Why did I tell him I can’t?
I can.
God, I am so fucking stupid. He finally showed me kindness and I shot him down. In the moment it seemed far too good to be true. How can a man like him all of a sudden want to show me he cares?
How could he ask me to let go if he hadn’t truly let go himself?
I eat dinner by myself, and the entire time I want to walk upstairs to get him. I think maybe we could watch a movie or even just have a civilized conversation without wanting to tear out each other’s throats. But I ruined it.
Shocker.
I think about the moment where I’m standing in front of the bedroom door—what I’ll do, what I’ll say. But there’s no time to think too hard because before I can second-guess myself that’s exactly where I’m at.
My hand rests on the knob while I try to figure out whether this is a stupid idea or not. There’s no chance in hell he’ll welcome me with open arms. Knowing Mikhail, he’ll hold this against me.
I force myself to open the door anyway and step inside the bedroom. I smile when I notice the small light shining from the corner of the room. He turned on a salt lamp. The warm orange light welcomes me as I lift up the sheets and climb into his bed.
Sharing a bed with Mikhail has proven to be far too comfortable. I hate to admit it, but I love being by his side the entire night.
Once under the covers, I turn on my side so I’m facing Mikhail. He doesn’t look peaceful like he did before. The darkness he carries with him during the day catches up with him at night, not giving him a break. I lift my hand to his forehead and feel droplets of sweat.
“Let him go . . .” he mumbles.
I sit up and crawl closer to him. I’ve never seen anyone have this bad of a dream. I don’t know if I should wake him. Bad dreams are kind of similar to sleepwalking . . . I think.
“Please,” he pleads.
I can’t stay here watching him and not do anything. It hurts to see him like this.
“Mikhail . . .” I shake him.
He lets out heavy pants. “Mikhail, wake up. You’re having a nightmare.” I shake him harder this time.
His eyes fly open, seeing me but not seeing me. He reaches under his pillow, taking out a pistol, and his hand grabs my neck, slamming me down on the bed.
“Mikhail!” I gag. I can’t fucking breathe. I claw at his wrists. “I can’t . . . brea—”
The gun is pointed at the center of my head. I squirm my legs trying to get out from under him, but his weight is crushing me down.
“Look at me,” I stutter, wrapping my hands around his. My life is quite literally in his hands right now, and I don’t fear him. “It’s me,” I say, trying to force the words out of my crushed windpipe.
My vision starts to blacken and my ears ring. Pressure builds in my head before his hold on me loosens.
“Sloane.” He swallows, letting go of my neck and taking the gun away from me. “I’m so sorry. I—”
I hold my throat with both hands. “It’s okay,” I reassure him. “It was a dream.”
He shakes his head continuously. I place my hand on his wet chest. His heart is beating a million miles a minute.
“Are you hurt?” He grows concerned.
“Don’t worry about me.”
“How can you say that? I could have shot you, Sloane.”
“What happened?” I blinked. “In your dream.” I ignore his concern. I don’t want to talk about myself—not when he had a nightmare like that.
He sits up, pushing himself back against the headboard. He reaches his hand out to my neck and gently pulls me closer. I sit cross-legged at his side, my thigh resting on his stomach. He brushes the loose hair behind my ear. Looking deep into my eyes, he inches closer to my face and places his lips on the top of my head.
His demeanor shifted. His nightmare took complete control of him. I knew Mikhail would never hurt me. But whoever hurt him in the past haunts him. Even behind shut eyes, he’s still troubled.
“In your dream . . .” I don’t want to pressure him to talk, but my curiosity only grows. If he doesn’t want to share, then so be it. I wouldn’t want someone to force me to open up.
“It was my father,” he starts. “He was going after my older brother, and I tried to stop him.”
I look down instantly. His father. “He wasn’t a good person?” I ask, wanting to know more.
“No,” he whispers. “He was abusive.”
When the words fall from his lips, I instantly want him to confide. Keeping it to himself, he can push down the hurt and ignore the memories, but telling the story makes it true. And sometimes talking things through can help ease the pain.
“Did he ever hurt your sister?” I ask. I don’t know why I’m pushing him so hard. I should stop, but I think a part of me wants to know the story so I can be there to comfort him. I want to be the strong one.
It’s strange seeing Mikhail like this.
Defeated.
I remember Max telling me a little about why he’s so hot-headed. His father is probably the root cause of his anger.
“No.” He exhales. “Anya was never a part of that, thankfully. My real father had me and my brother, Kirill, but my adoptive father had Anya.”
“What did he do to you?”
Mikhail looks at me with concern. He doesn’t want to tell me. He shifts his body so his back is facing me.
I place my hand over the long scars on his back. I’ve seen them from a distance, but I’ve never paid attention to them when he’s near me without a shirt. He doesn’t want to talk about them, and he taught me a lesson for putting my nose somewhere it doesn’t belong. But now I see the scars are ragged and uneven. Some of the rooted cuts are much deeper than others.
“It was with a belt. I was seven when it started. I was trying to protect my brother. I got many punishments for protecting him.”
The notebook . . .
Was that his way of keeping track of the consequences?
“Mikhail . . .” I choke back tears.
“Hey, it’s all right.” He turns to face me, taking his thumb and wiping a tear off my cheek. “It made me strong.”
That’s why he’s so protective.
I never knew there was so much hurt beneath his anger. I feel like a goddamn idiot for pushing him around for so long.
My fingers trail down his back. I notice he has tattoos all over his arms, neck, legs, and torso. I can see he has many scars too—are tattoos his way of covering them up?
“Mikhail . . . what do tattoos mean to you?”
“They’re milestones. Things I hold in my heart, and things I want to remember.”
“You don’t mean to cover the scars?”
“No. I don’t need to cover them. I’ll always remember them.”
I look at his chest and try to understand the meaning behind them. “The wings?” I ask. He has two wings covering his upper chest.
“My father.”
I assume he means his adoptive father. “The rose?” I ask. The rose is in the center of his torso.
“My sister. She used to come home from school every day with a rose. An elderly woman gave her them from her garden. It’s a great story—maybe you’ll hear it from her one day.”
I smile. “You never talk about your family.”
“I think you two get along really well,” he tells me as if she’s an old friend of mine.
“I’m sure we could get along well,” I say with a laugh, worried he’s been playing me this entire time. He doesn’t know, does he?
I look at his shoulder to distract myself and find more ink. “A club?”
“That’s the bottom of the chain.”
Bottom of the chain? Does he mean the Suits? Is that what Max was talking about?
I nod my head, acting as if I understand. “Do you plan on ever getting any more? I mean, is there anything else that might have enough significance for you to carry forever?”
“Maybe,” he tells me, staring at my lips.
Before I can say anything else, I take his face and bring his lips to mine. It might be wrong of me to start something when he’s feeling so vulnerable, but I need it. I need him, and I think he needs me.
His tongue battles mine and his lips move against me. Mikhail pushes me down, caging me against the bed. I want to surrender myself to him.
“Sloane, I can’t,” he mumbles, bringing his eyes to mine.
I question him, but not with my words.
“I can’t,” he mumbles again. “I don’t want to hurt you, and I will if we keep going.”
He’s angry. Not at me, but our connection. He doesn’t want to keep this going between us. He hurts me, and I hurt him—it’s an endless cycle I never want to leave. Shaking my head, I bring my hand to his cheek and watch his expression change from anger to fear.
“Fuck me like you need to, Mikhail.”
A sound escapes his chest as he pulls down my shorts. He’s quick with his actions; he doesn’t want to overthink this. Neither of us wants to comprehend what’s happening, but we’ll both allow the pain.
He’s poison in my bloodstream, and I don’t care.
Mikhail slams his lips back onto mine while he takes off his pants. His kisses aren’t kind. They’re demanding—full of anger, lust, and maybe even hate.
I love it.
The hate fuels our connection. He doesn’t want to feel anything close to love, but hate is just as strong.
Without warning, Mikhail pushes himself inside me. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t say a single word. My fingers claw at his back as he moves in and out of me quickly. I want more. I want to feel his anger.
I dig my nails into his back harder.
He lifts his head up slightly. I cry out from the pain he’s putting on me, but it’s the good kind of pain. The kind that brings me close to climax. When he fucks me like this, he’s telling me things his voice would never be able to. I know how he feels about me, and he’s showing me with passion—whether he wants to or not.
My heart rate spikes when he moves my legs to the side. He pulls my head back with my hair, forcing my attention onto him. I wrap my arm around and pull him closer, slamming my lips to his. His moan in my mouth throws me over the edge. My core throbs and I bite down on his bottom lip—hard.
Mikhail pulls out of me and comes over my stomach.
My clit burns from the friction. I know for a fact I’ll be sore. I make a face when I move my legs slightly. I wanted this, and I’m happy it happened, but fuck does everything hurt now. I grab my shorts and wipe his come off my stomach, sitting up on the bed. Just as I’m about to leave to use the bathroom, he grabs my hand, stopping me.
“Forgive me,” he mutters, looking at me with saddened eyes. “I know I hurt you.”
A smile tugs on the corner of my lips. “You gave me what I needed.” I hold his face in my hands and wipe the frown away with a kiss.
