Page 107 of Deviant Need

One slip. One moment where my mouth moved faster than my brain.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

My father’s glass shatters in his hand.

Glancing over, he’s staring at me with an expression I’ve never seen before, something beyond fury. Blood drips onto the floor in steady drops. My mother reaches for his arm, but he shoves her away so hard she stumbles backward into someone behind her, nearly falling.

He crosses the floor toward me in fast strides, blood trailing behind him, and punches me so hard across the face that my vision goes white for a second. I taste copper, and my knees almost give out, but I catch myself against the wall.

“What did you just say?” he says in rapid Russian. “What have you done?”

He shoves me hard and lands another punch before I can react, his fist connecting with my jaw and sending pain exploding through my skull.

My hands come up instinctively, and I swing at him, but he’s faster, more trained, and he blocks it without effort. His bloodied hand wraps around my throat, and he slams me back against the wall hard enough that the air gets knocked out of me, his grip is so tight, black spots dance at the edges of my vision.

“What do you mean by him?” he spits the words directly into my face, his breath hot and his fingers digging into the sides of my throat. “I hope for your sake I heard that wrong, Mikhail. I hope you misspoke in your panic because if you are telling me what I think you are telling me,” he screams into my face.

His fingers press harder, and my windpipe closes completely. I can’t breathe at all now, my hands clawing uselessly at his wrist.

His brown eyes burn into mine with a fury I’ve never seen before, and this deep, desperate part of me, the child that has always longed for his approval, is still there and stops me from fighting back. Something I’ve never gotten from him, not once in twenty-four years. The hope that he’ll one day change, just even a tiny bit, even though I know that day will never come and I’ll never be good enough for him.

I shove him away from me, but he comes back at me so fast I barely register the movement. He pulls out a knife and presses it against my stomach, hidden between our bodies where nobody else can see it. My eyes dart to Daniil for a second, and he’s clutching onto a chair, frozen in place.

“You are marrying her tomorrow,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “And you’re going to tell me right now that I misheard you.”

“You didn’t,” I say back in Russian.

His brown eyes fill with fury and something else, disgust mixed with disbelief, like he can’t comprehend that I came from him.

“You’re going to follow me and pretend everything is fine,” he grits out. “If you don’t, I will kill you and whoever you love. Do you understand me?”

I nod, my throat still aching from where his hand was wrapped around it. My eyes dart toward Daniil, and he’s still frozen by that chair, his knuckles white from gripping it so hard.

My father grabs me and positions me in front of him, pressing the knife into my back under my jacket where nobody can see it. The tip digs in just enough that I can feel it through my shirt, a constant threat with every breath. From this angle I can still see Daniil’s face drain of color as he realizes what’s happening. Father walks me past the sea of people, and everyone stares at us.

Daniil lunges forward, trying to get to me, but two guards catch him before he makes it three steps. He fights against their grip, twisting and pulling, his face desperate.

“M—” tears out of him, broken and panicked. He’s stuttering, trying to force the rest out, his mouth forming the shape of my name over and over. “M—M—Mikhail.” The word finally breaks through in front of all these people, and the shock of it makes me freeze.

Our father barks at them to stop him, and one of the guards punches him hard in the stomach, and he doubles over, gasping. The other one wrenches his arms behind his back while he’s trying to breathe.

“Stop,” I try to say, but the knife digs deeper into my back.

He’s still struggling against them, trying to get free even though he can barely breathe. His hazel eyes are wild, terrified, locked on me as Father pushes me further away.

My mother’s face is pale, her hand pressed to her mouth.

Yulian is halfway out of his seat at the bar, frozen like he doesn’t know whether to move or stay. Alexei has appeared from somewhere, his expression dark and unreadable, watching the guards hold Daniil.

My father spots a door leading to a stairwell and shoves me toward it.

The door swings shut behind us, cutting off the music and the stares, and he’s on me before I can react. He slams me up against the concrete wall and brings the knife up to my throat, the blade cold against my skin.

“It’s wrong. Against everything we are supposed to be,” he spits out. “How could you?” His voice rises, echoing in the stairwell. “It was one thing to let Alexei go when he pulled this stunt, but I never expected something so unnatural to come from you. You were supposed to be better than this.”

He pulls the knife back and his fist connects with my face, and pain explodes across my cheekbone. Wincing, I try to pull away, but his hand locks onto my shirt and slams me back against the wall, keeping me exactly where he wants me. The knife returns to my throat.