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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 wecouldget 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.
