2. Mia #3
Chort lets out a grunt and then goes back to chewing.
Relieved I’m not on the menu, I step further into the room.
This place is an open-floor plan if there ever was one.
Brick walls surround us, and there are a lot of exposed beams and metal pipes.
A kitchen takes up one corner of the room, and another side is set up as a living room with a large sectional couch and enormous TV on the wall, but it’s the other side of the warehouse that’s my favorite.
A normal person would probably use it for a dining table, but my brother has turned it into a training area.
His own personal playground, complete with lifelike dummies that hang from the ceiling rafters.
He’d been disappointed that up close they didn’t look real enough, so one night we'd dressed them and he’d put black hoods over their heads.
Now, anyone who walked in here would assume they were staring at real bodies, just dead and hanging in my brother’s house.
Anyone who knows him wouldn’t be all that surprised by it.
Remembering the video I’d sent Dario, I say, “I can’t believe he said I let my guard down.” I turn back to meet Sasha’s eyes. “I didn’t, by the way. ”
Sasha grins and walks over to the large stainless steel fridge in the corner.
Opening the freezer, he grabs an ice pack and tosses it to me.
Catching it, I carefully sit in one of his chairs and rest it between my legs.
My brother and I have always been close, but we’re not so close that we’re going to sit around discussing my recent VCH piercing.
I keep the ice pack on me, and we both pretend I just pulled a groin muscle during practice.
It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.
“He just likes to push you,” Sasha says, giving Chort a good scratch behind his ears before he takes the seat opposite me, stretching his long legs out in front of him.
I didn’t get the tall gene, but I really wish I had.
I think people would take me more seriously if I wasn’t so small.
It’s hard to look intimidating when you’re less than half the size of the men around you.
“The man needs to learn to give a compliment,” I say, trying not to show how much Dario gets under my skin.
“He compliments you all the time,” Sasha says.
“No, he doesn’t. He rides my ass. Nothing is ever good enough, and he critiques everything I do to death.”
Sasha just raises a brow at me and takes out one of his knives.
He lightly grazes his thumb along the blade, the barest hint of a touch from his skilled fingers, just enough to let him know if it’s as sharp as he likes them to be.
Satisfied, he stands and spins the hilt in a practiced move that’s both effortless and graceful.
I swear my brother was born with a blade in hand.
“You’re only paying attention to his words,” he tells me. “You need to look at his actions, his body language. He praises you nonstop, Mia.”
I scoff at his words and shake my head. “You’re nuttier than I thought, brother.”
He grins. “I’m not the one who just got my genitals pierced.”
Before I can think of a comeback, he walks over to the closest dummy and stabs it in an intricate pattern that would hit every vital organ and have a real person bleeding out in minutes.
It’s the same move I’d done in the video—heart, kidney, liver, lung—a brutal attack that’s beautiful to watch when done right, and I had done it right .
Sasha looks over his shoulder at me when I scoff and say, “You and I both know I nailed it.”
Instead of answering me, he stabs the dummy in the gut and then tosses his knife up so he can switch to an ice-pick grip before plunging it into the heart. My brother is ridiculously graceful when killing. He’s turned it into an art form, and I want to be just as good as him one day.
“Such a showoff,” I mutter, making him grin before he goes back to killing all three of the dummies in various ways.
Since I canceled my sessions with Dario this week, I’ve got nothing but time to kill, unfortunately.
Grabbing my phone, I send a text to my dad, letting him know I’m going to crash on Sasha’s couch tonight.
I know my brother won’t mind. If he gets bored with the dummies, he might go out later, but his place is like a fortress, no way in hell is anyone getting in here, and if they do, Chort will just eat them.
I also know there’s no chance of an awkward encounter with a random one-night stand.
Sasha’s first love is killing, and so far no one’s ever been able to compete with that particular rush.
He told me once that he doesn’t feel urges like everyone else.
Well, at least not the normal sexual urges that most people feel.
He feels something. I see it in his eyes when he’s training, and one time he hid me at one of the warehouses our Bratva uses and let me watch while he tortured a man for information.
That’s a secret we’ll take to the grave, but I’d learned a lot, and I saw that same feral, excited glint in his eyes when he’d been covered in blood and carving the guy up.
So, he has urges, just not any socially acceptable ones.
Without meaning to, I find myself scrolling through my training photos.
When I was younger, I made it so I could actually study the correct technique and mimic it when I was practicing at home, but now I take photos of Dario for the sheer pleasure of looking at them when I’m alone.
Jesus, the man is beautiful. I stop on my favorite.
He’s in nothing but a pair of black joggers, upper body bare and covered in sweat, knife in hand, visible veins running up his thick forearms, and a devilish smile on his face.
My clit gives a painful throb, reminding me that I’m not allowed to play with it for at least a month.
God, how in the hell will I ever make it?
Scrolling through my hidden stash of half-naked Dario porn isn’t helping matters, but I can’t make myself quit.
I should be appalled. The man is twice my age, but instead of disgusting me, it just adds that delicious bit of taboo wickedness that makes me want to climb his rock-hard body and beg him to teach me more than knife fighting.
I bet he’s a damn good lover. Hell, all he has to do is snap out a sentence in that sexy Italian accent and my underwear gets wet.
The idea of him fucking some other woman makes me want to grab one of Sasha’s knives and take a turn with the dummy, but there’s nothing I can do about my jealous rage.
Dario’s never crossed the line with me, never shown any interest beyond that of a teacher, and every training session is making it harder and harder for me to keep myself in check.
I may not have hearts in my eyes while dreaming about us making a baby, but there’s no denying I want him to fuck me like there’s no tomorrow.
I’ve never had sex, and I’m kind of banking on my thirty-six-year-old fighting instructor being my first. God, there’s no way he doesn’t know his way around a female body.
I bet he’d have me screaming his name in no time.
On that note, I shove my phone away, knowing I need to get myself under control. This month is going to suck enough ass. There’s no point in making it worse.
Grabbing the remote, I turn on the huge TV while Chort walks over to where Sasha is still raining down hell.
He stops when he sees his dog. Stepping aside, he points to the dummy swinging in front of him and gives the command to attack in Russian.
Chort is a flash of dark fur as he lunges at the jean-clad leg, digging his teeth in at the thigh before shaking his head to maximize the damage.
Sasha laughs and tells him to stop. Chort immediately lets go and then wags his tail and beams at Sasha’s praise.
They have the most fucked-up relationship, but it also works perfectly, and it’s nice to see my brother show affection to someone outside our family.
Dominic, Dario, Alessandro, and Tony have become included in Sasha’s definition of family, but I wasn’t so sure it would ever extend to anyone else. Chort’s a miracle in many ways.
“He’s learning fast,” I tell him.
“He’s a smart dog,” Sasha says, sheathing his knife and walking over to feed him.
I bite back a laugh when I see him add a little bit of steak to the dry food and then mix it up before setting the bowl on the floor and giving him another scratch behind the ears.
He walks over and sprawls out on the couch, ignoring the spot that has a missing cushion.
Grabbing the remote, he looks over at me. “What are you smirking about?”
“I’ve just never seen you in love,” I say.
He huffs out a breath and starts scrolling, not surprising me at all when he clicks on a documentary about forensics. “He’s a good dog, just a bit misunderstood. He doesn’t know how to express himself. That’s something I can understand and work with.”
“You express yourself just fine, Sasha,” I tell him. “If anyone ever gives you shit about it, let me know. I need some real-world practice.”
The corner of his mouth lifts up. “You really do. You’re great with a dummy or in a controlled practice fight, but that’s not the same as real life.”
“Tell me about it,” I mutter. “I’ve only been saying this for years.”
He’s quiet for a second, eyes focused on the show, but a few minutes later, he says, “After you heal a bit, I have an idea.”
I grin like an idiot, unable to stop it, because Sasha has never had an idea that I haven’t loved. “I’m in,” I tell him. “You gonna tell me what it is?”
“Not yet. I need to work out some details first.”
I don’t bother trying to get more out of him.
Sasha doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do and that includes giving out information.
Instead, I lay my head back and keep the ice pack snuggled between my legs while we learn about forensics and common mistakes killers make. It’s a typical Saturday night for us.
The next week passes by slowly. I’m used to keeping myself busy, and not being able to work out like I want and train with Dario is really taking its toll.
Not to mention the lack of orgasms. I’m wound-up tight, easily irritated, and more than ready for the next three weeks to fly by.
That’s the exact frame of mind I’m in when I’m dropped off outside of Dario’s house for my first training session since my secret piercing.
I wave a quick bye to the bodyguard who dropped me off. Sometimes Dario drives me home afterwards, but if not, then I know Feliks will come back for me as soon as I send him a text.
Stepping to the front door, I ring the bell and wait.
Dario’s place is the exact opposite of Sasha’s.
Instead of the industrial look, it’s all modern luxury, high-end everything, and a perfectly manicured lawn to boot.
I sometimes mess things up just to fuck with him—a moved vase here, a crooked picture frame there.
I can’t help it. The place is too perfect.
It’s just begging for some dirt or scuff marks or even just a tiny bit of untidiness, anything to show signs of life.
When he opens the door, I take one look at his face and know it’s going to be a long afternoon.
He’s mouthwateringly handsome, but I can tell by the tight way he’s holding himself that he’s pissed.
He’s obviously holding a grudge about me canceling last week, and I have a feeling I’m about to pay for it.