Page 75 of Mutual Desire

The words tumbled out before Damien could think them through, but he didn’t care. It was his last-ditch effort to claw back some semblance of control.

Nabokov’s expression didn’t change—no anger, no fear, not even amusement. Just the same cool indifference, like Damien’s threat was little more than white noise.

“Well,” Nabokov murmured, adjusting the papers in front of him with casual ease. “Do what you think is right.”

The detachment in his tone shattered something in Damien. How could this man remain so calm, so unfazed, while Damien’s life unraveled at his feet?

“All of this… it’s a game to you, isn’t it?” Damien whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of frustration. “Chasing someone who’s already taken—breaking up a relationship for kicks—this is just fun for you.”

Nabokov didn’t answer, his gaze unwavering. It was the silence of a man who had no need to justify himself.

“How the hell do you sleep at night?” Damien asked bitterly, his lips curling into a pained sneer.

“I sleep very well,” Nabokov replied smoothly. The simplicity of his answer stung more than any insult.

Damien clenched his jaw. “You sleep well knowing you destroy people’s lives? Knowing you can’t stand not getting what you want?”

Nabokov smiled, a slow, deliberate gesture that was more dangerous than any threat. The kind of smile that said:I don’t need to justify myself to anyone.

“When I want something, I don’t wait for it,” Nabokov said, his voice low but steady. “I take it. Life is too short to hesitate. If there’s something I want to do, I don’t waste time— I do it, without question. It’s that simple.”

Damien let out a dry laugh, the sound brittle and broken. He was running on fumes—anger, exhaustion, and the ache of helplessness combining into a storm he couldn’t contain.

“So, you’re just a bigger piece of shit than I thought,” Damien muttered.

Nabokov shrugged, unbothered. “I’d say I’m ambitious. But if ‘piece of shit’ makes you feel better, I’ll take it.”

The weight of Nabokov’s words settled over Damien like a heavy blanket, suffocating him. He felt the fight draining from his limbs, the sharp edges of his anger dulling under the crushing reality that he was up against someone he couldn’t win against.

Damien turned abruptly, ready to leave, but tears began to prick his eyes before he could make it out the door. He was unraveling, piece by piece, and Nabokov was watching every fragment fall.

“Damien,” Nabokov called out, his voice calm and measured, as if he had all the time in the world. “Let me drop you off at your place.”

Damien didn’t stop walking.

“Or at the police station. Wherever you want,” Nabokov added casually.

Damien froze halfway to the door, his fists clenched at his sides. He was shaking, anger and exhaustion warring inside him.

“Alexander…” Damien whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. “It’s enough. I can’t do this anymore. Let’s stop this. Please.”

His legs carried him not toward the exit, but to the bathroom, where the door swung open under his trembling hand. As soon as he stepped inside, the tears broke free, hot and bitter against his cheeks.

“Fuck!” Damien muttered, choking on his own frustration.

He wasn’t even able to stand up to Nabokov—not even to save his relationship.

In this war of wills, he had already lost. Damien barely felt like a man anymore. In Nabokov’s presence, he was worse than submissive—he was powerless. Why couldn’t he hit the Russian’s weak spot, find a way to force him out of his life for good? Why was it so impossible?

He loved Craig—he truly did. Yet that love wasn’t enough to sever the hold Nabokov had on him. He would have to go to the police. As pathetic as it felt, that was the only way out.He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His own reflection disgusted him. Red-eyed, broken, hopeless. What would his father think, seeing him like this? Crying for nothing—falling apart over a man he should despise.

He turned on the sink, grabbing some paper towels and wetting them. He scrubbed at the wine stains on his jeans, then knelt to wipe his soiled Nikes, as though cleaning away the mess would erase everything else. But the tears kept coming, slow and relentless, dripping onto his hands as he worked.

He moved to the far end of the counter, sat on it, his back resting against the mirror, his legs stretched out. His eyes stared into the void, tears drying on his cheeks but leaving behind the ache in his chest.

Even the thought of going to the police left him cold. Would they even take him seriously when they found out who Nabokov was? Would they just laugh at him, call him weak? Probably. But he had to try—for Craig, if not for himself. Craig deserved that much.

Craig deserved everything.

---