Page 26 of His Favorite Color is Blood
“I want you to not take photos of me when I sleep.” Misha transferred into the wheelchair, and if it weren’t for Misha having such a cute face and Grim wanting to establish a long term relationship with him, he’d give him a slap for this bullshit.
“I already told you I won’t,” he said, watching Misha’s stump press against one of the metal pipes that made up the wheelchair.
“Good,” Misha said in a tone that didn’t suggest it really was and then wheeled past Grim and into the other room.
Grim fell down to the mattress, trying to calm down the agitation simmering beneath his skin. He didn’t even want to jerk off in these circumstances. He was too distracted, and frankly—tired of Misha’s attitude. He was acting as if Grim were the villain in this equation. But as he listened to the water trickling in the bathroom, he had an idea how to coerce some positive reactions out of Misha again.
Misha took his time in the bathroom, and when he was out, he was already wearing a tank top and a pair of pinned-up tracksuit bottoms, which hid those beautiful stumps from view.
Grim pinched his chin, watching Misha from the bed, dressed and clean from the shower he’d had earlier. Misha had taken his time in there, and his skin was now deliciously pink, but the steam didn’t seem to have changed his attitude.
“Are we going farther east today? And I’m hungry. Can we get breakfast here? It would save us time later,” he said as if nothing happened.
“We’re staying here for another day,” said Grim, watching Misha with a new, steady feeling in his chest. He needed to dissect his bird. Maybe once he knew what hid inside, Misha would be more receptive?
“Oh.” Misha folded his hands in his lap. “Is that safe? Are you sure we shouldn’t be on the move?”
Grim shook his head. “Running is more likely to get you caught, and besides, we have things to do while we’re here.”
“We do?”
Grim nodded and pulled over one of his bags, where he kept additional weapons. “Come here.”
And there was that wary look that told Grim he would need to do more work on Misha again if he ever wanted to have steady access to what Misha was now so loudly denying him. Misha moved closer in his wheelchair, and as soon as he was at arm’s reach, Grim presented him the .22 Ruger that he believed could be a good firearm for beginners.
Misha inhaled deeply, and Grim had all of his attention, as if Grim hadn’t used a firearm but a magic wand. “Is this for me?” He looked up at Grim with those big brown eyes.
Grim smirked.Bingo.He got straight into Misha’s reward center. “Might be, but before I can trust you to handle it, you need to practice. I don’t want you to hurt yourself,” he said and gently put the gun into Misha’s hands.
Misha weighed it in his hand, completely captivated. “Yes, I want to practice. I wouldn’t want to shoot you by accident either. I’ve never held a gun before.”
“No?” Grim leaned forward, squinting at Misha. “I got the impression you’re back to hating me.”
Misha inhaled with a guilty look on his face. “I don’thateyou. There are many people worse than youout there.”
Grim rolled his eyes, and his insides clenched with anger. “You’re the worst at compliments. I don’t know whether I should slap you or shed a tear.”
At least Grim managed to elicit a little smile out of the fucker.
“I bet you’d rather have sweet Andrey here. Laughing at your jokes, letting you fuck him whenever you like.”
Grim snorted. “Anyone could have sweet Andrey. You are only mine. OnlyIknow you this way.”
Misha gently nudged him with the stump hidden in his pants. Grim knew damn well it was teasing, but he still fell for it.
“Now I don’t know if I should thank you or slap you.”
Grim frowned, deflated. “What did I say wrong this time?”
“You just reminded me that anyone with an Internet connection can see porn with me.” Misha looked back to the gun again, running his fingers along the metal.
Grim’s face got sour as well. “Fuck. There’s nothing I can say that won’t be taken against me, is there?”
“You could always lie and say I’m funny and have a lovely personality.” Misha wiggled his eyebrows.
This time, it was Grim’s turn to smile. He thought back to Misha’s serious face when he had been choosing clothes he wanted to try on, as if were some kind of life-and-death situation. “You’re fine with my job,” he offered in the end.
Misha handled the gun as if it were a porcelain egg. “I could be a sniper. Help you out. For a fee, of course.” But a smile still tugged at his lips.
