Dirty Damage: Chapter 19

“For the record, I approve,” Artem says, hovering over me with that knowing smirk.

I grunt as I press another set, the three-hundred-pound barbell straining my chest.

Sweat drips down my temples. But the burn in my muscles isn’t enough to silence the thoughts of her that keep invading my mind.

It’s why I had to get out of that meeting with my mother and Candace.

Why I texted Artem to meet me at the gym.

I thought I could burn away Sutton and the way she looked in my bed, clenching around my fingers. Get her out of my head.

No such luck.

Not with Artem around, at least.

“So Faye approves. That’s what you’re really saying.”

“I have my own opinions, man,” says Artem. “She doesn’t make up my mind.”

“Right. Kind of like when you swore up and down you only wanted two kids. ‘It’s man-on-man defense right now, O. That’s the dream. One more and we’re playing zone—no thanks.’ And a month later, Faye was pregnant with your third.”

Artem waits a second longer than he should to grab the bar when my body starts to give out. “We’re not talking about me and my lady, asshole. We’re talking about you and yours.”

I sit up, elbows on knees, trying to steady my breathing. My heart’s pounding too hard for just a standard bench press.

Been that way since she moved in.

Since I watched her explore my apartment on the security feeds, touching everything with those delicate fingers, learning my space.

Sutton is mine now. Technically.

“Stop acting like this relationship is legitimate.” I shove to my feet, heading for the heavier weights. “She’s an employee. That’s it.”

“You let all your employees take your last name and bear your children?” Artem’s eyebrow is raised, watching me in the wall-to-wall mirrors in the gym. “Come on, bro. Even you aren’t in denial that deep.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I grab a pair of dumbbells, knuckles white.

“It means she’s pretty and sweet and exactly your type.” I don’t like the shit-eating grin spreading across his face. “Is it a coincidence she looks so good with her clothes off or⁠—?”

“I have to fuck her,” I say flatly, interrupting before I bash his head in with the weights. “I’m not going to make that worse by picking someone unattractive. Plus, I want my children to have a good gene pool. This is all logistics. It doesn’t mean I want anything else from her.”

It’s the same argument I’ve been having with myself since the night Sutton came to my room.

It was all practical—the sooner we start trying to have a baby, the sooner we can get to the business portion of the arrangement.

Then I reached for a fucking condom.

Making an heir was the last thing on my mind. Right then, I didn’t care about the Bratva or the company…

I wanted Sutton.

Which is why I had to leave.

It’s why I’m here, still trying to clear my head forty-eight hours later.

My arms shake slightly as I press up. Too much weight?

Or just the weight of remembering how she looked in my bed, all that soft skin and trust I don’t deserve?

Artem moves behind me to spot, laughing softly. “You always did come at things sideways. You’ll realize I’m right when you have a baby. You think you can keep things professional then?”

“Let me guess: you want me to throw out the contract and play happy family like you?”

“Would it be the worst thing?”

“Yes.” The lone word comes out like venom. My shoulders heave as I stand, shoving past him. “I’m no family man, Artem. Never will be.”

It’s why I chose this path. This cold, controlled arrangement is supposed to be simple, clean. It was supposed to be safe.

But nothing about Sutton Palmer feels safe right now.

“Stubborn ass,” Artem mutters, trailing me to the squat rack. “The least you can do is be decent to her.”

This time, I bark out a laugh. It’s amazing. Artem has met her once, and he’s already on Team Sutton.

“What makes you think I’m not?”

“She looked ready to bolt when we showed up last night. If I hadn’t brought the whole family, pretty sure she’d have told me to fuck right off.”

“That’s everyone’s first instinct with you.” I drop into a squat, thighs burning.

“Dangerous game, being an asshole to the man in charge of whether you get squished to death or not.”

I snort. “I can handle myself without a spotter.”

In the mirror, Artem rolls his eyes. “All I’m saying is that this is a huge commitment. Why not make it easier on yourself?”

Another rep. Sweat stings my eyes. “Meaning?”

“Be her friend.”

I drop the weight into the rack with a laugh that comes out more like a snarl. “Her friend?”

It tastes wrong on my tongue.

A friend doesn’t think about bending someone over every available surface.

A friend wouldn’t have felt the crush of her orgasm on his fingers.

A friend wouldn’t know the sound she made as she came or imagine all the other sounds they could draw out of her with a little time and the toys in my closet.

“Sutton and I can’t be friends,” I say, only a little hoarse.

“Start simple.” Artem shrugs, unfazed by my reaction. “Have dinner with her. Maybe ask her about the engagement announcement. She’s getting engaged, too. I bet she has some thoughts.”

I grab my towel, wiping sweat that’s not entirely from exertion. “Her opinion doesn’t matter. She signed a contract.”

“If that’s the philosophy you’re gonna take into parenting, God help you both.”

“Gym time should be silent time,” I grit out.

But my thoughts aren’t silent. My head is a fucking riot of her.

One day in my house and Sutton has chipped away at walls I’ve spent nineteen years building.

So I need to do some reinforcing—build them up stronger.

Artem’s eyes flare when I increase the weight again, but he doesn’t argue.

Maybe he can see that I need the weight.

The pain.

Anything to stay focused on the task at hand.

I retreat to my office later, but even here, I can’t escape her. I itch to grab my phone and comb through the security footage of Sutton in my house.

Just as I’m about to give in, Candace messages me about engagement announcement layouts.

I scan them without really seeing, mind stuck on Artem’s words.

Should I send them to Sutton? Let her have input on how we tell the world our carefully crafted lie?

That would be the “friendly” thing to do.

I’m staring at the screen, debating, when her name flashes on my screen.

SUTTON: Hey, I was thinking of making a little risotto tonight. Care to join me?

I do care. More than I should.

Something twists in my gut—sharp, visceral. A feeling I haven’t let myself experience in nineteen years.

My chest constricts, lungs fighting for air that suddenly tastes like smoke and saltwater.

I close my eyes, but that’s worse. They’re there instantly—Oriana’s laugh, Elise’s smile, both gone to ash because I dared to dream of happiness.

Because I was weak enough to love them.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. Sutton’s message blinks up at me.

So innocent.

So dangerous.

I chose this arrangement to avoid exactly this—this suffocating pull, this temptation to want more. To be more.

I message Candace first.

OLEG: The second announcement works. Have it ready for print by tomorrow.

Then I force myself to type:

OLEG: I’m busy tonight.

I send it to Sutton, then set my phone aside and focus on work.

Numbers. Logistics. Things that can’t hurt because I never let them in.

Things that can’t die in my arms because I was foolish enough to care.