Page 31 of Deviant Need

My fingers slide down to his neck where Верность в молчании is inked in Russian across his throat. The family motto. We all have it tattooed somewhere on our bodies, and mine’s over my heart. It means true loyalty doesn’t need words. My thumb drags slowly over the letters.

More ink covers his arms and torso now than it did even a year ago. Russian script curls around his left hand with chains wrapping around it on either side, and my favorite flower sits on his shoulder.

There’s a bird on the side of his ribs, the one we spotted when we were kids and both insisted was a dragon. Turned out it was a cardinal with bright red wings that caught the light. He got the bird tattooed to remember it, then added a dragon under the flower. Roman numerals are tattooed on his fingers for the day we found our tree in the woods, and a butterfly sits on his other shoulder from the one we saw as kids, the one that made me say my second word ever.

He’s covered in scars too. Most of them from being reckless, doing stupid things without thinking it through first. Half of them from trying to copy those stunts he watched online, hurting himself because he thought it was entertaining.

I shouldn’t have pushed him away like this. It obviously resulted in whatever mess this has become, and it’s my fault. I’ve been a massive asshole to him for no reason except that I can’t handle my own feelings.

He opens one eye, then grabs my hand and brings it up to his face, holding it there against his cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

He gives me this look that says he doesn’t quite believe me, but he’s too worn out to argue. I sigh and shift closer. “I can go grab you some food, then we can smoke and just cuddle. Maybe put something on TV?”

He blinks in surprise. “You would do that?”

“Yeah,” I say, biting my lip. Fuck, he’s so hot even like this. I want to lick up his neck and bite his earlobes, taste those stupidly perfect pink lips. He even has perfect teeth, which feels unfair. Like the universe decided to make him completely irresistible just to torture me specifically. Goddamnit.

He nods slowly, then pushes himself up to sit, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fuck, my head. I’m going to shower first, and then we can meet in your bedroom.”

Here we go again… Operation Avoid Mikhail is officially dead. Not back at day zero, just over. I fucking give up. All that effort, all that careful distance I tried to maintain, and one night of him showing up wrecked was all it took for me to cave completely.

I’ve been missing him the entire time anyway, and every single day without him felt wrong. I’m such a hopeless idiot, it’s embarrassing.

Dragging myself up, I head to the kitchen. The fridge is better stocked than usual, probably because our mother came by and filled it while we weren’t paying attention.

She does that sometimes, shows up unannounced and leaves behind containers of food and fresh groceries like she’s worried we’ll starve without her intervention. I lay everything out on the counter before starting to build sandwiches the way he likes them. Extra tomatoes and no onions because he hates onions.

Giving in so easily wasn’t the plan. The whole point was to create distance, to protect myself from this constant ache of wanting something I can’t have. But he looked so miserable and hungover and confused, and leaving him like that wasn’t an option.

The container where we keep the joints sits on the counter, the one Mikhail pre-rolls because he’s better at it than me. I check them and make sure they’re packed right before placing them on the plates next to the food. Then I make my way into my room.

Leaning back against the headboard, I bring the joint to my lips and light it, inhaling deeply. The smoke curls up into the air, and the room fills with that earthy weed smell.

Mikhail walks in wrapped in just a towel, water still dripping off him onto the floor. I have to take the deepest breath I can manage when his eight-pack flexes, the defined ridges of muscle shifting under his skin.

He’s holding boxers and gray sweatpants in one hand, and I want to throw the sweatpants out the window. Those things should be banned because they don’t hide anything, and Mikhail is totally oblivious to what they show. I’m going to have to pretend I’m not looking. Again.

He lets the towel drop without warning.

Oh my god, he’s trying to kill me. A strangled sound escapes my throat, and I force my eyes to the ceiling.

His muscular frame is right there in my peripheral vision, muscles flexing as he pulls on his boxers and then the sweatpants, and I take another hit from the joint just to have something to focus on that isn’t him half-naked in my room.

He launches himself onto the bed hard enough to make the frame creak.

“You can never sit or lay down like a normal person,” I say, raising an eyebrow at him.

He hums in response and reaches over to grab the joint out of my hand, bringing it to his lips and inhaling with his eyes half-closed.

My body sinks deeper into the mattress, and I glance over at him. He’s still wet from the shower, with droplets of water running down his neck to his bare chest.

He cups my chin without warning, turning my face toward him, and brings the joint to my lips. I inhale deeply and let the smoke curl into my lungs before exhaling slowly into the air between us. He smirks and tightens his grip on my chin, guiding the joint back to my mouth for another hit. His thumb brushes against my jaw, and my heart stutters.

He finally lets go and takes another drag himself before closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead. He looks exhausted, still wrecked from whatever cocktail of drugs he took last night.

“Can I ask you something?” he asks.