2. Mikhail #2
No one knows we do this. The cuddling, the way I crawl into his bed at night, how much I need physical contact with him specifically. Our family sees us together constantly and thinks we’re close, best friends or whatever, but they don’t know what happens behind closed doors.
Groaning, I force myself off the mattress and leave the bedroom. The smell of cooking hits me in the hall, something sizzling in a pan that makes my stomach growl.
My room’s a disaster compared to his. I’m not organized, never have been.
Clothes are scattered across every surface and draped over furniture he picked out because I couldn’t be bothered to choose anything. Even the wall colors were his decision. I just told him to do whatever and he did, filling the space with color while I contributed nothing but the mess.
The pictures are the only part of this room I actually care about, plastered across every wall.
He gave me a camera for Christmas when I turned eighteen, one of those instant-print ones, and I’ve been obsessed ever since.
Snapshots from the last few years cover every available inch, every trip we’ve taken, stupid moments and important ones all mixed together.
Most of them are of him, if I’m being honest. Him laughing, him annoyed, him asleep on the couch, him existing in ways no one else gets to see.
Those pictures are worth more to me than anything else I own.
I tap out some coke onto the counter and do two quick lines, then roll my neck to try and loosen the tension sitting heavy in my shoulders. The burn tears through my nose and the drip slides down my throat, numbing everything it touches. I shove the bag back into the dresser and close it.
My family’s tried to get me into rehab multiple times.
I went once and swore I’d never go again.
That place felt suffocating, like locking a wild animal in a cage and expecting it not to claw its way out.
I lasted twenty-four hours before I smashed the window and ran, and they haven’t been able to drag me back since.
Heading into the kitchen, I find him perched on one of the chairs at the island, focused on whatever he’s typing on his laptop.
“Looks good,” I say, eyeing the omelets.
He even made it the way I like it, with salami, salad, and sauce, exactly how I always want it.
I hop onto the chair next to him and pat his shoulder in thanks.
He glances up at me, and his gaze drops to my bare chest for a second before he jerks his eyes away, biting his lip as his cheeks turn pink.
“We’re supposed to meet Lev and Yulian at the firm in an hour.”
He doesn’t glance up from his laptop. “Are you planning to behave?”
“Maybe.”
He finally meets my eyes, already tired before we’ve even walked out the door. “I know you love arguing with them, but can we just try to have one good day? That’s all I’m asking.”
I stab at the omelet. “They always start it first.”
“Yeah, I know. But you don’t have to take the bait every time.”
“They’re impossible to ignore.”
“Mik.” He sighs, eating more. “Just try. For me?”
“Fine, for you.”
We sit in silence for a minute while he works. His jaw is clenched, that muscle jumping the way it does when he’s stressed out.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
He stops typing. “For what?”
“For being too much.”
His face softens, and he leans over to rub my shoulder. “Stop apologizing for being yourself. You’re not too much. You’re exactly what you’re supposed to be.”
My throat tightens. “You’re just saying that.”
“I’m not.” His eyes stay on mine.
“I don’t want to go to that meeting,” I blurt. “I’m going to screw everything up, I can feel it. Please, Danya. It’s one of those days where I can’t keep it together, and I don’t want to lose control and hurt someone.”
“Then we skip it. I’ll tell them something came up.”
“You’d really do that?”
He shrugs. “We could spar instead. Burn off whatever’s making you twitchy.”
I grin at him. “You’re my favorite person in this entire fucked-up family. Hope you know that.”
He rolls his eyes and takes another bite. I can feel the tension building under my skin, that familiar itch that means I need to do something physical before I lose it completely. So, I hop off the chair and head into our home gym, pulling off my gray sweatpants as I go.
I find workout shorts on the floor and pull them on before stretching.
“Righteous” by Juice WRLD starts blasting through the speakers, and I grin because he knows it’s my favorite.
Glancing over, I catch him stretching, his calf muscles flexing as he moves.
He’s got on shorts and one of my white shirts that practically drowns him, the sleeves falling past his elbows.
He’s giving me that look, the one that makes me want to tease him instantly.
“Are we doing this or are you just going to stretch all day?” I ask.
“Depends. Are you going to take it easy on me this time?”
“When have I ever not? I’m not actually trying to hurt you, Danya,” I say, grinning.
We step onto the mat, and he mutters curses in Russian under his breath before instantly going for my knee. The hit barely registers, but I let myself stumble anyway, giving him the win. He grins, cocky as hell, and comes at me again.
I could block every single hit if I wanted to, could take him down in two seconds flat without breaking a sweat, but I don’t. He throws a punch, and I deflect it just enough to make it look real, letting him think he’s actually getting somewhere.
When he tries to sweep my legs out, I go down willingly, letting him climb on top to pin me. His weight settles against me, thighs bracketing my hips, hands pressing my wrists flat to the mat.
Flipping him over would be easy, pinning him instead and ending this in a heartbeat, but I don’t move.
I lie there and let him have it because I love the way he’s looking down at me right now, all victorious and smug like he actually won something.
His face is flushed from exertion, chest rising and falling fast.
I spin him around in one quick motion and lock my arm around his neck, hauling him back against me before he realizes what’s happening.
Now he’s on top of me but completely trapped, breathing hard and struggling to break free. A pained groan escapes him, and I tighten my grip just enough to keep him there, not letting go even when he squirms against me.
“Mik, come on.”
“Nah, I’m good like this.”
He twists, trying to break the hold, but I’ve got him, and he’s not going anywhere. His body’s warm against mine, heart pounding so hard I can feel it through his back.
“I give up,” he says and sighs.
“You’re stuck, Danya. Accept your fate.” I tighten my grip just enough to keep him pinned.
He huffs. “This isn’t fair.”
“Life’s not fair. Thought you knew that by now.”
He tries to elbow me, but there’s no room, no leverage to make it work. I grin against the back of his head, nose pressed into his hair while that watermelon scent fills my nostrils. I could stay wrapped around him forever.
“You’re being annoying,” he mutters.
“You love it.”
“I really don’t.”
“Liar.” Shifting my grip, I keep him locked tight against me. His heart hammers against my forearm, and I can feel every rapid beat. He goes completely still for a second before he exhales, and some of the tension bleeds out of his body as he relaxes into me.
When I finally let go, he rolls off to the side and turns to face me, his black hair falling into his eyes. I reach over to brush it back, and he freezes the second my fingers touch his forehead, breath catching while pink spreads across his cheeks.
Then he rolls onto his back fast, staring up at the ceiling instead of looking at me. He wipes sweat off his face even though we barely did anything, movements jerky and rushed. His neck is flushed with color spreading down past his collar.
“Stop staring,” he grumbles, still looking up at the ceiling, jaw tight.
“You alright?”
“Fine.” He doesn’t look at me.
“You’re being weird.”
“I’m not being weird. You’re being weird.”
I laugh. “I’m always weird. That’s not news.”
He rolls his eyes, but I catch the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smile. His hand comes up to run through his hair, fingers shaking slightly.
“We should probably actually train,” he says softly.
“We were training.”
“You were letting me win.”
“You looked happy about it though.”
He finally turns his head to look at me and huffs out a breath. “You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.” I raise an eyebrow at him. “I texted Alexei, by the way. He’s in.”
“You brought up the counter incident like I told you to?” He starts laughing halfway through asking.
“Da, good call. You’re a genius.”
He grins, staring back up at the ceiling. “I’m still traumatized from that.”
We both are. Walking in on Alexei and Kelly burned itself into my brain, and I’m milking it for everything it’s worth. Blackmail material for life. He’ll never have the upper hand on me again, not with that image hanging over his head. My ace in the hole.
He sighs, still smiling. “Fine. We’ll break in tomorrow and get it back.”
Relief washes over me, and I close my eyes for a second.
Father’s going to murder me if I don’t get that document back, and I’m exhausted from him constantly ripping into me for being a fuckup. For once I want to do something right. I want him to look at me without that disappointment weighing down his expression.