Page 93 of Deviant Need

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. Look at you.” He gapes at me, his eyes scanning every cut and bruise, the blood soaking through my clothes. His hands shake when he reaches out to inspect the gash on my elbow.

“Let’s just get out of here quick,” I manage, dragging him by the arm toward the exit on the opposite side from where our father left. My legs feel unsteady beneath me, but I force them to move.

“Are you okay though? That was brutal. I mean, I think he’s completely lost his mind⁠—”

“Danya, please,” I interrupt. “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

I just need to get us out of here before our father changes his mind and comes back. I drag him faster toward the exit, ignoring the pain radiating through my entire body, ignoring everything except getting him somewhere safe.

We burst through the exit doors, and the air hits me like a slap. The car is parked across the lot, and I stumble toward it, his hand gripping my arm to keep me upright.

We enter the apartment, and Daniil drags me toward the bathroom, already pulling at my shirt before we even get through the door. He peels the blood-soaked fabric off me carefully and tosses it on the floor. The cut on my elbow is deep, still bleeding, but I’ve had worse. He fusses over me anyway, grabbing bandages and antiseptic, his hands shaking slightly as he starts wrapping it up.

He bites his lip, and I see his eyes filling with tears. “God, I’m so sorry. We shouldn’t have looked into my past. It’s all my fault. We can drop the entire thing right now.”

“Stop worrying. I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not okay. Look at you.” He curses and pulls washcloths from the cabinet, wetting them before he starts cleaning all the blood off me. He inspects my ribs, wrapping the cut there carefully, then wipes blood from my face, my neck, my chest. His touch is gentle, but his movements are rushed, panicked.

“He’s so cruel,” he says, his voice breaking slightly.

I know. I’ve always taken the worst of it. Since I was a toddler, I’ve been his favorite target, the one he can break over and over.

“I don’t know what our mother sees in him,” he mutters.

“She’s stuck with him. You know that.”

“She needs to leave him.”

“She can’t,” I say and pause. “She’s just as much of a victim as we are.”

He wipes away as much blood as he can, then wraps his arms around me carefully, avoiding my wounds. I feel empty, gutted, and completely wrong. Everything in me is desperate for space, for time alone to process this, and for the drugs waiting in my room.

“I need to get something from my room,” I say, pulling back from him. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

He steps back, looking at me confused, then nods slowly. “I can come with⁠—”

“No. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Are you⁠—”

“Stay,” I say, sharper than I mean to, already moving for the door.

I leave before he can argue, heading straight for my bedroom and closing the door softly behind me. I walk to my bed and sit on the edge.

My gaze drifts to my dresser, where I keep my stash hidden in the bottom drawer. Everything inside of me is screaming to go get it, to take enough that I don’t have to feel anything anymore. To just make it stop.

I look away and stare at the wall instead, vision blurring until everything around me fades into background noise.

Disappointment.

I’m so tired.

I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I’ve been at my breaking point for so long that I don’t remember what stable felt like, and this has pushed me over the edge.

Walking over to the dresser, I pull open the drawer and grab the bags of powder and pills. I stare down at them in my hands, my thumb running over the plastic. It would be so easy. Just take enough and let everything fade away.