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“You still jealous about that?” “I’m not jealous.” “Whatever floats your boat, my lotus flower.” “Nikolai.” “Yes, baby?”
“Thanks, baby.” “For what?” “For bringing me back.” “Bringing you back from where?” “Somewhere unpleasant.”
By the way, I noticed you had no food in your place, so I ordered you some Italian pastries for breakfast. I grin. He loves me. I just know he does.
Only one addiction can actually lead to my decimation. One addiction forces me to forget everything else whenever he’s in my vicinity. Whenever he touches me, kisses me, fucks me. I pretend my outer skin doesn’t exist. I’m not Brandon King. I’m not the broken entity who sees black ink instead of his reflection in the mirror. Not the weak man who’s more often than not swallowed by disgusting nausea and the terrifying notion of nothingness. I’m just me. His lotus flower. His Prince Charming. His baby.
Nikolai isn’t really a cheerful man. I’ve seen him outside, multiple times, even though I like to pretend I don’t. And yes, he’s loud, but not in Remi’s carefree, funny way. He’s notoriously violent and curses a lot. Killian often kicks him so he’ll shut up, or Jeremy will whisper or speak to him calmly so he’ll stop drawing attention or rein in his infamous bursts of violence. He doesn’t show them the version he shows me. Always smiling, grinning, and being an infuriating ray of sunshine, as if my mere presence makes him happy. That part boggles my mind. Why would he be happy with me when I
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“Tell me something in Russian.” I cup his chin and stare deep into those eyes that have become my undoing as I say the words Grandpa said Russians take seriously and literally. “Ya nee ma goo bees tee byah zhit.”
“He’ll come out one day.” “And you’re happy to wait? As long as it takes?” “If it’s him, yeah. I guess.”
“I just want you to know that you deserve to be loved in the light, Niko. Just like everyone else.”
Bran smiles again and passes him a few jam-filled scones that he chomps on like a monster.
