Page 69 of Mutual Desire

Standing over his friend, Dimitri sighed. He knew Damien needed to talk—but not tonight. Not like this. For now, all he could do was pull a blanket over Damien’s limp body, switch off the television, and leave him in peace.

The next morning, Damien woke with a splitting headache.

His tongue felt like sandpaper, and the stale remnants of last night clung to his skin. He stumbled into the kitchen, grateful to find breakfast waiting on the counter—eggs, bacon and sausages, now cold but still edible.

He checked his phone while wolfing down the food. Two missed calls from Nick. None from Craig. None from Nabokov.

He forced himself not to think about Nabokov—he couldn’t afford to let his thoughts wander down that path again. Finishing his meal, Damien popped two painkillers and dragged himself into the shower, scrubbing away two days of alcohol and regret.

Once dressed, he decided it was time to face Craig. He couldn’t keep putting this off. He needed answers—and he needed to know if Craig still wanted them to have a future together.

Craig’s apartment was silent when Damien arrived.He let himself in, heart thudding in his chest.Night had fallen, and it was late, and the place felt eerily still. Craig must have been at work. Damien wasn’t sure when he’d be back, but he needed time to prepare for the conversation ahead.

Craig’s scent lingered faintly in the air, wrapping around Damien like a bittersweet reminder of the life they shared—a life now teetering on the edge. He wandered into the bedroom, inhaling the familiar smell of Craig’s pillow. It brought a painful lump to his throat, but he fought it back, determined to keep his emotions in check.

Settling on the bed, Damien turned on the television for background noise. He hadn’t even set the remote down when his phone vibrated against the nightstand. His stomach flipped.

He didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Nabokov.

The unregistered number glared at him from the screen. Damien’s heart raced. He let the call ring out, hand hovering over the power button, ready to switch off his phone.

Then came the text.

You don’t have to answer me but at least let me know if you’re doing okay.

Damien clenched his jaw, torn between ignoring it and giving in. This was exactly what Nabokov wanted—another way to sink his claws into Damien’s life. It was infuriating how easily the man invaded his thoughts. With a frustrated growl, Damien turned off his phone and stalked into the living room, where he found exactly what he was looking for—a bottle of whiskey.

The harsh morning light woke Damien several hours later.

He blinked groggily, sitting up on the bed just in time to see Craig standing in the doorway, arms crossed.

“Damien?” Craig’s voice was calm but edged with disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

A lazy smile stretched across Damien’s lips, though it faded quickly as his headache roared back to life. “What does it look like?” he mumbled.

Craig took a cautious step closer, his eyes narrowing. “Are you drunk?”

“Maybe,” Damien slurred with a careless shrug.

Craig moved toward him, his concern barely masked. “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

“No!” Damien snapped, stumbling to his feet. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The two men locked eyes, tension crackling between them. Suddenly, Damien grabbed Craig’s collar, yanking him closer.

“Are you cheating on me?” Damien demanded, his voice cracking with both anger and desperation.

Craig arched an eyebrow. “Are you fucking with me right now?”

“No!” Damien barked, tightening his grip on Craig’s shirt. “Are you?”

Craig’s expression turned cold. “You mean like you cheated on me?”

The accusation hit Damien like a slap. His mouth opened, ready to protest, but the words died on his tongue. He had no defense.

“I didn’t cheat,” Damien whispered, his voice small. “I swear, Craig... I didn’t.”

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