Page 127 of Dirty Damage

“You think you have the monopoly on suffering? Well, you’re wrong.” Fire blazes in those blue eyes. “You’re not the only one who’s had it rough, Oleg. I’ve lost people who were standing right in front of me. My biological father looked me in the eyes and told me he didn’t want me, that he’d told my mother to get an abortion.” Her jaw clenches and her eyes flash. “It wasn’t like he didn’t want children. He had other kids. He just didn’t wantme.”

“Then he’s an asshole and a fool,” I grit out.

“At least he was honest about it,” she replies. “My mom didn’t want me, either. The only reason my dad knew I existed is because she carted me in front of him to shake him down for fourteen years of missed child support. She owed her dealer.”

“Jesus.”

But the word isn’t enough. Nothing could be enough for the rage building in my chest.

“I didn’t have a family, Oleg. I had my sister, and there were days where that felt like enough. But there were a hell of a lot more where it wasn’t. I didn’t have a family to fall back on or tosupport me, but at least I can try and create it for—” She stops, something flashing behind her eyes like a knife in the dark. “—someone else.”

The hesitation sets off warning bells. There’s something she’s not telling me, a truth she swallowed back at the last second.

I should press her. Demand the rest of that sentence.

But how the fuck can I expect her to lay her soul bare when I keep mine locked in a vault of scar tissue, seawater, and smoke?

I see betrayal in every shadow, treachery in every smile. And when betrayal doesn’t come, I still wait for the other shoe to drop. Wait for fire or bullets or fate to steal whatever I’ve been stupid enough to care about.

But trust isn’t just about loyalty and secrets. It’s about letting someone see your scars, inside and out.

And Sutton… fuck.

She’s the first person who’s made me want to talk about the ghosts I carry.

Maybe that’s why I’ve kept her at arm’s length.

Because letting down these walls means risking another loss.

Still. When fate drops a gift in your lap, wrapped in a princess dress and golden hair, you don’t just give it back. You can’t just walk away.

“What are you thinking?” she asks, her voice soft as a confession.

“I’m thinking of the day we met,” I tell her.

For once, it’s nothing but truth.

37

SUTTON

My fertility app depicts day two of my period as a blooming flower. Some graphic designer somewhere tried hard to make me feel happy about menstruation, but nothing in the world could make me feel happy about it today.

Mostly because Oksana Pavlov is on her way to join me for lunch.

Not that I invited her. An hour ago, my mother-in-law sent me a text informing me she’d be coming over for lunch, which means the last fifty-nine minutes have been a mad dash of cleaning, finding something semi-suitable to wear, and cursing the heavens that any of it is necessary in the first place.

With one minute to spare, I’m sweaty and cramping and realizing that this woman isn’t just some rich bitch with a superiority complex.

She’s Oleg’s mother. The only real grandmother my future children will ever have, thanks to my own sad excuse for a mom.

I don’t need to impress her for my own sake, but if I want my kids to have anything remotely close to the family unit I never had, I need her to like me.

Or, at the very least, not mind being in my presence for a few hours at a time.

The bar I’ve set for myself is actually in hell, but we might be digging a tunnel underneath it today.

I’m even more certain when the elevators ding open and Oksana struts in like a five-foot-nine Prada mannequin come to life.

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