Page 41 of Mutual Desire

Nabokov ended his call and returned, standing too close for comfort. Damien reluctantly lifted his eyes, locking on to the Russian’s hard, cold stare.Great.

“Your boyfriend?” the Russian man asked, gesturing slightly toward the main door where Craig had just exited. Though his tone casual, it carried an underlying sharpness that Damien didn’t miss.

Damien wavered. He swallowed, his heart pounding. How had Nabokov known? He hadn’t even seen them kiss, had he?

“Yes,” Damien answered curtly, watching as Nabokov’s expression darkened slightly. He immediately regretted the answer. The look on Nabokov’s face screamed disapproval—disgust, even.

Damien’s chest burned with anger. It was a look Damien had seen before. Too many times. The kind that told you someone wasn’t quite okay with who you were, no matter how polite or composed they seemed on the surface. The stereotype about Russians being homophobic flashed through his mind, and anger rose in his chest like acid. He tried to tamp it down, but the familiar bitterness gnawed at him. Of course, someone like Nabokov would judge.But then, why the kiss? Why the...?

No, Damien refused to let those thoughts invade his already troubled mind.

“I called you thirty minutes ago,” Nabokov said, smoothly shifting gears as if the moment hadn’t just soured. His voice was calm, controlled—an infuriating contrast to the tension crawling under Damien’s skin.

Damien blinked, caught off guard by the change in topic. “You did?”

He cursed silently. He hadn’t checked his phone since leaving it in Craig’s room.

“I’m sorry I missed your call,” Damien said, scrambling to compose himself. “I spent the whole day outside, and when I got home, it was what, eight o’clock? My phone was dying and…” He trailed off, annoyed at how easily he was rambling.Why the hell am I explaining myself to him?

A faint grin ghosted across Nabokov’s otherwise impassive face, but the dangerous coldness in his eyes remained, leaving Damien feeling small and cornered.

“I didn’t have my phone with me,” Damien added quickly, eager to end the conversation. The more he talked, the more it felt like Nabokov was silently evaluating him, looking for cracks to slip through.

Nabokov’s gaze remained steady on him, their eyes locking in a familiar, uncomfortable game of stare. Silence loomed again. Damien could still feel the weight of that earlier look—the flicker of disgust—and it gnawed at him.

“Your car is fixed,” Nabokov finally said, breaking the silence like a knife through ice.

“Thank you,” Damien replied stiffly, feeling the weight of their staring match growing unbearable.

They held each other’s gaze for a moment, Nabokov’s unreadable eyes seeming to mask a tumult of emotions. How could that be? The longer their eyes remained locked, the harder it became to tell if Nabokov’s coldness was contempt or something else entirely. For a second, Damien convinced himself it was nothing more than casual disapproval—a subtle judgment on his relationship with Craig. That was easier to believe. Safer. If Nabokov was just another homophobic asshole, it made things simpler. It gave Damien a reason to ignore the way his pulse quickened whenever the Russian man came too close, a way to dismiss the pull between them as an illusion.

And yet… there was the kiss on the cheek. It haunted him, no matter how much he tried to dismiss it. Who does that if they’re disgusted? But clinging to that moment—acknowledging what it could mean—was too dangerous. Far easier to believe the kiss was part of some twisted game.

Nabokov studied him for a long, quiet moment before saying, “Goodnight, Damien.”His voice was soft now, disarmingly smooth. He turned to leave.

Damien felt a surge of irritation—why was he letting Nabokov make him feel like this? He shouldn’t care what the man thought. He clenched his jaw. He had no reason to care about this man’s approval. And yet here he was, trying to make sense of the contradictions swirling between them.

“Wait,” Damien blurted out before he could stop himself.

Nabokov stopped, turning slowly. His expression was unreadable once more, but the weight of his gaze pinned Damien to the spot.

“How much do I owe you?” Damien asked, his voice strained as he clung desperately to something—anything—that would put distance between them.

Nabokov’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t insult me, Damien.”

“I’m not insulting you,” Damien snapped, the frustration bubbling to the surface. “I just don’t like owing things to strangers.”

Nabokov took a step closer, his gaze unwavering. “So, I’m just a stranger to you?”

Damien clenched his jaw, throat tightened.Yes. You need to be a stranger. Because if you’re not, I don’t know how to resist this.

“Yes,” Damien replied, forcing the word out. “Just like I am to you.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of Nabokov’s mouth, and he leaned in, invading Damien’s space with a deliberate slowness. “Then let’s get better acquainted,” he murmured, the heat of his breath ghosting over Damien’s skin.

Damien scoffed, trying to mask his unease. “I have no interest in knowing you.”

Nabokov’s smirk widened, the glimmer of amusement in his gray eyes almost cruel. “Then stop looking at me the way you do.”

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