Page 163 of Dirty Grovel

“Who ratted me out?” I ask. “Was it Faye or Jesse?”

Oleg sighs. “Does it matter?”

“Yes. Next time, I’ll know whom to leave out of my escape plan.”

“Why do you need an escape plan at all?”

I look out towards the horizon. It’s lost behind a canvas of dark blues, grays, and blacks. “That’s our future, Oleg.” I point towards the storm in the distance. “We’re never going to see blue skies if we’re together.”

“How did you come to that conclusion?”

I wrap my arms around my body, trying not to let emotion get the better of me. “Your mother helped,” I say in a small voice.

“Christ,” he mutters. “Listening to my mother is a surefire way of ending up miserable, Sutton. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

“Except she does,” I insist. “She’s been a Bratva wife. She’s been a Bratva mother. She’s hosted the parties, planned the events, orchestrated the funerals, and perfected the weddings. She knows what to wear, who to be seen with, and how to charm them. You’re better off marrying someone she chooses.”

Oleg’s lips curl into a sneer. “Fuck,” he growls. “She got to you.”

“She must have got to you, too,” I point out. “Why else would you have stood there last night and said nothing while she…” I manage to speak clearly and confidently right up until thatpoint. Then I start to stumble. “… Sh-she said those things about me.”

“You heard?”

“It was hard not to.”

“I hit a low point… but it had nothing to do with you.”

I give him a suspicious look. “Come on, Oleg—it must have had something to do with me. I showed up to your uncle’s funeral in a pink dress.”

He snorts. “You think I give a shit about what you wear or where you wear it?”

“There are rules in your world.”

He grabs my hand suddenly, pulling me to him until I’m flush against his chest. “Fuck the rules,” he hisses. “I don’t give a shit about the damn rules anymore. The only thing I give a shit about is you.”

My heart is back to thundering against my chest. It’s the dangerous kind of thundering, too.

The kind that spells hope.

“Oleg—”

“I didn’t defend you with Oksana, because I realized it doesn’t matter what she thinks of you. Or of us.Ichose you. I still choose you. And I will keep choosing you every day for the rest of our lives.”

I’m excruciatingly close to ugly crying all over the boardwalk. My head is a mess of uncertainty and regret and desire.

It would be so easy to lean into his big, strong chest and forget everything else.

But that would mean forgetting a lot.

“They’re beautiful words, Oleg. But don’t you think we’re being idealistic? Naïve? Your mother has a point—I don’t fit into your world and I probably never will.”

“One thing means none of that matters: I love you, Sutton Palmer.”

My jaw drops. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Y-you’ve never said that before.”

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