Page 116 of Dirty Grovel

I find Oleg in the family room.

He’s staring out the window, lost in thought. The stiffness in his shoulders makes me wary.

I wonder if Paul’s death has created more problems than it solved.

I clear my throat. “Hi…”

He glances at me. “Is she sleeping?”

“Like a baby. She’s exhausted.”

“Being held at gunpoint will do that to you.”

I gulp and start to venture closer to him. It feels like there’s a strange, turbulent tension rippling through the air between us. I’m hesitant to probe too close without his permission. “Thank you. For taking such good care of her.”

“She’s your sister,” he says simply. “That makes her family.”

“Speaking of family,” I segue, wondering if I should be asking this question at all, “how’s Boris doing?”

Oleg’s face clenches. “His condition is critical but stable. The doctors are optimistic.”

“And what about the… I guess you’d call them ‘political ramifications’ of his attack?”

He turns to face me fully. He looks almost as tired as Sydney did: eyes hazy, skin pale, cheeks gaunt.

“We’ve taken out Lipovsky, so that should counter much of the gossip about Boris’s attack. But it also means that the Martineks and Drew will be on the defensive. They’ll know I’ll be coming after them next.”

“Is that necessary? What if you just…” I trail off when the familiar flare of anger goes off in his gaze.

“Of course it is. An attack on the family cannot go unanswered.”

Suddenly, I’m fighting my own shivers. If only Paul’s death had served some bigger purpose.

If only his death had come with an end to this bid for supremacy.

If only it made any fucking difference at all.

But it doesn’t.

War is war. It’s got an endless appetite for bodies and suffering.

“I promised I would keep you and our baby safe, Sutton,” Oleg growls. “The only way to do that is to take the Martineks at bay.”

I swallow, but it doesn’t help the dryness in my throat. “Right.”

He sighs. “I want to speak to you about your sister.”

I’m on edge at once. “She can stay here with us, can’t she?” I blurt out, panic-stricken at the thought that Oleg might not want her here long term. “She’s alone, Oleg. She doesn’t have money or property. She doesn’t have any place to go. I have to?—”

“Hey, hey.” He strides to me in the middle of the living room, grabs my shoulders, and gives me a gentle shake. “I’m not suggesting she go anywhere, Sutton. She’s your sister. She’s welcome here for as long as you want.”

Only then does the nausea in my gut begin to recede. “Okay. Good. I… Just… Th-thank you.”

“What I wanted to talk to you about is the trauma she’s suffered. She might need professional help.”

“Like a shrink?”

“Notlikea shrink,” he clarifies. “A shrink.”

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