Page 72 of Mutual Desire

The workouts helped ease his mind, though they couldn’t completely silence it. He reconnected with Nick after ignoring his calls for days, exchanging tentative plans for a future trip. Nick had mentioned a getaway sometime in August, but Damien couldn’t focus on vacations just yet. His family in Boston, Nick’s trip—everything would have to wait. His top priority was still Craig. He needed to make things right before doing anything else.

Eight days had passed since Damien had last seen or spoken to Craig. Their last encounter—full of tears, apologies, and exhaustion—played on a constant loop in his mind. He wasn’t sure if Craig’s kindness that night could be considered a reconciliation, but Damien clung to it, nonetheless. Craig needed space, and Damien intended to give it to him. It was the least he could do after the damage he had caused.

Time moved in a blur, the days slipping away until Damien found himself out again. The sun hovered low on the horizon as he pulled into the parking lot of a nearby convenience store. He was planning a small dinner to thank Dimitri, who had finally given in to Damien’s persistent invitations. Three packs of Dimitri’s favorite beer rested under Damien’s arm as he exited the store.

He felt his phone buzz in his pocket just as he popped the trunk of his car. A text from Dimitri.

Stopping by my place first to shower. be there soon.

Damien sent back a quick reply and moved to shut the trunk when the low hum of an engine drew his attention. A black Cadillac rolled slowly into the lot, the kind of car that demanded to be noticed.

An unsettling sense of déjà vu gripped Damien. His heart skipped a beat when the back door opened, and a tall, imposing man in a dark suit stepped out, removing his sunglasses.

“Good evening, Mr. Clarke.” The man’s voice was calm, but there was an edge of command in it. “Please, come inside.”

Damien sighed, closing the trunk with deliberate slowness. “I have plans. Tell Alexander I’m busy.”

The man’s expression remained neutral, but his words carried a quiet warning. “Mr. Clarke, get in the car.”

The threat was thinly veiled, and Damien could feel it settling in the air between them. He knew better than to resist—this wasn’t a request.

With a forced, sarcastic grin, Damien clicked the car lock and walked toward the waiting Cadillac. The man followed close behind, his silent presence as heavy as a shadow. Damien slid into the backseat, the leather cold against his skin.

“Where are we going?” Damien asked coldly, though he wasn’t sure he wanted an answer.

The man put his sunglasses back on and stared straight ahead. “You’ll find out soon.”

Damien huffed in irritation and leaned closer to the driver, hoping to glean some information. “Where are you taking me?”

The young driver kept his eyes fixed on the road, offering nothing.

“Fantastic. Love the hospitality,” Damien muttered, sinking back into his seat. This was typical Nabokov. Always a power play.

The car came to a halt in front of a diner that looked like it had stepped out of the 1950s. A neon CLOSED sign flickered above the door. Damien narrowed his eyes. Something felt off about this place.

Two men in black suits stood by the entrance, their faces hidden behind dark sunglasses. Their presence radiated quiet menace, but Damien was beyond fear. He was angry. He wanted this game to end.

Inside, the diner was empty—except for one man sitting at the far end, his back to the window. Nabokov.

The Russian billionaire sat comfortably, reading through a stack of papers spread across the table. Classical music played softly in the background, the only sound filling the still air.

Nabokov didn’t look up as Damien approached. He was as flawless as ever, dressed in a pale blue shirt with the top button undone—no jacket, no tie, just effortless elegance. Damien hated how easily the man still managed to steal his breath.

“Good evening, Damien,” Nabokov greeted smoothly, not bothering to mask the satisfaction in his voice.

Damien didn’t return the pleasantry. He wasn’t here to indulge in Nabokov’s games.“Are you really going to keep doing this? Is this your idea of fun?”

Nabokov set his papers aside, his gaze cool and unbothered. “Fun? No. But I have plenty of ideas where you and I canreallyhave fun, Damien.”

Damien scoffed, refusing to let himself sink deeper into Nabokov's cruel games. “You’re a fucking psychopath, you know that? Texting, calling, showing up when I’ve told you to stay the hell away. What would you call it if not harassment?”

A hint of a smile curled Nabokov’s lips. “I’d call it... dedication.”

Damien’s blood boiled. “God, you’re fucking insufferable. I hate your fucking gut,” he whispered, venom lacing every word.

Nabokov’s smirk widened. “Do you?”

Damien glared at the man who had tormented him for too long. He saw it now, the twisted glint in Nabokov’s eye—the man took perverse pleasure in watching Damien unravel. The realization only deepened Damien’s frustration, but instead of lashing out, he did the opposite. A cold, calculated smile spread across his face, one that didn’t reach his eyes.

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