.

But I nod along like a good student, pretending I don’t notice how his biceps flex when he grips the wheel, or how his shoulders stretch the limits of his white henley.

At this point, I’m pretty sure he brought me out here to murder me.

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