Page 44 of Deviant Need

The thought loops through my head on repeat, making everything worse.

I grinded against him, I remember that part. I grinded against Daniil, and the memory makes my stomach twist. Was I hard? That’s the part I can’t remember, and it’s driving me insane.

I must have been, right? You don’t just grind on someone unless you’re into it, unless your body is responding. The memory sits there in my head, hazy and fragmented. And I liked it, I know I liked it in the moment.

But did he? Did I make him uncomfortable? Did I cross a line I can’t uncross?

Fuck.

What is wrong with me?

I’ve shared beds with him, held him when he had nightmares, protected him from everyone, including our own family.

And then I got too wasted and violated every boundary we’ve ever had? Did he even want that, or did he just let it happen because he was scared to stop me? Because I was wasted and unpredictable and he didn’t know what I’d do if he pushed me away?

What if he was scared of me? What if he thought I’d hurt him if he said no?

I was so out of it I can’t even remember if he was into it or if he was just frozen, letting it happen because he didn’t know how to make me stop. What if I forced myself on him and I don’t even remember? What if I’m the kind of person who does that and doesn’t even know it?

My chest heaves and my vision blurs at the edges. The panic attack has its claws in deep now, squeezing everything tight. I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars, trying to ground myself, trying to make my lungs remember how to function.

But all I can think about is the way he felt against me. The sounds he made. How much I want it to happen again, which makes me even more fucked up because what if he didn’t want it?

What if those sounds meant he was just trying to survive it, trying to get through it until I stopped? All I know is that I want him again and that makes me sick.

I can’t fucking breathe.

Chapter 10

Daniil

“We need to send him to rehab again,” Lev’s voice cuts through the room. Our father says something in response, but the words dissolve into white noise. My chair scrapes back, and I’m moving before I can think, stumbling into the hallway like someone pulled a string attached to my heart.

Did he remember? The kiss? That look of complete shock on his face⁠—

Sounds echo from down the hall. Gasping, choking, like someone’s drowning.

The door’s half open to his office, and I break into a run with my sneakers sliding on the polished floor. The closer I get, the worse it sounds. Wet, desperate gasps for air that won’t come. I shove through the doorway, and my stomach drops.

Mikhail’s on the floor with his knees pulled up and his hands clawing at his throat like he can physically rip the panic out. His chest heaves in broken rhythm with his eyes squeezed shut and his face going red.

Slamming the door shut, I twist the lock and drop to my knees beside him. “Mikhail, hey, look at me.”

My arms wrap around his shoulders, and I pull his head into my lap, cradling him against my thighs. His eyes snap open, wild and unfocused, pupils blown so wide the blue’s almost gone.

“I’ve got you. It’s just a panic attack. You know what this is. Try to focus on something else.”

He nods once, jerky and frantic, then twists and buries his face into my lap. His body curls tight on its side with his ribs expanding and collapsing too fast, breaths rattling in his throat. Threading my fingers through the short buzz of his hair, I rub slow circles against his scalp the way I’ve done a thousand times before. This is what works. This is what he needs.

We’ve had panic attacks since we were kids, the kind that make your lungs forget how to work and your heart try to beat its way out of your chest.

It’s been months since he got one this bad though. If this is about the kiss, if he remembered and now he’s spiraling because he’s disgusted by what happened between us, because he’s horrified that we crossed that line—then this might be the last time I get to touch him like this.

His breathing starts to even out slowly. The shaking in his shoulders fades, and his body goes slack against me. He pushes himself up with movements sluggish like he’s been underwater too long and slumps against the wall beside me. His head tips back, and his throat works as he swallows.

My gaze shifts to him, and he’s already looking back at me, something unreadable written across his face that makes my stomach twist. “Did we kiss?”

“Yes.”