Dirty Damage: Chapter 7

Tangy lemongrass and raw fish soak the air of my private executive lounge. My security team is sprawled across the dark leather furniture, their attention fixed on steaming poke bowls while mine is riveted on the file in my hands.

“She’s got ties to the Martineks. Through the ex-boyfriend.”

I flip through the pages of the background check I ordered, scanning details about Sutton Palmer’s life.

MIA parents, one sister, few addresses to her name and even fewer people in her orbit.

But the people she is connected to have interesting ties.

Artem pauses mid-chew, a piece of tuna trapped between his chopsticks.

My head of security has been with me since we were kids breaking motorcycles and hearts in Saint Petersburg. The look on his face tells me he suspects I’m a little too interested in this employee, but he’s smart enough not to mention it.

“Drew Anton,” he says after swallowing. “Worked muscle for Paul Lipovsky in Vegas before moving to Palm Beach. Started running with the Martineks about six months ago.”

He frowns down at his bowl. “Dammit, they forgot my wasabi mayo. I knew something was wrong.”

“I ordered extra.” Volodymir, young and eager to prove himself, hands Artem a small plastic container from the bottom of the paper bag. Then he turns to me. “What I’m more interested in is those photos she sent everyone.”

Mikhail, my weapons specialist, whistles long and low. “Makes me want to visit the daycare center more often. Who knew we had that kind of ass hiding down there?”

Something dark and possessive coils in my chest. The same feeling that’s been haunting me since I saw her half-dressed in the gym.

Since those photos hit my inbox.

I shouldn’t care what they say about her. If they wanna rub themselves raw thinking about her, it’s no skin off my back.

Still, I find myself scowling at them both.

“Shut it.”

Vol’s mouth snaps closed. Even Mikhail, who usually can’t tell when enough is way more than fucking enough, suddenly finds his food fascinating.

I turn back to Artem. “Any proof of direct connection between her and the Martineks?”

He shakes his head, beard catching the afternoon light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He grew it out not long after getting married. One crack about his softening jawline, and I haven’t seen a peek of it since.

“None that we could find. She moved here after breaking things off with Drew. Traded in a townhouse for a shitty apartment and a Lexus for a beater Ford. Classic signs of a woman running from something.”

Or someone.

The thought makes my jaw clench.

“The sister’s still with Lipovsky, though,” Mikhail adds, apparently finding his voice again. “Living large in Vegas from what I could tell. It’s where those pictures came from, too.”

Vol leans into Mikhail and grins. “We gotta get to Vegas, eh?”

I whirl on them both. “Take your food and get the fuck out.”

They scramble for their bowls and hightail it while I turn back to the photo clipped to Sutton Palmer’s file. It’s her employee badge photo, though the pictures the entire company has seen are the ones floating behind my eyes.

Twenty-five.

Foster kid turned daycare assistant.

Nothing extraordinary on paper. But there’s something about her that gets under my skin.

Maybe it’s the way she stood up to me in the gym, all fire and backbone despite her embarrassment.

Maybe it’s the vulnerability I glimpsed beneath her defiance.

The way she trembled when I touched her, even as she told me to stop staring at her tits.

Or maybe I’m just thinking with my dick.

“You gonna tell me what this is really about?” Artem asks quietly as soon as the door slams closed behind the others.

I meet his knowing gaze. We’ve been through too much together for me to bullshit him.

“My mother wants a grandchild. The board wants me settled before they’ll consider my proposals for expanding the tech division.”

“And you think the daycare girl is the answer?”

I lean back, leather creaking beneath me. “I think she’s desperate enough to consider an arrangement. And I think having a woman like her on my arm won’t hurt when I’m trying to convince old-school Bratva gargoyles that I can lead us into the future.”

It’s a business arrangement. A deal we both benefit from. I’ll get my votes and Sutton won’t end up back in one of the shelters she crawled her way out of.

Artem’s expression darkens. “She’s not some pawn you can sacrifice, Oleg.”

“No,” I agree, standing and gathering the file. “She’s my solution.”

I pull up to the marina and climb out of my car. Salty wind whips off the water, carrying the scent of rotted wood and diesel fuel.

Usually, the rows of gleaming yachts along the horizon calm me, but tonight, my blood runs hot with anticipation.

Irritation spikes when I glance around the lot.

It’s empty.

She’s late.

Ten minutes late, to be precise. She canceled our meeting this morning, sending off a formal resignation to HR instead. Then I extend a lifeline and she doesn’t even show up?

She’s ungrateful.

If it were anyone else, this would be the end of the road.

Actually, the end of the road would’ve been when I found them half-naked in the locker room.

Somehow, fate and convenience have intervened to give Sutton Palmer another chance. Somehow, she’s become my best option to satiate the board and turn my father’s company into the success it always should’ve been.

Somehow, I find myself tied to her.

If she agrees, it could all be so simple. Clean.

So I find myself doing something I haven’t done in nineteen years: I wait.

Another five minutes pass, then her piece of shit Ford rattles into the parking lot, belching exhaust and dripping oil.

The car looks even worse up close—paint peeling, rust creeping along the wheel wells. It’s the kind of vehicle that screams “notice me” in all the wrong ways. Not the image I need for my future wife.

She sits behind the wheel for a long moment, and I can practically taste her hesitation. Whatever she thinks she’s walking into, she has no fucking clue.

When she finally opens the door, she uses it like a shield between us.

Maybe she has a small clue, after all.

I arch a brow at her over the door until she steps behind it. When she does, I almost wish she’d stayed in the car.

My eyes drop to her body, to the way her white t-shirt clings to her breasts. Those photos didn’t do her justice.

In person, she’s a fucking siren—all soft curves and haunted eyes that have me wanting to protect her almost as much as I want to corrupt her.

I drag a hand through my hair to center myself. My voice comes out cold and controlled even as my cock twitches.

“You’re late.”

A blush stains her cheeks pink. “I sent in my resignation before you asked for this meeting. I don’t work for you anymore.”

There’s that backbone again. Her voice shakes, but she levels me with eyes as blue as the ocean behind us.

The mix of strength and vulnerability makes me want to test her, to push her to her limits just to see how she’ll break.

“Then why come at all?”

I take a step closer, gravel crunching under my Italian leather shoes. She tightens her grip on the car door, knuckles going white. The gesture is small but telling: she’s afraid of me.

Good.

She should be.

The scars on my face are just the beginning of my darkness. But something tells me she’s got shadows of her own.

“It’s because you’re here to listen to my job offer.”

She stiffens, letting me know I’ve hit the mark. She needs this job as much as I need her to accept it.

“I wasn’t sure if you were serious, to be honest.”

“I’m a serious man, Ms. Palmer.” I let my gaze drift over her deliberately. When our eyes meet again, her breath catches. “And I think you’ll be interested in what I have to say.”

After a beat, she slams the car door closed with a rusty shriek that cuts through the soft hush of the water lolling against the dock.

She lifts her chin, and there’s something in the quiet strength of her that calls to the beast in me.

It makes me want to claim and possess and mark. To show her what kind of man she’s dealing with.

Nothing about her slimy ex-boyfriend prepared her for what’s about to happen.

“Come with me.”

I turn toward my yacht, not bothering to check to see if she follows. I know she will.

She may act defiant, but she’s curious—or desperate—enough to play my game. Now, I just have to make sure she understands the rules.

And what happens to little girls who break them.