Page 158 of Dirty Grovel

She sighs heavily. Then both of her hands touch mine. “Are you sure about this, hon?”

I place a palm on my belly and sigh.

There are some stories that just aren’t meant to have happy endings.

There are some beasts who can’t keep their princesses.

It’s not what I want.

But I know it’s what I have to do.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I’m sure.”

50

OLEG

My head is a war zone of vodka and regret.

The reception, the funeral, the never-ending speeches, my mother’s vicious attack right afterwards—it’s all a blur of miserable memories that I’d like to forget.

Still, despite the pounding in my head and the soreness in my bones, I’d rather have a thousand more hangovers like this one rather than relive yesterday again.

Even the comfort of a hot, morning shower doesn’t exactly clear the fog in my head.

I step out of the guest room where I’d crashed last night, wondering how Sutton is doing today.

I didn’t want to disturb her last night.

More importantly, I didn’t want to taint her with my black mood.

If there’s one thing Oksana is good at, it’s knowing exactly what to say to get under my skin.

But away from her viper’s tongue, it’s easy to get perspective. It’s easy to see what my priorities are.

I go to the kitchen, hoping that Sutton will already be there. But it’s conspicuously empty, the pantry door, wide open for God knows what reason.

Maybe she’s still sleeping?

She looked dead on her feet when she showed up at the funeral parlor yesterday, dressed in a pale pink dress that stood out in a sea of black.

Of course, Oksana had been furious, but I was glad for the outfit choice. It gave me something to focus on in moments when I felt like I was on the verge of losing my cool.

But by the time I’d extricated myself from the dutiful conversations with the ancient Russian relics that I call uncles, I was informed that Sutton had already left.

A part of me was disappointed.

A part of me was relieved.

Just because I had to suffer through this torture didn’t mean she had to, too.

I pour myself a cup of coffee, ready to go upstairs to check on Sutton, when Pavin enters the kitchen, his somber face overtaken by worry lines.

“What is it?”

“Sorry to disturb you, boss,” he says. “But… there are cops at the door.”

“Cops?”

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