Maybe he should try an exorcism; see if that got rid of this unhealthy fixation on Riley Cooper.

Let it go, he thought at the man in the mirror. Let him go. C’mon, you can do it. He wasn’t that good a fuck, really.

The man glared back at him with obsidian eyes, begging to differ. Just like every other time Misha had tried this. He hadn’t kept his emotions in check and was paying the price now. In too deep. Gone too far. It wasn’t the pure, fairy-tale kind of love Riley deserved, but it was the best Misha could do.

In the world Misha had grown up in, true loyalty was hard to come by and trust too often repaid with betrayal. Misha had learned his lessons early and he’d learned them well. Tender feelings were a liability. Attachments equaled weakness equaled pain. He could break and die, or break others and live, so he’d become the kind of ruthless that could survive the brutal training and move among killers and cutthroats without fear. Misha hadn’t been born a sociopath, but he’d tried to fashion himself into one and he’d gotten so good at faking it he’d believed it himself at times.

By the time he’d discovered he was gay, he’d already toughened up enough to stand up to the inevitable pressure that followed. His preference wasn’t accepted, never that, but it was overlooked, ignored. He’d made sure everybody knew, to nip the idea of blackmail in the bud, but he hadn’t done the relationship thing, ever. It wasn’t that he’d had trouble finding a willing piece of ass to fuck. He was handsome and rich, could be charming when he chose to, and the clubs were full of starry-eyed twinks eager to spread them for tall, dark, and dangerous. He’d gone for the obvious: slender, pretty, not too bright or ambitious. Easy pickings and one-night stands only, no attachment, no complications.

Riley had caught him by surprise, tending bar in a New Orleans dive Misha would’ve never stepped a foot in if he hadn’t been fresh from a job and in dire need of a drink and a good, hard fuck. Chance. Dumb luck. A single step off the beaten path and that had been it. There had been that

voice, like bourbon and black coffee, that brilliant smile, and a devil-may-care attitude that had clicked instantly with Misha’s own lingering adrenaline high. Riley hadn’t been Misha’s usual type, not even close—too tall, too old, too everything—and Misha hadn’t cared, not for a second.

Something about the handsome Texan made his cock hard from the get-go, made the emptiness inside recede until all the dark places in Misha prickled with awareness and a thrilling, unknown kind of want.

And then Riley hadn’t put out, the bastard.