Page 7 of Deviant Need

“That’s because I actually train hard instead of half-assing it. You’re getting better though. I’ll give you that.”

He ruffles my hair, and I lean into it, can’t help myself. His thumb drags across my scalp, and heat spreads through my chest. His blue eyes meet mine, and I hold his gaze. I could stare at them forever. They remind me of the ocean at the beach we always go to.

He complains about clingy people all the time, says it’s a big issue for him, and he can’t stand them. Meanwhile, he’s the clingiest person alive when it comes to me and has never once noticed the irony.

He clears his throat. “So how did it go?”

My stomach drops, and I look down and pick at my sleeves, fabric bunching between my fingers.

“It went fine, I guess.”

He brings his hand down to my jaw and forces my head to turn toward him. “I can’t wait to open the results with you, find out what they’re hiding.”

We’ve both tried asking our parents for information about who I was before, why I got taken into the family, and even our older brothers won’t tell us anything.

Everyone shuts down the second we bring it up, which means there’s something they’re protecting us from or protecting themselves from. The only thing we managed to find out was that our mother had a miscarriage right before I got brought home. What that means, I have no clue. Maybe I was a replacement for the baby she lost.

“What if it’s bad?” I ask quietly.

“Then it’s bad. We deal with it.” His thumb presses harder against my jaw. “Together. Like always.”

“It’s weird that nobody wants to tell us anything about it.”

He hums in agreement. “Yeah. Which means it’s probably something we’d actually want to know. Fuck them and their secrets, I’m glad we did this.”

“Easy for you to say. You love breaking rules.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You’re such a liar. Who kept loosening the cap on Father’s pen so it leaked on his shirts when we were ten? Who planned that?”

“You took credit for it.”

“Because I couldn’t let him know you did it when you can’t even talk back to defend yourself,” he says and grins. “And who hid Lev’s car keys the morning of that huge meeting with the O’Sheas?”

I roll my eyes. “Okay, stop.”

“And who had me tell Mother that Yulian needed her urgently, then hid in the closet laughing when she started yelling at him for wasting her time?”

“I get it.”

“Just making sure we’re clear on who the actual problem child is here.” He lets go of my jaw. “Come on, let’s grab Chinese and go home. Get high, watch something stupid.”

We’re probably the only reason that takeout place hasn’t closed down yet, showing up every day and sometimes twice when Mikhail’s extra hungry. He’ll find something to complain about no matter what we order, saying there’s not enough food or the rice is overcooked or the chicken’s too bland. He still eats all of it every time.

We walk into our apartment, the penthouse that overlooks the whole city in every direction. We bought this place specifically because of the jacuzzi on the balcony, which Mikhail saw during the tour and immediately decided this was the apartment, that no other options would do. He hasn’t used that damn jacuzzi a single time since we’ve lived here. Not once.

The place has light wooden floors and floor-to-ceiling windows, with furniture I got to pick out for us. I love colors, so I picked a lot of different colored furniture to fill the space. Our couches are dark purple, and our walls have different-colored lime wash paint, making each room feel alive and vibrant instead of the sterile white box.

Mikhail’s holding his gym bag, and I’ve got the takeout as we both kick our shoes off by the door. He chucks the bag onto the floor without a second thought, already heading toward the kitchen.

My eye twitches. I’m not going to say anything, even though he does this every goddamn day. Leaves it there, forgets about it until it starts smelling like sweat and death, then whines that he has no clean clothes. It’s like he wants us to suffer.

I walk straight to the couch and drop the food on the sofa table, start pulling containers out one by one. Behind me comes a loud curse and the predictable sound of his toe finding the kitchen island… Again.

How does he still manage to hit the same corner every single time?

We’ve lived here for almost two years. He walks into everything because he doesn’t realize how much space he takes up, like his brain hasn’t caught up to the fact that he’s six foot four and built like he is.

He stomps over and launches himself over the back of the couch, landing next to me with all the grace of a freight train. One of the containers nearly goes flying.