Page 94 of Dirty Grovel

There’s a whiff of uncertainty in her voice. A stubborn, stagnant hope that refuses to budge.

I have no doubt that Oksana will have picked up on that herself. My mother doesn’t miss much.

Certainly not signs of weakness.

“But that won’t stop you from wanting more,” Oksana guesses. “If not now, then eventually. You have the look of a woman who desperately wants to cling to fairy tales.” An almost-sympathetic smile curves in the corners of Oksana’s lips when she sees how Sutton’s brow tightens. “I don’t say any of this to hurt you, Sutton.”

“Then why do you say it?”

A sigh.

A pause.

A long, lingering glance out of the window.

Then Oksana takes us all by surprise when she says, “I suppose it’s because you remind me a little of my daughter.”

White-knuckling the kitchen threshold, I lean against the cool frame.

Jesus. She just mentioned Oriana?

To a stranger?

Of her own accord?

“She had the same innocence about her,” Oksana continues. “She skipped through life believing everything would be okay.”

“Of course she believed that,” Sutton snaps, her voice getting stronger, more confident. “She was raised in a wealthy family with two parents who clearly loved her. And a brother who would have done anything for her. When you grow up with everything, it’s easier to believe that things will turn out okay. Me on the other hand… I grew up with nothing and no one. My parents weren’t really interested in being parents, and my sister and I never knew when our next meal was coming, let alone where we would be sleeping that night. I suppose you’re right about one thing: I do want to believe in fairy tales. But only because I hid beneath them on all my worst nights. They got me through tough times.”

Oksana is watching Sutton with interest. She never betrays much, but I see how she toys with the ring on her finger, twisting it back and forth, deep in thought. “You’re right: Oriana was pampered. She is—was—our little princess.” She turns her face out toward the window again. “Sometimes, I wonder what kind of woman she would have turned into, if she’d been given the chance.”

“A good one,” Sutton answers immediately.

“How do you know?” my mother asks. “You never knew her.”

“But I know people who did. Oleg. Jesse. Artem. Everyone has nothing but praise for her.”

“People often do that—praise the dead. It’s almost like they believe that death absolves a person of all their faults.”

“But you don’t agree?”

Again, my mother pauses and chooses her words carefully. “People think I’m cold. I know that. I see how they look at me. And maybe I am. But I’m a pragmatist. A realist. Oriana was no more perfect than my husband was. By Bratva standards, we had a successful marriage. We got along; we could talk to each other. But we didn’t love each other. Not the way husbands and wives are supposed to love each other.”

Sutton is frowning like she isn’t sure if this twist in the conversation is just another trap. “You were married for a long time.”

“Twenty-one years before he died,” Oksana agrees. “It worked so well because neither one of us were under any delusions as to what we were: a marriage of convenience, nothing more.”

That frown deepens. Fuck, I’d snatch it off her face if I could. I despise that frown. I hate it with every fiber of my being. “Didn’t you get lonely?”

“I found… distractions,” Oksana says cryptically. “So did my husband. He knew about my affairs and I knew about his. But we both pretended it wasn’t happening. Safer that way.”

I run a hand through my hair and hug the shadows. None of this surprises me. But ironically, it does disappoint me.

“I wonder,” muses my mother, “will you and Oleg be able to handle the same sort of arrangement?”

The mere suggestion has anger coursing up my arms until my hands are clenched into trembling fists.

I would sooner Sutton and I both remain celibate until the grave than allow her to be “distracted” by other men.

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