Page 19 of Dirty Grovel

“You’re going to be alright,” I murmur as her breathing evens out. “Everything is going to be alright.”

I have no idea why I say it.

I have no evidence to support it.

All I know is that I have to give her something to believe in—even if I have to rearrange the whole fucking world to make it so.

“Oleg! Faye had the baby!”

I feel oddly detached from the news. I’m happy for my friend, obviously. But I can’t find it in me to be excited.

Maybe it’s because I’m far off in Nassau.

Maybe because I’m standing in the middle of a hospital ER department.

Maybe it’s because I might be on the brink of fatherhood myself and I have no fucking clue how to feel about any of it.

“Congratulations, man,” I say soberly, hoping that he’s too far gone in happiness to recognize that something isn’t right with me. “Girl or boy?”

“A girl!” Artem cries. “We’ve got ourselves another girl. Six pounds, three ounces, the most gorgeous mop of dark hair you’ve ever seen. I’m telling you, Oleg, she’s a beaut.”

“She takes after her mother then.”

“Asshole,” Artem chuckles. “When are you back?”

I glance at the double doors they’d wheeled Sutton through just a few minutes ago.

“I’m not sure yet,” I mutter distractedly. “I’ll let you know when I make a decision.”

“Don’t take too long. You’ve got to meet your newest goddaughter.”

My chest clenches. Something’s definitely off with me today.

“I’m looking forward to it. Give Faye a kiss for me.”

“Will do, brother.”

The moment I hang up, I walk straight into the ER, ignoring all the signs telling me to stay away, and zero in on the room where Sutton is being kept.

Inside, I find the doctor—a tall woman with braided dreadlocks cascading down her back—examining Sutton’s bruises.

When she turns to look at me, I know with absolute certainty that she thinksI’mthe one responsible for them.

As if.

As if I would ever hurt Sutton that way.

I may be a brute and a beast, just like they say, but I’m not the kind of beast that would lay a finger on a woman.

“Mr. Pavlov?” she asks tersely, her slightly accented English dripping with disdain. “May I speak to you in private for a moment?”

She doesn’t wait for me to respond. She just strides to the far edge of the hospital room and stops in front of me, her voice low but still managing to curl with contempt.

Her eyes are dark, close to black. “You are this young woman’s… husband?”

A thread of need tightens in my gut. I ignore it and shake my head. “We’re not married.”

“That’s good,” she snaps. “You brought her in?”

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