Dirty Damage: Chapter 17

It’s an ambush.

The little girl bounces to her feet, pink bow askew in her silky hair. Behind her, a man with short blonde hair and an easy smile is shaking his head. A heavily pregnant woman stands next to him, a chubby toddler balanced on her hip.

Four strangers.

Four and a half, counting the baby bump.

“Erm… Artem?” I ask, fighting to keep my voice level despite my irritation.

This is a trick. A trap. Oleg hired adorable child actors to break down my willpower.

“Artem & Co.,” he corrects with an infuriating grin.

“Art,” the woman chides, smacking his arm, “you should have warned her we were all coming. The poor thing looks ready to bolt.”

She’s not wrong. I’m calculating the distance to the fire escape.

If Oleg is going to play this dirty, I don’t stand a chance.

Then the little girl giggles, and something in my chest twinges. Bringing in kids is unfair.

But I’m not giving in that easily.

“Hi there,” I say stiffly. “What’s your name?”

She looks up at me with sheer surprise. She cartwheeled into the penthouse without even registering I was here like she’s done it a dozen times before.

She immediately ducks behind her father, using his leg as a shield. She peeks out at me with big, wide eyes, mumbling something unintelligible.

Artem steps out of the elevator, dragging his tiny human shield with him. “Come on, kiddo. Use your words.”

“Dad!” she scolds in a perfect imitation of her mother’s tone. Then she peeks at me again. “I’m Lily.”

I try to maintain my annoyance, but it’s slipping through my fingers like sand. “That’s a pretty name.”

“What’s yours?” she asks.

The toddler has stopped his escape attempts to stare at me with giant eyes.

Great. Now, I have an audience.

“Sutton.”

“Sut-ton?” Lily tests the syllables like she’s tasting something strange.

“That’s a silly name,” the little boy declares with a giggle.

“Noah!” his mother gasps. “I’m so sorry; he’s still learning about filters.”

“At least he’s honest,” I say, and immediately want to bite my tongue.

I’m supposed to be resistant to their charm offensive. But there’s something disarming about brutal toddler honesty.

“It’s nice to meet you, Noah.”

Despite my annoyance thirty seconds ago, I actually mean it.

The boy gives me a bright smile and a floppy wave.

“Well,” I say, “come on in. Make yourselves at home, I think?”

“You two go play,” Artem says. “Let your mom and I introduce ourselves.”

The two kids tear into the penthouse, scattering in two different directions like loose marbles.

I scan the living room and dining room for anything breakable. Oleg’s monk-like sense of decor means there are very few items at risk. In his house of pretentiously angular furniture, the children are the most fragile things around.

Artem’s eyes twinkle like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Don’t worry. They’re surprisingly good at surviving.”

“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”

He laughs and holds out a hand to me. “Artem Savin. This is my wife, Faye.”

I can’t help but shake my head and laugh. “I gotta give it to you, showing up here with two cute kids and your pregnant wife? Well played, sir.”

“Am I missing something?” Artem asks, scratching the back of his head.

“Frequently, darling.” Faye laughs, running her hands over her belly. “Clearly, she’s annoyed she has to have dinner with you.”

Artem gasps in faux offense. “‘Has to’? You get to have dinner with me.”

“No, she was forced into it. Your best friend doesn’t exactly ask permission.” She turns to me. “Has Oleg succeeded in pissing you off already?”

My lips twitch. “Maybe.”

“Typical.”

“Faye,” Artem hisses, “we’re here to make nice, not⁠—”

“I’m here for dinner. And pleasant, adult conversation,” she interrupts. “Whatever ulterior motives you have, leave me out of them.”

Faye gives me a conspiratorial wink before she kicks off her shoes and waddles into the living room.

“Where did the kids go?”

I hear laughter, but I don’t see them.

Faye lowers herself onto the sofa with the grace of the very pregnant—that is to say, none at all. “Don’t fret, Sutton; they won’t break anything important.”

“Everything in here looks important,” I mutter.

She props her feet on the coffee table. “Trust me, if Oleg cared about keeping things pristine, he wouldn’t have given the kids their own room.”

I blink. “Their own what?”

“You haven’t seen it?” She exchanges a knowing look with Artem. “Oh, honey, you need to work on your snooping skills.”

“Please ignore my wife,” Artem groans. “The pregnancy makes her… direct.”

“The pregnancy makes me honest,” Faye corrects. “Come on, I’ll show you.” She tries and fails to pry herself off the sofa. Then she wags a hand in Artem’s direction. “You did this to me. The least you can do is help me up.”

“You’re the one who wanted a third.” He presses a kiss to her cheek when she stands.

“Only because I didn’t think I’d give birth to a boulder. This kid is going to be a ten-pounder, I can feel it.”

Something like dread hisses in my stomach. Babies can get that big?!

“That’s what you said about Noah, and he was only eight.”

“Only eight?” she shrieks. “Says the man who didn’t have to push him out of his⁠—”

“Sorry, baby,” he cuts her off. “You’re just so gorgeous when you’re pregnant that I couldn’t help myself.”

Faye rolls her eyes, but she can’t quite stop herself from smiling as she turns to me. “Men are all full of shit. Am I right, Sutton?”

“In my experience? Absolutely.”

She claps her hands and then heads for the kitchen. I follow reluctantly, not sure I want to discover what other secrets this place is hiding.

She slides open what I thought was a pantry door, revealing a burst of color that feels like stepping into an alternate dimension.

The room is chaos.

Toys everywhere. Art supplies. A miniature basketball hoop. Building blocks scattered across the floor like landmines. It’s everything the rest of the apartment isn’t.

“Why…” I start, then stop. Try again. “Why does Oleg have this?”

“For the rugrats,” Faye says, like it’s obvious. “They needed somewhere to be kids when they visit Uncle Oleg.”

Noah perks up. “Unca Oleg is here?”

Holy shit, the Beast has a soft spot.

I suspected when he was sweet to Chloe at the daycare, but that was when he was in business mode.

For all I knew, he could’ve been sweet to kids at work and then purposefully ran over their bikes and tipped over lemonade stands in his free time.

“Not yet, baby,” Faye tells him. “Soon.”

Noah and Lily are visibly disappointed.

“Not soon enough,” Artem announces. “I’m starved. Anyone else hungry?”

Both kids shoot up like prairie dogs at the mention of food. My stomach chooses that moment to remind me that I haven’t eaten since breakfast.

“Pizza?” Lily sing-songs, her hands clasped together in a plea.

I just met Lily, and I already want to give her and her gap-toothed smile everything she’s ever dreamed of, but I think of greasy fingerprints on Oleg’s pristine furniture and wince.

“Pizza is pretty messy.”

“Which is why we’ll eat in the playroom,” Faye announces. She touches me gently on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Oleg is used to the kids. We’re over all the time.”

I’ll be damned. Oleg’s ivory tower had a rainbow-colored trap door I wasn’t expecting.

Maybe the Beast has a fun-loving personality tucked away under all that muscle, after all.

“More juice!” Noah demands, holding out his cup like a tiny emperor.

His hands are covered in sauce, along with the collar of his shirt and the kid-sized table he and Lily are sitting at. Faye was a genius for having us all eat in here.

“Water,” Faye tells him.

“Juice! Now!”

She arches a brow, and I watch the toddler crumple. “Juice… please?”

“Nice try, bud.” She ruffles his hair and hands him his water bottle. “Water.”

I feel like I should be taking notes. Faye really knows what she’s doing when it comes to this parenting thing.

And according to the contract I signed, I might’ve signed myself up for kids—multiple.

I can handle being their fun daycare provider for a few hours every day, but being the person there when they’re sick or scared of the dark or screaming because you gave them the purple cup instead of the blue one?

I could use some practice.

Especially since I’m not sure the Beast has much experience with⁠—

“UNCA OLEG!”

The shriek pierces the relative calm we’ve established. Both kids launch themselves at the doorway, where Oleg looms like a dark cloud at a picnic.

But the second the kids are in his arms, he spins them in a circle, making them giggle.

Then his gaze finds mine.

And the warmth I just witnessed vanishes like it never existed.

His eyes sweep over the chaos we’ve created—scattered toys, pizza stains, empty juice boxes—and then back to me.

His cold assessment has me feeling like an intruder, so I’m grateful when Artem bursts in.

“Pizza?” He holds a floppy slice out to Oleg.

“Not for me.” Oleg tears his gaze from mine to focus on his friend. “We need to talk. It’s important.”

He doesn’t even look at me as he turns away. Artem follows, throwing apologetic glances over his shoulder.

“This will take a while,” Artem adds in a quiet voice to Faye. He presses a kiss to the top of his children’s heads. “Better get the kids home.”

I stare at the door even after Oleg is gone, searching for any sign of the Unca Oleg the kids love so much, for any sign of the man who built this playroom.

Faye heaves herself up and pats my shoulder. “You’ll get used to this.”

Used to what?

The whiplash between the man who spins laughing children and the one who can’t even acknowledge my existence?

How he maintains a joy-filled playroom but keeps his own emotions locked away?

I should ask what she means.

But I’m afraid I already know.

I watch them leave, taking their warmth and chaos with them, leaving me alone in a room full of evidence that Oleg Pavlov has a heart.

I just don’t know if he’ll ever let me near it.