Page 24 of Deviant Need

Daniil looks away and bites his lip.

The guy frowns and waves a hand in front of his face. “Hello? What’s his problem? Why can’t he talk? Is he fucking stup⁠—”

I’m off the chair before he finishes the sentence, my fist connecting with his face so hard I feel something crack under my knuckles. He goes down and blood pours from his nose, thick and fast. His friends start screaming, and I haul him back up by his collar, slamming my fist into his face again.

Blood sprays across the bar and across his friends, and they scatter like someone yelled fire, running straight into my security team who don’t move an inch.

Grabbing him by his shirt, I drag him across the club floor while he tries to fight me, but he’s weak and pathetic. Daniil follows behind me as I haul the guy down the hall toward the security office and throw him inside. He hits the floor hard, and Daniil closes the door behind us, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed.

The guy scrambles backward with one hand clutching his bleeding face and the other flying up in some useless attempt to shield himself. I throw another punch and then kick him across the face. His head snaps to the side, and he crumples.

“Help—” he chokes out.

“Not so funny now, is it?” I shout.

He’s sobbing and trying to curl into himself while blood pours down his chin and soaks into his shirt. My gaze lands on one of the knives sitting on the desk, and I pick it up, the weight solid in my hand. Dropping down, I drive the blade straight into his chest.

He gasps with his eyes going wide, and his hands fly up to clutch at the handle, but it’s already done. Blood pools dark and fast beneath him, spreading across the floor in a thick puddle. His body jerks once and then goes still.

I stand and wipe my hands on my black jeans. When I glance over at Daniil, he’s biting his lip with his cheek flushed pink and his eyes locked on me. Not on the body. On me. There’s something in the way he’s looking at me that I can’t quite place, something hungry and tense that makes my pulse kick harder for a completely different reason.

“You alright?” I ask, breathless.

He nods slowly, pushing off the wall. “I think I’m going to go home.”

“Ignore what he said. He was just some drunk asshole, okay? Doesn’t mean anything.”

He shakes his head and won’t look at me. I know how bad he feels about not being able to talk, how much it eats at him. He’s funny and smart, and I love being around him, but no one else gets to see those parts of him. Only me.

I pull him into me, wrapping my arms around him tightly. He goes still for a second with his arms hanging at his sides before he finally wraps them around me too. He sighs against me, and I feel him breathing me in.

He mumbles something under his breath about a failed operation and being back at zero, and I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“What operation?” I ask, pulling back to look at him.

“Nothing. Just forget it.”

“Want to go get ice cream?” I ask him.

He looks up at me. “What? Now?”

“Yeah. Please, I just want to hang out with you for a little longer.”

“Okay, sure.”

Grinning, I take his hand and lace my fingers with his, pulling him toward the exit. It’s already dark outside, and there’s a big line waiting to get into Ozero.

The ice cream place is across the street and still open, so we make our way over and join the line. He keeps giving me side glances, biting his lip and sighing. God, he’s being so dramatic. And for what? What did I even do?

When we reach the counter, I let go of his hand and come up behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist and resting my chin on his shoulder. “Strawberry ice cream for me,” I say to the girl behind the counter. “And a strawberry milkshake for him.”

A few minutes later, she hands us our orders, and we head over to one of the booths.

He chooses the seat across from me instead of next to me, which is weird. He glances up at me and takes a sip of his milkshake while I scoop up some of my ice cream. I make my way around the booth so I’m sitting next to him, and he shoots me a look, his cheeks flushing slightly again as he drinks his milkshake without saying anything.

A girl with blonde hair keeps looking over from the booth across from us. She nudges her friend with her elbow, and Daniil glances up, catches her staring at me, then shoots her a glare before turning it on me. His jaw works as he bites the inside of his lip.

“I’m sorry I made you mad.”