Page 55 of Dirty Grovel

Another wave crashes over me. But this time, it doesn’t let go. It snakes its watery hands around my wrists and tries to pull me overboard.

A small part of me is tempted to just admit defeat, give up the fight, surrender to the current that’s pulling me into the deepest depths of the ocean.

It’ll be dark down there. Quiet. Maybe even peaceful.

I could use that in my life.

And if I can’t have it in life, maybe I can enjoy it in death.

But just as I start considering the alternative, I hear my name. Soft as a whisper but strong at the same time.

I know that voice.

I love that voice.

“Sutton… You’re dreaming… Wake up…”

With a gasp, I come to, my eyes flying open just as the saltwater cuffs around my wrists dissolve into flesh and bone.

“O-Oleg?” I mumble, panting hard.

“It’s me,” he says calmly, his golden eyes pooled in shadow. “It’s only me. You’re safe now.”

“I-I don’t know.” I glance in panic around the room, wondering where all the water went and when it might come surging back. “I don’t know anymore…”

“As long as you’re with me, you’ll be safe, princess.” For the first time in a long time, there is sincerity in his voice.

“No, I’m not. I won’t ever be safe. I’m doomed, just like my mother was.”

He pulls me onto his lap, my sweat-drenched camisole sticking against his naked chest. His body is cool in comparison to mine. Cool and hard and unyielding.

As much as I want to push away, deal with my downward spiral on my own, he feels too good. He smells too good—like smoke and salt and whiskey.

And it feels so nice to be able to lean on someone. To take my troubles and lay them at his feet—even if it is all just in my head.

A sob escapes my throat and before I can stop myself, I’m crying all over him.

“I don’t mean to be crying,” I repeat stupidly. “I don’t even know what I’m crying about…”

“It’s okay,” he murmurs to me. “Cry if you must.”

“No. I don’t want you to see me cry. I don’t want anyone to see me cry.”

His hands stroke my hip. “Do you want to be alone?”

The idea of him walking away from me now feels a little bit like facing that giant wall of water: terrifying.

“No,” I exclaim, digging my fingers into the hard flesh of his back. “No, please, please don’t leave me.”

“It’s okay,” he whispers to me, cradling me in his arms as he rocks me back and forth. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

For a second, I imagine the young boy from the pictures I saw this morning. Still unmarred, still carefree, still trusting.

A part of me mourns his death.

But a bigger part of me aches for the man I’m clinging to now.

How is it possible to be so close to a person and still feel so far away from them?

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