Page 6 of Deviant Need

When I push him away, he gives me those sad puppy eyes, and it breaks me every time. Then I’m right back where I started, letting him wrap around me, pretending it’s something it’s not.

It’s torture.

Some girl walks up to Mikhail while he’s in the middle of jumping rope and starts talking to him. He throws the rope onto the floor, grabs his water bottle, and nods at whatever she’s saying, wiping his face with a towel. She moves closer, closing the distance between them, and my jaw tightens.

I’m already crossing the gym floor with my eyes locked on them.

She pulls out her phone, angling it toward him like she’s about to ask for his number, and I bump into her shoulder hard enough that the phone flies out of her hand and hits the floor with a satisfying crack.

Mikhail looks up, eyebrows raised. “Fuck, about time you’re here. Carlos has been trying to kill me.” He jerks his thumb at his trainer, who rolls his eyes and slaps Mikhail’s shoulder.

“You were being annoying. Glad he was late so I could torture you longer,” Carlos says and walks off.

The girl’s still standing there. So, I turn and stare at her until she clears her throat, picks up her phone, and leaves.

Mikhail blinks at me. “What’s your problem?”

“Nothing. It was an accident. Wasn’t paying attention,” I say, shrugging.

He rolls his shoulders, wincing. “I need a shower. Carlos kicked my ass.”

I give him a teasing look. “Your trainer kicked your ass? That’s embarrassing for you. Want to talk about it?”

“Shut up.” He grins, shoving my shoulder. “He’s been training fighters for twenty years. I’m allowed to get my ass beat by a professional.”

“Sure. That’s the excuse we’re going with.”

He throws his towel at my face, and I barely dodge it.

“I’m showering. Don’t leave without me.”

I scoff. “Wouldn’t dream of it. You’d probably hijack someone’s car and get arrested again.”

“That was one time!”

“Twice.”

He flips me off as he walks toward the locker room, still grinning.

Turning around, I walk back to the car garage and open the gym’s member portal on my phone to find her profile. Scanning the parking garage, I locate her car in the far corner and walk over casually, crouching down to tie my shoe, and do a quick check for cameras.

My hand dips into my pocket for the knife, and I sink it into her front tire before I stand up and head back to my car.

In the driver’s seat, I scroll through emails on my phone and wait. Ten minutes later, the passenger door flies open, and Mikhail drops into the seat beside me, fresh from the shower with damp hair and a clean shirt sticking to his skin. His body wash floods the entire car.

“I can’t even fit my legs in here.”

“You say that every single time,” I mutter, not looking up from my phone. “The car’s not the issue. Your height is.”

I hear him mumble something under his breath about the purple paint job being ugly, and my head snaps up so fast I nearly drop my phone.

“Stop talking shit about my car,” I snap.

He bites his cheek, looks out the window, trying not to laugh. I don’t know why all my brothers hate the color purple so much. It’s not even bright. It’s dark plum, sleek, sophisticated. Better than their boring black cars that all look identical.

“Can we stop for food? I’m starving.”

“You’re always starving. Every hour of every day,” I shoot back at him with a grin.