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I don’t hear mine, eighty-nine,
but the moment his rough skin touches mine, a flood of what I assume is nausea threatens to spill from my gut. Only, it’s not nausea. It’s— Nikolai barks out laughter that echoes around us in a swell of burgundy and hot red-orange. “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you, eighty-nine.”
“In a hurry to go somewhere?” “More like, I don’t appreciate being touched, especially if the hands are filthy.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“Bossy. I like it. But you know what I like more? Your posh little accent. Question. Does it sound the same when you say crude things?”
“Why?” He strokes his fingers near my hairline and that wave of something that’s not nausea courses through my veins in flashes of bright yellow. “I rather like it here.”
Not that I’m tempted to find out. That would be crazy. * * * Just kidding. I am crazy.
Instead, I was thinking of eyes. I don’t fucking do eyes. Eyes send my head up a fucking wall.
“Always deflect, little bro. Run, hide, and change the subject whenever it hits too close to home. That’s working bloody wonders for you.”
Okay, maybe I did, but it was only for two blocks. Maybe three. Fine. Five.
Also, why the fuck does it ache behind my rib cage? Maybe I should have myself checked, because this shit is seriously disturbing.
Maybe it’s the fact that you call him that and a few other nicknames, not to mention the fact that you got this fucking place just so he’d feel safe away from everyone else?
He loves me. I just know he does. Okay, he doesn’t, but he cares, and that’s a good start.
“Is there a reason why you left this place empty?”
“Oh, that. It’s on my heart so I want to wait until I can think of something extra special.”
“Ya nee ma goo bees tee byah zhit.”
I’m completely and irrevocably in trouble because of Brandon King.
Seems that Bran runs way deeper than I thought, but as he hangs on to me as if I’m his only anchor, I know that I’ll never let him go. Not even if I burn with him. For him. In him. I’d willingly catch fire if he so much as asked me to.
“Fine, okay.” He releases a breath. “It can’t be worse than that.” “He’s his cousin.” “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
“Fuck my life.” He exhales. “Astrid, Princess. I think I’m having a heart attack.”
I woke up today in a proper fantastic mood. Until now. Or, more accurately, since I walked into the kitchen and saw the motherfucking gangster who’s built like a fucking wall, standing beside my son.
I’m losing my children one by one to a bunch of wankers.
Dear God, please blind my fucking eyes.
My hands freeze as I study the artistic patterns of the lotus flower and make out the elegant font beneath it that reads Property of B. King. He had it inked on the spot that he said was for something special.
“Even if you hate yourself, I’ll love you for the both of us.”
“Look, Mummy. I found a fairy-tale prince and his servant.”
“The nerve of that little shit.”
“Vaughn?” “The Pakhan’s son. You might have seen him at the initiation. He wore the white mask.”
