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In my twenty-three years of life, I’ve always been the type of man who follows the rules. I’ve never deviated from what’s expected of me and I’m creeped out at the notion of being different. In any sense. For whatever reason.
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My brother has always been the reason I’ve deviated from the core of my existence, though he’d argue this is my true character, and what I consider normal is a product of repressing. Hiding. Shackling my real self.
the guy by his side who’s wearing a yellow mask is taller and buffer, and he reeks of hostility, even from this distance. He stands out because he’s the only one without a weapon, but he still emanates a nefarious energy.
The one in orange, standing tall in the middle, is most likely Jeremy Volkov, the leader of the Heathens and a Russian mafia prince.
Green and Red Masks are possibly Gareth and Killian Carson. The siblings are affiliated with the mafia but are more American royalty instead of mafia princes.
I’ve only stood close to him once, a week ago when—again—my twin brother was fighting him in an underground fight club.
My concern about Lan shifted to disturbing unease when Nikolai looked at me with a manic expression while wearing my brother’s blood on his bandaged hands.
I’ve never gotten that feeling from someone younger than me, and Nikolai is way younger. Nineteen, I think.
Only, he looks nothing like a kid.
I’d never, in good conscience, abandon my brother. Never.
The anomaly. Violence on steroids. Yellow Mask clenches and unclenches his fists at a rhythmic pace as if he’s performing a ritual. That guy needs to be locked up instead of being allowed to be part of this nonsensical initiation.
A sudden chill scrapes the back of my neck, followed by scorching hot heat as a deep, rumbling voice whispers in my ear, “Why aren’t you running?”
I stare up, my eyes clashing with the yellow-stitch mask that’s marred with splashes of dark red. Blood.
The wanker is crouching close. So close that my nostrils fill with the metallic stench of blood and the smell of cigarettes, alcohol, and a hint of mint and bergamot.
Yellow Mask, who can only be Nikolai, pokes my forehead with a bloody finger. And although he’s only touching the mask and not my skin, my stomach cramps, choking out rampant nausea that’s ready to lurch forward and leave me heaving.
I’ve never been good with direct confrontations and prefer not to engage in them. Besides, if what I’ve heard of his infamous reputation is true, I could never take on Nikolai Sokolov, even if I were reincarnated a few times in the spirit of a warrior.
You can take him (not in a fight).
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Definitely the last person I’d want to get in a disagreement with.
But you're so good at it, Bran
I don’t hear mine, eighty-nine, but Nikolai doesn’t have a weapon like the rest, so maybe he has to do it himself.
Nikolai circles his forefinger against my forehead, but then he seems to wipe something. His movements come to a halt and his body remains so completely still, I cease to breathe. The hostility and thirst for blood that emanated off him subside. Or more like, they lessen in intensity, no longer tightening his outrageously ludicrous muscles and bulging biceps.
The flood of violence that he exuded in threatening waves a few seconds ago has been replaced by something a lot more morbid. Amusement. No, curiosity? Interest?
Yes
His finger falls from the mask, but before I can release a breath, he suddenly wraps his hand around my nape, near the hairs I constantly assault. Maybe it’s because that area is particularly battered and sensitive, 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—
Luuuuuust
“There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you, eighty-nine.”
I’ve been in a constant state of hyperawareness ever since he crowded my space, but that’s not right. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.
I can’t think. Thinking leads to fucked-up images that I’d rather leave in the unremarkable shed of my barely beating heart.
“The answer is yes, preppy boy. I should know who you are, shouldn’t I?”
I’m Brandon King and that last name means something in this world. But you don’t. Without your papa’s last name, you’re nothing.
I’m nice and pleasant until someone oversteps, which Nikolai has been doing with flying colors since he surprised the shit out of me.
“More like, I don’t appreciate being touched, especially if the hands are filthy.” He stares at his free palm under the slowly setting sun that casts an orange glow on his haphazard jet-black hair. He glances at the dried blood as if he forgot it was there and lifts a casual shoulder. “You’ll get used to it.”
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An appreciative hum falls from somewhere in his throat. “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?”
“This is the third and final time I’m telling you this. Let. Go.” “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.”
“You disgust me.” “Yeah?” His eyes, the color of midnight-blue sky, twinkle with pure sadism as he leans closer and murmurs, “Even better.”
His warm breaths skim the side of my neck. My jaw clenches and it takes everything in me to ward off the discomfort that’s still not nausea. Not in the least. The sensation spreads from where his fingers glide over my nape and ends at my earlobe, where he whispered.
A dark figure nearly slams into me and we both skid to a halt right before we crash into one another. Red Mask.
Hi, Kill <3
The distinctive smell of alcohol, cigarettes, bergamot, and the stench of metallic blood envelops me.
“Look, I caught a stray cat.” Nikolai’s rough voice sounds like the trigger for nightmares. “He just wouldn’t stop running, you know, and has a temper. Threw a whole fucking branch at my face and nearly knocked me out. Gotta love the motherfucking feisty ones. They’re so fun to break into pieces.”
A heavy weight lands on my back, and I flinch as a strong arm wraps around my neck and nearly crushes my windpipe.
He drags me behind the trees, my feet scraping the ground, and I open my mouth to call for help, even if it’s from another damned Heathen. Nikolai slams another hand on my mouth, digging the mask against my lips. “Shhh. I’m going to need you to shut the fuck up.”
A massive weight slams against my back, and Nikolai is on top of me like a brick wall.
Won't be the last time :)
“Though I’m fine with the status quo. I rather like this position.” Humiliation rushes through my bloodstream like poison as the feel of his body crushing mine registers faster than the lack of oxygen. His chest covers my back and his knee is jammed between my thighs. His entire weight spreads over me and he’s so damn heavy.
Once I’m on my feet, I start to run— “I take it you’re not worried about your brother?” I come to a halt and slowly turn around. Nikolai is on his feet, arms crossed and head tilted to the side as he watches me nonchalantly.
“Heard he’s into a lot of shit,” he continues. “Landon, I mean. He’s the reason you’re here, right?”
Oh, Lan
“Are you the one who sent me the invitation?” “And you didn’t disappoint. Brother love for the win.”
His hand shoots up to my hair and he grabs a handful, pulling at the roots until my head snaps back, then he peers down at me.
Hot
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” I grind out. “Why? What will happen if you repeat yourself? I’m kinda curious, and by kinda, I mean I have to know. Now.”
His breath bathes the plastic and my lips.
I shove him away and he stumbles back, letting go of my hair, but like an elastic band, he bounces right back, invading my space and crowding me.
