God of Fury (Legacy of Gods, Book 5) - PDF Room.pdf

 GOD OF FURY LEGACY OF GODS SERIES BOOK 5 RINA KENT  God of Fury Copyright © 2023 by Rina Kent All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mecha...

 GOD OF FURY LEGACY OF GODS SERIES BOOK 5 RINA KENT  God of Fury Copyright © 2023 by Rina Kent All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.  CONTENTS Author Note Legacy of Gods Tree Playlist 1. Brandon 2. Brandon 3. Nikolai 4. Brandon 5. Nikolai 6. Nikolai 7. Brandon 8. Brandon 9. Nikolai 10. Brandon 11. Nikolai 12. Brandon 13. Nikolai 14. Brandon 15. Nikolai 16. Brandon 17. Nikolai 18. Nikolai 19. Brandon 20. Nikolai 21. Brandon 22. Nikolai 23. Brandon 24. Brandon 25. Nikolai 26. Nikolai 27. Brandon 28. Nikolai 29. Brandon 30. Brandon 31. Nikolai 32. Levi 33. Brandon 34. Nikolai 35. Nikolai 36. Brandon 37. Nikolai 38. Brandon Epilogue 1—Brandon Epilogue 2—Nikolai What’s Next? Also By Rina Kent About the Author To the ones who scream in silence  AUTHOR NOTE Hello reader friend, Nikolai and Brandon’s story is my first MM book, and one of the fewest stories that consumed me, heart, body, and soul. They live in me, and for a moment in time, I lived for them. Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months, but I reveled in every lick of their intensity, every lash of their passion, and every sting of their angst. I poured my heart onto the page to tell their story and I hope you enjoy their special, entirely explosive dynamic as I did. God of Fury is a complete STANDALONE. However, since this story takes part during the timeline of the previous four books in the series, it spoils some events. If you haven’t read my books before, you might not know this, but I write darker stories that can be upsetting and disturbing. My books and main characters aren't for the faint of heart. This book isn’t as dark as my other books relationship-wise, but it contains sensitive subjects. I’ll list them below for your safety, but if you don’t have any triggers, please skip the following paragraph as it will provide major spoilers for the plot. God of Fury contains mental health issues, including depression, borderline personality disorder, suicidal thoughts and self-harm. There are on-page descriptions of a minor’s sexual assault, suicide attempt, and violence. I trust you know your triggers before you proceed. For more things Rina Kent, visit www.rinakent.com LEGACY OF GODS TREE  BLURB I’m not attracted to men. Or so I thought before I slammed into Nikolai Sokolov. A mafia heir, a notorious bastard, and a violent monster. An ill-fated meeting puts me in his path. And just like that, he has his sights set on me. A quiet artist, a golden boy, and his enemy’s twin brother. He doesn’t seem to care that the odds are stacked against us. In fact, he sets out to break my steel-like control and blur my limits. I thought my biggest worry was being noticed by Nikolai. I’m learning the hard way that being wanted by this beautiful nightmare is much worse.  PLAYLIST Yellow – Coldplay Do I Wanna Know – Arctic Monkeys I Wanna Be Yours – Arctic Monkeys Your Blood – Nothing But Thieves Impossible – Nothing But Thieves Demons – MISSIO Maniacs – Conan Gray Run Into Trouble – Bastille & Alok Somebody Else – The 1975 Someone Else – Loveless Losing Control – Villain of the Story Yours – Conan Gray Sorry I’m Yours – Circa Wales Half-Life - Essenger Dear Reader – Taylor Swift Half of My Heart – Josh Makazo Silence – Marshmello & Khalid You can find the complete playlist on Spotify.  1 BRANDON W hat am I doing here? Deep in the hollow corner of my heart, I know the answer. I know it so well that I can taste the nausea that slithered down my throat and hooked onto my bones the moment I got that godforsaken text. A text I should’ve very well ignored, deleted, and then blocked the number. A text I shouldn’t have dignified with a look, let alone given it enough weight to intervene with my decision-making. I did. And that’s the reason I’m here. I did. And now, I’ve put myself in an irreversible position. I did. And I’m not sure I can shove this lapse of judgment on to the possibility of having no choice. In reality, I do. I’ve just never been good with choices. Don’t appreciate them. Don’t care for them. Would rather not be presented with one. The text was an obligation or, more accurately, a pertinent piece of information. It was not a choice and certainly not a situation I could’ve escaped. The reason I’m here is sorely due to my sense of responsibility that I’ve carried like excess baggage since I started learning what life is all about.  I’m at what looks like an indoctrination center. Other students stand on either side of me, forming parallel lines and wearing white rabbit masks that cover their features. We’re facing a huge three-story mansion with old-looking stone walls and an ancient tower on the far right. The longer I remain unmoving, the more unsteady my breathing becomes. My inhales and exhales flow in a fast, fractured rhythm, forming condensation on the plastic and forcing me to breathe my own air. Tick. The sound is low, but it slams into my brain like a fatal crash. My mouth starts to fill with saliva and I gulp it down, forcing my stomach to settle. Tick. I lift my hand, about to pull at my skull. Sometimes, I wish I could smash it against the nearest wall and watch as everything spills and shatters. Once and for fucking all. Tick. My fingers curl in midair, but I lower my hand and force it to hang limp at my side. It’s fine. I can do this. Breathe. You’re in control. My soothing words of affirmation splinter and crack as the scene around me comes back into focus. No matter how much I attempt to delude myself, the reality is that I’m in the last place I should be. And I’m not one to challenge fate or go places I’m not supposed to. 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. And yet here I am at the Heathens’ mansion because I received a text and made the conscious decision not to ignore it.  I made the decision to attend the initiation of the most notorious club on Brighton Island—a secluded place near the UK’s southwest coast. For a university I’m not even enrolled in. The Heathens are the leading club of The King’s U college. A uni that reeks of mafia money and la nouveau bourgeoisie, where all American students flock like birds of a feather. We have our own malicious club at Royal Elite University—or REU—where I’m working on my master’s degree in art. It’s called the Elites and is led by none other than my headache of a twin brother, Landon. However, The King’s U’s clubs—the Heathens and the Serpents —are much more nefarious since they come from real mafia families and are using the uni experience to sharpen their fangs for the leading roles awaiting them back in the States. If a week ago someone had told me I’d be standing here wearing a creepy rabbit mask and waiting for the entitled, violence-thirsty Americans to make their appearance, I would’ve laughed. I’m certainly not laughing now. A lot of variables have changed in the span of a week and I find myself under the obligation to be here. As part of the herd. And it has everything to do with that headache of a brother I mentioned earlier. Though they took my phone at the entrance, I can still recall the text I received yesterday word for word. HEATHENS Congratulations! You are invited to the Heathens’ initiation ceremony. Please show the attached QR code upon arrival at the club’s compound at four p.m. sharp. While I’d heard of their nefarious initiations, I had absolutely no interest in them or the clubs. If I did, I would’ve joined the Elites since Lan has been asking for years. So I ignored that text and was about to block the number, but then I got another one.  UNKNOWN NUMBER If you want to see your twin brother breathing instead of being shoved in a casket and showcased to all participants, be at the initiation. That’s the reason I came here, even though every fiber of my being revolted against the idea of taking part in this madness. I called and texted Lan, but he didn’t reply, so I had to save him from himself as usual. 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. A sudden movement comes from my side and I tighten my muscles, ready to run away, move from the center of danger and pretend none of this has taken place. The girl beside me—judging by her breasts and frame—laughs as she hits her companion’s shoulder. A general murmur of excitement bubbles in the air. I don’t understand people’s obsession with these types of events. Is it the feeling of grandiosity? The opportunity to walk amongst gods? But then again, it’s impossible for me to understand some people due to how drastically different my personality is compared to the rest of my peers. Don’t get me wrong. I get along with almost everyone and I’m often described as extremely polite and a good sport, but my close friends are only a few. The only reason we’re tight is because we grew up together and I spent several years familiarizing myself with their personalities. Maybe my inability to form close connections after my childhood is due to being completely detached from most people’s source of happiness. A glaring example is my complete bafflement at these people’s sense of a thrill. They talk about the Heathens as if they’re the personification of everything they aspire to be. Wealth, influence, and, most importantly, morbid power. I, Brandon King, belong to one of the most influential families in the UK, if not the most influential, but I still don’t get people’s obsession with selected elites. Is it the illusion? The unknown? Something entirely different? The girl’s chatter comes to a halt and she looks up as everyone else grows silent. I follow her field of vision and pause when the balcony doors on the second floor open and five men stroll outside, all of them wearing neon-stitch Halloween-esque masks. The one in the middle has an orange mask and carries a metal club. He’s tall and broad, but 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 rest of them, however, seem to have their thoughts and tempers under control. Red Mask’s fingers wrap around a bat, letting it rest nonchalantly on his shoulder. A recurve bow is nestled in Green Mask’s hand and there’s a quiver attached to his back, and White Mask strokes a heavy- looking chain that’s hanging around his neck. They’re all dressed in black T-shirts and trousers like a conformist unit of destruction. Fortunately, I’ve never crossed the Heathens’ paths or interacted with them, which can’t be said about my prick of a brother. Is he with them? Perhaps he’s playing a sick game to be part of their inner circle? Or is he maybe somewhere in front of me or behind me? Maybe next to me? The problem is, I can never imagine Lan being a participant in another group’s glory or a mere follower in someone else’s mayhem. He’s too narcissistic for that. Besides, how could he possibly get an invitation? The same way I got invited? Probably. Maybe. I watch the five Heathens closely. The one in orange, standing tall in the middle, is most likely Jeremy Volkov, the leader of the Heathens and a Russian mafia prince. If my friends’ gossip can be trusted, he’s ruthless to a fault and is rumored to kill everyone in his wake. 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. However, I’m not sure which is which. White Mask seems like the leanest of the bunch, so he can’t be any of the three previously mentioned. Yellow Mask can only be Nikolai Sokolov. Another Russian mafia prince, Killian and Gareth’s cousin, and the craziest twat who ever walked the earth. If rumors are anything to go by—and in Nikolai’s case, they probably are—he’s capable of punching someone to death just because they had the audacity to piss him off. I’ve only stood close to him once, a week ago when—again—my twin brother was fighting him in an underground fight club. I honest to God thought he’d pummel Lan to death. He didn’t, because my brother is a cat with nine lives. 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 had this inherent need to get the hell out of there. And I did —after dragging my brother along, of course. I’ve never gotten that feeling from someone younger than me, and Nikolai is way younger. Nineteen, I think. A kid right out of secondary school—high school for Americans. Only, he looks nothing like a kid. Even now, while wearing black clothes, his build stands out as if he’s sculpted from pure muscle and malicious intent. Good thing I don’t run in these people’s circle and never will. Today is an exception. The sooner I locate Lan, the faster I can leave this immoral place. Static rings in the air before a distorted voice speaks from all around us. “Congratulations on making it to the Heathens’ highly competitive initiation. You are the selected elite the leaders of the club think are worthy of joining their world of power and connections. The price to pay for such privileges is higher than money, status, or name. The reason everyone wears a mask is because you are all the same in the eyes of the club’s founders. The price of becoming a Heathen is handing over your life. In the literal sense of the word. If you aren’t willing to pay that, please exit through the small door to your left. Once you leave, you’ll lose any chance to join us again.” A door beside the big gate opens, and about a dozen or less people exit. I contemplate joining them and putting an end to this madness, but I’d never, in good conscience, abandon my brother. Never. The distorted voice returns. “Congratulations again, ladies and gentlemen. We shall now begin our initiation.” I lift my head to the five Heathens, who remain unmoving. Completely grounded, absolutely apathetic about the promise of violence they’re unleashing on the world. All except for one. 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. “Tonight’s game is predator and prey,” the voice continues. “You’ll be hunted down by the club’s founding members. That will be five to ninety, so you have the upper hand. If you manage to reach the edge of the property before they hunt you down, you’ll be a Heathen. If not, you’ll be eliminated and escorted out. The founding members have the right to use any methods available to hunt you down—including violence. If their weapon of choice touches you, you’ll be automatically eliminated. Bodily harm can and will happen. You are also allowed to inflict violence on the founding members—if you can. The only rule is not taking a life. Not intentionally, at least. No questions are allowed and no mercy shall be granted. We don’t want any weaklings in our ranks.” Barbarians. The lot of them. Hopeless, outrageous savages with no grace whatsoever. But then again, what to expect from mafia people? “You have a ten-minute head start. I suggest you run. The initiation has officially begun.”  The girl beside me and her companions sprint so fast, the pebbles crunch beneath their trainers. Everyone else rushes in the direction of the forest and I’m left with the option of following or remaining here like easy prey. Cursing under my breath, I run as fast as possible. My heart rate remains the same—unperturbed, calm, and completely unaffected by the lick of danger and the lust for the thrill that hangs in the air like splashes of magenta on turquoise blue. I guess that’s the upside of having an abnormal brain. This type of nonsense doesn’t affect it. Despite going late, I manage to run faster and farther than the other participants. I might not be into these types of events, but I’m an athlete, pretty much a professional runner and also the captain of the lacrosse team at REU. I take my physical activities seriously and never miss a day of training and running, whether for the team or for myself. It’s important to keep order and discipline, and I’m nothing short of perfection in creating stability and habits. Besides, if I don’t maintain a routine, I’ll only slither down that rabbit hole of nothingness and eventually skid into an unfortunate freak accident. No thanks. In no time, I manage to reach what looks like the middle of the forest after losing the rest of the students. Late afternoon light casts ominous patches of orange on the dirt and between the huge trees. But soon enough, the gray clouds strangle the beams of hope and swallow them into darkness. I crouch behind a large bush that covers my entire frame and wait. That’s all I can do at this point. Stay low. Wait. Observe. And never ever draw attention to my presence. An activity I excel at. If Lan shows up, whether as one of the Heathens—which is highly unlikely—or one of the participants, I’ll get a gut feeling thanks to the useless twin hunch. A few people run by like a pack of wolves, squeals of excitement falling from their lips and painting the sky in blotches of brick red on midnight black. The stench of mindless violence lingers in the air and forms sinister halos around the participants' heads. Their thrill is short-lived, though. Orange Mask stalks right after them, carrying his vicious club. I silently cringe when he hits one of them so hard, their face swings to the side, and blood explodes on his mask, which cracks in two. I catch a glimpse of someone walking around dazed with an arrow stuck in his shoulder and a limp arm glued to his side. Eliminated students’ numbers are announced by that disturbing robotic voice, sometimes one after the other. I think the process is automatic, because whenever I catch a glimpse of someone getting hit by an arrow or Orange Mask’s club, their number is immediately announced. Throughout the whole freak show, I don’t move, and when I do, it’s only to adjust my position. Where are you, Lan? While I take pride in my stamina, I probably can’t keep this up for an extended period of time. Maybe I should strategically move to another nook of this extravagant forest in case my brother is on the other side— 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?” My senses saturate in a rush of overwhelming external stimuli and my brain is unable to keep up with the overload. I lose balance and fall on my arse, hitting the ground with an impact that reverberates in my bones. I stare up, my eyes clashing with the yellow-stitch mask that’s marred with splashes of dark red. Blood. It’s everywhere—clinging to his mask, staining his dark shirt, forming rivulets on his neck, covering the tattoos on the backs of his hands like gloves, and sticking to strands of his jet-black hair that falls in waves to his shoulder blades. Nausea floods my mouth and shoots straight to my fucked-up brain. Tick.  Tick. Tick tick tick tick— “You didn’t answer the question.” Yellow Mask’s gruff tone ripples down my throat and drowns the nausea, only to substitute it with dread. Harsh and poignant. What’s worse is that I can’t breathe. 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. The overwhelming mixture flows and floods my senses like a chaotic swirl of colors that blend and throttle each pigment until they settle on unassuming gray. Faultless. Timeless. Empty. 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. “Oy. You listening?” He’s only using a forefinger, yet so much power emanates off the single action that I crack under the pressure. 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. He’s notorious for his savage behavior, unhinged tendencies, and penchant for breathing violence instead of oxygen. The evidence is splattered in red all over his person. Definitely the last person I’d want to get in a disagreement with. He clucks his tongue, the sound exceptionally loud despite the constant announcements of eliminated numbers. 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. Meaning, if I escape, I can resume my hiding game and look for my brother. I swear I’m going to be so cross with him about this mess—  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. Although he’s crouching, his height and broadness are unmistakable. At six-foot-three, I’m not short by any stretch of the imagination, but Nikolai has an inch or two on me, and he’s ridiculously pumped with more muscles than anyone needs. But then again, he seems like the archetype of a sadist who gets off on inflicting pain. However, that doesn’t seem to be the case right now. 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? 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— 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.”  2 BRANDON “Y ou know who I am?” I have no clue how the words tumble out of my mouth —in a sickeningly unsteady voice, I might add. Tick. A crack appears in my outer walls and extends to the ground beneath me. Tick. The black hole widens, and muddy black ink swallows my feet until I can’t feel them. Tick— “Hmm. Should I?” The rumbling gruff of Nikolai’s voice sounds sinister, reinforced by the splashes of blood on his neon mask. 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. A puff of breath heaves out of my constricted chest and, with it, my inhales and exhales return to normal. I’m thinking too much—as usual. I need to get back to working out or painting my calming nature scenes so I’ll stop this vicious cycle of red on black. Or, more accurately, black on dead gray. I can’t think. Thinking leads to fucked-up images that I’d rather leave in the unremarkable shed of my barely beating heart. Nikolai sinks his fingers into my nape, digging into the skin until I feel him instead of see him.  “The answer is yes, preppy boy. I should know who you are, shouldn’t I?” A wave of rage tightens my muscles and I let it wash over me as I fall into it. Rage is better than nausea. Rage is certainly much more welcome than the doomsday ticking my brain practices like an orthodox religion. How dare he talk to me in that mocking tone? 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. The voice rolls in like sandpaper on glass, leaving a dry, scratchy feeling at the back of my throat. I swallow the sudden rotten taste and force myself to calm down as I slap Nikolai’s arm. He doesn’t move, not even one inch, as if his brute fingers are now an extension of my nape. “Let go,” I say or, more accurately, order. I’m nice and pleasant until someone oversteps, which Nikolai has been doing with flying colors since he surprised the shit out of me. “In a hurry to go somewhere?” “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.” Get used to what? Is this freak high or something? I wouldn’t be surprised if he snorted coke like a nineties rock star and smoked more weed than Bob Marley’s fan club before this damned initiation. “Let. Go,” I repeat in a firm voice and push at his arm with all my strength. He loosens his grip but doesn’t release me. 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?”  I narrow my eyes. What on earth is wrong with this twat? Did someone hit him upside the head? “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.” “I don’t.” I tighten my muscles against the morbid unease flooding my bloodstream. “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. I need out of here. Now. I reach to the ground behind me and grab the first object I find and then haul it square against his face. He loses his hold on my neck and I don’t wait to see his reaction as I jump up and sprint behind the bushes. Fast. Not looking behind. I run as if we’re in overtime during a game and the team depends on me passing the ball to the attackers. It’s me against the screwed-up notion of time. It’s always been that way. The sense of apprehension is replaced by a shot of adrenaline and the inherent need to escape. Far. So far. A dark figure nearly slams into me and we both skid to a halt right before we crash into one another. Red Mask. He’s carrying his bloody baseball bat and watches me as if I’m an insect that crossed his path. The rush of adrenaline slowly dissipates and a tremor spreads in my limbs like wildfire.  Stop shaking. Stop shaking, you damn weakling. Stop! I nearly manage to crack the sudden sporadic emotions, but disgust lurches from my stomach to my throat faster than I can blink. The distinctive smell of alcohol, cigarettes, bergamot, and the stench of metallic blood envelops me. No. No. No. I glance behind me and my eyes clash with Nikolai’s darker ones. They’re more unhinged than a witch during a pagan funeral, bloodshot and filled with a promise of drawing blood. My blood. Not allowing myself to think about it, I walk in Red Mask’s direction. He can hit me with that bat, for all I care. Maybe I’ll be lucky and will lose consciousness and, therefore, can remove my brain from this situation. “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.” I stride to Red Mask, who studies me up and down and then lifts the bat. Finally. It’s done. It’s over. I’ll go back to a world where I don’t cross paths with these wastes of human— A heavy weight lands on my back, and I flinch as a strong arm wraps around my neck and nearly crushes my windpipe. I can’t breathe. I can’t— Survival instinct kicks in and I elbow Nikolai with every ounce of energy I have left. He might as well be a wall because not only does he not release me, but he also tightens his grip.  Panic stiffens my muscles and I push with feral strength and bite him at some point, but Nikolai doesn’t flinch. 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.” My words come in mumbled, haunted sounds, like in those creepy horror movies where the nerd dies first. That’s me. I’m the nerd. In a last-ditch attempt, I throw the entirety of my weight back. My muscle mass doesn’t compare to his, but I work out a lot. I run, too. More than should be humanly allowed. Nikolai loses his footing and I dart to my right, but the world is pulled from beneath my feet. He tackles me to the ground, and I land on my stomach. A massive weight slams against my back, and Nikolai is on top of me like a brick wall. I cough, straining, and my deep inhale forces me to breathe in tiny particles of dirt. My lungs burn and I realize it’s because he still has me in a chokehold. “A fucking fighter. Jackpot.” His voice echoes like the dark ink from my fucked-up nightmares. “Fight me more. Do it harder. Stronger. Faster. I want the fight!” I tap his arm twice, wheezing and gasping for breath. I get lightheaded and spots of yellow and orange spark behind my heavy lids. “No fight?” He sounds disappointed. “Fine, guess you can’t if you’re being choked. If I release you, will you behave?” My short nails scratch the long sleeves of his shirt, and he hums. “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.  I press myself against the dirt as if that will help me escape him. A dark chuckle erupts in my ear as he loosens his grip enough for me to breathe. He makes no move to release me or push the hell off me, though. I inhale cracked breaths and cough at the sudden rush of air. “Anyone ever tell you how fucking hot you feel when struggling for control? I could swallow you alive and leave no crumbs.” The last sentence is whispered against my earlobe and I nearly retch. Out of my skin. Out of my fucked-up brain. I don’t know where I get the strength, but I elbow him and crawl from beneath him faster than he can blink. 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. Only, there’s nothing nonchalant about him. The twat could only be described as mental. “Heard he’s into a lot of shit,” he continues. “Landon, I mean. He’s the reason you’re here, right?” My eyes widen behind the mask. “Are you the one who sent me the invitation?” “And you didn’t disappoint. Brother love for the win.” I storm toward him and grab him by the collar of his shirt, hauling him so close, his chest collides with mine. “Where is he?” 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. “Where do you think?” My grip doesn’t loosen on his collar. I don’t care if he’s crazy or downright insane. If he messes with my loved ones, I’ll be his worst enemy. “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.”  “You—” I cut myself off because his mask scrapes against mine. His breath bathes the plastic and my lips. “Hmm? What? What am I?” he asks with an edge of lunacy, like a child ghost in a haunted castle who keeps repeating himself in a distorted voice. 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. He’s much more looming and intimidating in person. And I don’t even get intimidated. “Stop!” I place both hands up and the bastard bumps right against them, his muscles flexing beneath my fingers. “You still didn’t tell me what I am. Go on. Don’t leave me hanging.” He grins, the motion looking savage behind the bloodied mask. “Is it something good? Or bad? Either? Neither? Both?” “Just stop.” I have to keep all my strength in my hands as he pushes and wiggles against them like a damn bull. The sound of his tut echoes in the air as he finally quits trying to glue his chest to mine. I still keep my hands up, not trusting him to discontinue his frantic movements. I can’t help noticing how taut he is, like a wall. His pectoral muscles twitch beneath my fingers and I drop my arms to either side of me, chasing away the haze and the strange taste of adrenaline. When I speak, my voice is calm. Collected. In control. “Landon. Where is he?” “Fucking dull preppy kids,” he mutters under his breath, then turns on his heel and marches in the opposite direction. I stand there for a few seconds, my breathing condensing on the interior of the mask. Then I follow after, my legs feeling weightless and completely foreign, as if they’re no longer an extension of my body. “Are you taking me to him?” I ask when I fall in step beside Nikolai.  He whips his head in my direction and I have to suppress a cringe at the sight of blood. It’s not a view I’ll ever get used to, no matter how long I try. “If I do that, what will you do for me?” he asks with that glint that I swear was muted not two minutes ago. “Not report you to the police for your illegal activities. Though you should consider a change of hobbies to something less violent.” “But where’s the fun in that?” “Being normal for once?” “Is that spelled boring?” He gets close and I step to the side, narrowly escaping his shoulder bumping into mine. “Back off.” “Ah, fuck. I want to defrost that layer of control you’re wrapped in and see what lurks inside the preppy boy.” My teeth clench and I release them slowly so as not to trigger the sensation I’ve been coexisting with for most of my life. “I’m not a boy.” “Whatever you say, posh kid.” “What the hell is your problem?” “Me?” He points a thumb at himself. “You seem to be the one crowded with issues, boy.” My nostrils flare and my hand balls into a fist. You have issues. Lots of them. You don’t want to be a disappointment. Nikolai tilts his gaze to my hand, bouncing off his heels as if he’s waiting for a Christmas present. “What you gonna do with that? Punch me? Just so you know, you might get disgusting blood on your pretty hands.” The urge to hit him snaps my muscles into a tight knot, but I force my fingers to uncurl. I don’t do violence. Ever. This crazy wanker won’t be changing that. “No? Bummer.” As fast as they sparkled, his eyes become muted again, turning into two orbs of black. Black on black. Black on—  I briefly close my eyes to chase away the clouded thoughts. When I open them, I catch a glimpse of Nikolai stalking into what looks like an annexed house. I didn’t notice it earlier during our walk, too focused on the bastard and his unpredictable behavior to watch where the hell we were going. Against my better judgment, I slip in behind him. Not that I have a choice. Nikolai knows where Landon is and I need to make sure my twin brother is safe. The interior looks far simpler than the outside—clean and clinical—but the white walls are smudged with dirt in places. The decor consists of a leather sofa and a table against the wall, and there’s a door to what appears to be a storage closet. I stand at the entrance as Nikolai throws his weight on the sofa, arms flung on the back and legs wide apart like one of those macho guys who think they own the world. He beckons me over with a forefinger and I snarl behind my mask. And I don’t even snarl. I don’t run away or elbow or scream for help, either, and I’ve done all of the above this evening. Thanks to this bastard. “Do that again and I’ll break your finger,” I deliver the threat with calmness and a smile. He probably can’t see it, but fuck it. “Get your ass over here if you want to see your brother breathe another day.” My shoulders tense and I take careful steps toward him, each one echoing a louder-than-necessary sound. It isn’t until I’m within arm's reach that I realize he’s crowding the sofa that should fit at least three people. I’m still contemplating his sheer size when a noise spills from my lips. A startled, funny noise that feels foreign as it scratches out of my throat. But I don’t focus on that, more concerned with the reason behind said noise. Nikolai grabs me by the wrist and hauls me over so fast, I land on him, my chest crashing against his and our masks bumping. The assault on my senses is much more prominent this time as that stupid glint rushes to his previously muted eyes. “Well, hello there. Lovely of you to finally join the party.”  I bite back a curse as I attempt to get up. Nikolai lets me, but then I make the mistake of turning my back. Brutish hands land on my hips and I stifle whatever noise that’s trying to escape. A curse. It was definitely another curse. And it doesn’t matter that I actually don’t curse. Nikolai drags me down and my arse meets a hard surface. His thighs. What the— Panic dashes in my veins and I start to get up, but he pushes with enough force to knock my bones against his. “Stay fucking still unless you’re in the mood to take care of the boner you’re giving me.” My face falls, figuratively, of course. I’d pay money for it to disappear literally. Indefinitely. I try again, needing to escape the wanker. But before I can move, he wraps his arm around my waist and spreads his palm over my stomach. “Someone has nice abs.” “Stop touching me and throwing out sexual innuendos,” I hiss under my breath, sinking my fingers into his arm and pushing. “I’m straight and have no interest in your weird nonsense.” He chuckles, the sound reverberating like a symphony gone wrong. “You don’t say.” “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” “I don’t know. The fact that you say sexual innuendos, maybe. Such a preppy boy.” “What?” Whatever he has to say is drowned out by voices and the shuffling of feet outside. Green Mask stalks in from another door to the right that I didn’t notice and I stiffen. The situation I’m in registers quickly and heat rushes to my head. I’m sitting on a random guy’s lap. Me. Brandon fucking King. Yet I remain completely still, not wanting to draw attention to myself. I’m wearing the mask anyway. If I stay still, he won’t look at me or notice me— My jaw nearly hits the floor when none other than my baby sister rushes through the door, her cheeks red and her demeanor flustered. Glyn stares at me and I feel as if I’m being stripped naked, free falling from the sky without a safety net. I lower my head, staring at my feet, and soon, that dark inky water swallows them whole, creeping up my calves and to my knees. Veiny-like tendrils strap around my flesh in a vise, pulling, gripping, plunging me into the endless hole. Down. Down. Down— “She’s gone,” a chilling voice whispers in my ear and I jerk. The black ink slowly dissipates and I lift my head to find that Glyn and Green Mask are disappearing out a third door to the left. I release a puff of air, but it gets stuck in my throat when Nikolai strokes his hand on my stomach. It’s over my shirt, but it’s like he’s scratching at the surface of my skin, nearly peeling it off the muscles. A burn erupts at the pit of my belly and rushes to the rest of my limbs. “Such a responsible brother. First, you came here because I made up a story about Landon, and now, you’re worried about your sister. We have something in common. I like it.” My head spins, mostly due to his breath near my ear, his hand on my stomach, and his rock-hard thighs underneath mine. Then something he said comes back to me and I narrow my eyes. “You made up a story about Lan?” He lifts a shoulder. “How else would I have gotten you here? On my lap, I mean.” A volcano of rage splinters inside me, and I want to punch his fucking stitch mask so bad. So, so bad. But I don’t, because I don’t do that. I use the energy to push against him and spring up. “Take your nonsense away from me. Far away.” That glint flashes again, but before I can find out what type of absurdity he’s planning, Jeremy walks through the door Glyn and Green Mask disappeared through, holding his orange mask and a bloodied club.  He’s only second to Nikolai in broadness and unpleasant facial expressions. But where the arsehole behind me is outwardly loud, violent, and generally obnoxious, Jeremy is the calmer version. The type who appears collected, but is in fact as notorious as his precious idiot friend. He’s scowling now, seeming lost in thought as he throws his club on the ground and runs his fingers through his damp hair that’s stuck to his nape. “Jer!” Nikolai jumps to my side and wraps an arm around my shoulders as if we’re mates. “Meet eighty-nine. Pretty sure he’s the only one who made it here and, therefore, can be a member of the Heathens.” Jeremy lifts his head and takes in the scene for the first time. He was so lost in his own head that he didn’t even notice us. He cocks his brows at Nikolai, then narrows his eyes on where he’s grabbing me. I flash the crazy bastard a death glare that he lets roll off his bloodied mask as if it was never there. He’s high. Must be. There’s no other explanation for why he’d think the twin brother of Lan, aka his worst enemy, should join his precious club’s ranks. Or why he’d possibly think I would. Now that I know Lan isn’t in danger, I have no reason to tolerate his distasteful presence. I shove his hand off my shoulder, not bothering to hide my contempt, and turn around and leave. No, I run. Far. Away.  3 NIKOLAI K olya Jr. has been an adventurous whore since he got his first boner at the fresh age of five. It was such a marvelous discovery when I found my then-wiener hard that I giggled with glee. Then I proceeded to run all over our house, dangling, pointing, and showing it off to anyone who crossed my path while shouting, “Look! I have a gun!” Dad laughed his head off. Mom looked like she was going to either throw up or burst into flames. Good times. For me and my dad. Definitely not for my mom since she was covering my twin sisters’ eyes, ushering them inside, and telling me to get my weenie back in my pants. I pouted as I muttered, “But my weenie really likes the air.” Mom looked at the sky, probably to the invisible big bro up there, and when that didn’t work, she directed her gaze at the actual semblance of a real God in our lives. My dad. After he laughed his ass off—five out of five sense of humor on that man, love him—he helped me pack a pouty Kolya away, and sure as shit, my dick had every right to be offended since his first show was put to a nonconsensual halt. Dad told me that I actually couldn’t use my wiener as a gun. At least, not yet—see, told you that man has the best sense of humor, as expected of my dad—and stripping in front of my baby sisters is a no-no.  He also said the stupid rule where I couldn’t be naked all the time. Fucking social restrictions and all that bullshit. At any rate, that was the official birth of Kolya Jr., or Kolya for short. Kolya happens to be the Russian diminutive form of my name, but it’s rarely used, and only by my very Russian grandfather, who snarls at the reality that Niko won the nickname battle a hundred to one. And no, Grandpa doesn’t know I actually call my dick Kolya or I’d need to revoke my Russian card. And that’s no fun. I breathe vodka. Anyway, ever since that boner incident, Kolya has become the sluttiest, most adventurous cock anyone would ever meet. He’s resourceful, to put it mildly, and a flat-out whore if we’re being fucking blunt. Part of his extended arsenal is being easy to satisfy. Give him a willing hole and he’s weeping in joy—literally. So imagine my goddamn bafflement when he woke up today and chose the silent treatment. I presented an especially sexually frustrated Kolya with his favorite flavors. At the same time. A dick and a pussy? Fucking jackpot, if you ask me. After the initiation, I got back to the Heathens’ mansion and shot three of my contacts a text to come and worship at Kolya’s altar. All three of them replied, so what the fuck? A foursome sounded like fun, so I told them to come the fuck over, and they did, stacked with weed and booze, and one was chewing on a blue pill. Not sure you’re supposed to chew on it, but I couldn’t be bothered and gave him vodka to help…uh…with digestion and shit. Don’t ask me how I know those two guys and the girl. The girl is from school, probably. Again, don’t ask what happens at school. I’m studying business there, but I’ve barely attended any classes since I’ve been at college. As long as I keep my GPA up, thanks to my superior genes, nobody cares. Me included. The two guys, anyone’s guess. I happen to attract a lot of attention—might have to do with Kolya’s extravagant magic cross piercing that many swear made them see heaven. Or hell. Depending on their kink. Also, it might have to do with how unbothered I am by any request. Once, a girl was like, “Choke me, Daddy,” and I nearly killed her. In my defense, she didn’t specify how hard I should choke her, so I went with the flow—the flow being maximum violence. Another guy sent me a text saying, “Are you looking for a doormat? Because you can step on me any day and I’d bend over and take it.” So I did just that and stepped on him. What? He asked for it and, I kid you not, he jizzed all over my room. Then he did bend over and took it. Fun times. Last night, however, most definitely was not. It was so far from fun, it gave me fucking whiplash. I had three sexy-as-fuck people at my disposal and Kolya was playing hard to get like a virgin motherfucker. Which he’s not. For the first time in my nineteen years of life, I couldn’t get off. Not when they offered their mouths, holes, and everything in between. In fact, I wasn’t even motivated to release Kolya from his least favorite confinement—my pants. They soon forgot about me and turned to one another while I watched, sitting on the stairs and nursing a bottle of good ole vodka. It was a threesome of epic proportions that started with making out, sucking each other off, and both guys double penetrating the girl and fucking her senseless until she nearly passed out. At some point, they pushed her aside. Viagra boy clearly couldn’t get enough, so he bent the other guy over, fucked him, then nutted in his ass. Or I think he did. Because that’s the point where I fell asleep. At the bottom of the stairs. If that doesn’t tell you how desperate Kolya’s state of no fun is, I don’t know what would. Not the sleeping at the bottom of the stairs part, because I swear to fuck my body can only lull itself to sleep on anything that isn’t a bed. It comes with my head’s fucked-up state of mind. This is about the not-participating part. Usually, I’d be all over that shit, and, in retrospect, bringing the beautiful queer energy out of everyone. There’s a reason why people say yes whenever I shoot them a text. I’m a guaranteed source of crazy fun. Last night, not only did I not fuck my way through multiple holes, but I was also bored. Completely and utterly indifferent. Like I was earlier, when the professor was about to give me head. Hot bombshell with luscious lips and everything. Kolya was almost hard but didn’t want her lips anywhere near his goddamn annoying presence. Fuck. I walk through the door of the mansion after school and stop in the entrance hall, tug my T-shirt over my head, and throw it down. My necklace that Dad gifted me jostles free and I stroke the bullet that hangs from it before I let it fall to my naked chest. There. Much better. People should be thankful I wear pants. Fucking prude society could use a chill pill. I have a beautiful body and I would rather show it off instead of keeping it tucked away. The same applies to my monster cock. I’m usually hella proud of Kolya’s size and porn star-level performance, but today is not it. I narrow my eyes on the half-tent in my pants. “The fuck is wrong with you, motherfucker?” Is it all the fucking? No. Hell no. That’s what he thrives on. It’s why he chose to be completely cool with any hole. Endless options and all that. Maybe I should extend those options… But to whom? I’ve been literally fucking my way through any and all of the population available at my disposal. Let’s rewind. What could’ve happened to trigger Kolya’s silent treatment? He’s been caught in this strange stage where he’s about to grow a boner but never exactly gets there. Yesterday morning, I was coming all over an ass and a pussy, or was it two asses and a pussy? Anyway, I was a bit high at the time, so who knows how many? What I do know, however, is that Kolya was definitely pumped up for the highly awaited event—the initiation. Punching people to near death? Holding power over their insignificant existence?  Fucking ecstatic. Kolya was most certainly feeling himself and had the night of his dickish life, especially after… A twitch rushes to my groin and I pause. He was feeling himself more than usual when… A reluctant, uptight preppy boy was gliding his firm ass all over him. “Oh no.” I glare down at my pants. “Fuck no, you fucking fuck.” He twitches again as if saying, “Fuck yeah.” “The fuck are you? A masochist? He said he was straight. Told you to keep your nonsense away from him as if it were an insult.” My dick doesn’t understand insults, since he has the moral compass of a used condom, and remains standing at attention like an eager kid in class. “You need to get yourself fucking checked, dude. Preferably by an exorcist so they can get those demons out and shit.” Now that I think about it, when I was falling asleep, I wasn’t seeing the hot threesome, but the up and down of a gorgeous Adam’s apple as he flinched, jerked, and swallowed thickly. Fuck me sideways. Kolya is definitely hard and in the mood now. Maybe if I get him the same flavor as the three from last night… He flops down so fast, I curse his goddamned maker. It’s me. I’m the maker. “Fuck you right the fuck off, motherfucker,” I mutter. I don’t fuck with straight guys. At all. Many of them have fragile egos and macho manly energy that pisses me off and propels me to sudden, impulsive violence. I prefer queers who are comfortable in their own sexuality, like myself, thank you very much. The only time I hover near a heterosexual man is if he’s a lost bi-curious lamb who wants to experiment. In that case, I make it my mission to take him to heaven. Like an angel did to some prophet—don’t ask me what his name is; I can’t even remember mine half the time. Brandon King does not belong on any of my lists of interest.  He’s too uptight and closed off, not to mention standoffish and arrogant. His entire existence should give me a serious case of erectile dysfunction. Jesus fuck. That guy could use a chill pill. Or a few. In fact, someone should shove the entire bottle down his throat and make him choke on it. Fuck him and his back off and stop touching me. I’m straight. Like fuck he is. He nearly bounced on my cock and he sat there so prettily while I was nursing an erection of epic proportions for a whole five minutes. Not that I was counting or anything. Or maybe I was. To prove his theory. Straight, my ass. Or his, to be more specific—pun totally intended. I should note that during that time, his sister walked by and he nearly lost his marbles, which is probably why he remained frozen for a long period of time, but I digress. I’m completely uninterested in his mythical straight battle. Fuck that right the fuck off, if you ask me. The reason I invited him to the initiation was solely to mess with his twin brother. The major asshole who leads the preppy kids in the Elites and thinks he could go head-to-head with us. A few nights ago, Landon and I fought at one of my favorite places on the island—the fight club. I was so pumped to pummel that English prick to the ground in front of his wannabe fans. But then Brandon showed up and stood there like the prince version of his brother. I admit that I lost concentration because he looked so fucking agitated at the prospect of Landon being beaten to death, and I also admit Kolya appreciated the view. He’s hot. And it’s different on him than his show-off, in-your- face brother. Brandon has a quieter presence and carries himself in a total golden-boy fashion. Slick brown hair, groomed face, tall and slim frame, but muscled. Yup, don’t let those preppy clothes fool you. Asshole has abs. All six of them. I counted them yesterday since I had nothing else to do with my hands. I would’ve preferred to let my hand go down a more fun path, but I doubt grouchy Brandon would’ve been thrilled. Anyway…stop sidetracking. Now, brain. I mean it. I almost lost that fight because Brandon got in the way. Side note, I don’t usually get distracted during fights because of this lame reason, I assure you. So, naturally, I had to mess with Bran the way he dared to mess with me. And it so happened that the initiation was coming up and I couldn’t miss that chance. Since he was so concerned about his idiot brother, I made up a whole drama about his participation. It was a shot in the dark. I really thought Brandon wouldn’t fall for it, since he’s this major snob who looks down on people like me from his high horse. Imagine my fucking surprise when he walked right in like a lost lamb. A straight lost lamb. What I didn’t expect was his subtle aggressiveness and hints of submissiveness peeking from beneath the mask of rigorous control that he wears like a second skin. From the outside looking in, he seems too boring and snobbish and like he could use some drugs. Maybe a mixture of them would help loosen up the layer of asshole wrapped around him. However, something changed when he was put under pressure —his body trembled and he struggled to hide behind his mask, literally and figuratively. My dick jumps at the memory of him remaining as still as a statue on my lap. I don’t think he noticed it, but he had both his palms flat on his thighs like a well-behaved prince. But then he left before I could convince the others to add him to our club. Not that they would’ve agreed, and Jeremy looked fucking horrified when he found out his identity, but oh well. I just wanted to toy with him a little. Use him against his brother if the shoe fit. Maybe destroy his fantasies about being straight in the meantime. I’ve never played around with straight men, but this was too tempting to pass up.  Blood rushes to my groin and I mutter, “Fuck you, you fucking fuck. You need help.” “You need help, Niko.” My cousin Killian brushes past me on the way inside, accompanied by his brother, Gareth, and my best friend, Jeremy. They must’ve finished school and come back together, which I should’ve probably done as well. But oh well, I forgot. Jeremy stops a few inches away from me. He’s an inch shorter than me and definitely the most muscled after yours truly. He’s a few years older, but he’s been my best friend for as long as I remember. I might have pestered him for it, though. He pushes his dark hair away from his face and narrows his eyes. “Niko, please tell me you weren’t talking to invisible people just now.” “Of course not. I was having a very frustrating conversation with my dick.” “That’s even worse.” Gareth shoves my shoulder and chuckles. My older cousin, twenty-one, is the prince of our little group of mayhem. Slick blond hair, sharp jaw, green eyes like some elf, and fucking dimples. The problem with him is that he’s wiser than should be allowed. It makes him a little boring, just saying. He’s worlds apart from his younger brother, Kill, who’s my age —dark hair, piercing blue eyes, and possesses the personality of a serial killer. My favorite type of personality. The crazier, the better. He’s a prick, but at least he’s a prick who doesn’t try to stop me from causing mayhem, and, under certain circumstances, he endorses and encourages it. “Why would you even talk to your dick?” Jeremy asks, looking half curious, half petrified. Which is pretty much the standard when it comes to me. “We’re having a difference of opinion. We’ll come to an agreement sooner or later.” “Or you can take care of that ED we talked about earlier. I can hook you up with one of my professors in the local hospital,” Kill muses as he strolls past me and sits on the sofa, grinning like a fucker who’ll have that Colgate smile smashed when I knock out his fucking teeth.  “If you wanna see my dick again, just say so.” I grab my belt, ready to die on this hill. Gareth slams his hand on mine, a terrified expression covering his features. “Don’t show us your dick, Niko. Seriously, why do you feel the need to get naked whenever someone mentions your dick? We’re cousins, for fuck’s sake.” “Well, your brother keeps running his mouth about ED and I want to prove that I don’t have it.” “We believe you,” Jeremy grunts with obvious displeasure. “Keep that thing in your pants. No one in this room wants to see it.” “I don’t believe you.” Kill lifts a shoulder as he toys with the remote. “Kill!” Gareth growls. “Stop encouraging his crazy or he’ll be walking around naked for a couple of days.” “Good idea.” I snap my fingers at him. “You’re so smart, Gaz.” His face falls. “Please don’t.” Killian throws his head back in laughter while Jeremy sighs for the thousandth time since he got here and then sits beside him. His state of bubbling displeasure might have to do with me, but I honest to fuck don’t know what I did or am doing wrong. “Oh, right!” I snap my fingers again and sit opposite Kill and Jer. Gareth disappears in the background and I catch a glimpse of him going up the stairs, probably to escape my pending exhibitionism. But that’s a thought for another time. “What now?” Kill asks with visible amusement. “You going to tell us a tale about your dick?” “Tempting, but I’ll have to take a rain check on that. I’ve been thinking.” “You actually do that? Maybe we should check that head of yours when you receive that treatment for the ED.” “Haha. Hilarious,” I deadpan. “Now, shut the fuck up. I have a very important question to ask. Have you ever been attracted to a guy?” Kill crosses his legs at the ankles. “You do know that I hook up with anyone, right? Gender doesn’t matter as long as they have a hole I can use.” Right. He did go on a spree similar to mine, but that was different. I don’t think he’s genuinely attracted to people in any shape or form. He just loves the power. I do, too, so fucking much that the fact that I haven’t had my fill in a while—the while being thirty-six hours—is causing Kolya’s friends the infamous blue balls situation. Kill is useless. Next. “What about you, Jer?” “I don’t find men attractive.” He frowns. “What’s this about?” “Yeah, Niko. Don’t tell me you’re having a sexuality crisis after you’ve been bi for over four years?” I ignore Kill because he’s too manwhorish to offer me the angle I’m looking for and sit on the coffee table, leaning into Jeremy’s space. “Why have you never been attracted to men?” “Because I prefer women. What kind of question is that?” My face is so close to his, anyone else would be intimidated and jerk back, but Jeremy doesn’t even breathe differently or attempt to move. He’s so confident in his straight sexuality that he’s not fazed by my outwardly weird behavior. “You got a boner for Jeremy?” Kill asks from the side like a witch that will be burned in hell while Satan cackles manically. “Nope.” I push back. “He’s straighter than straight.” “Thanks?” Jer mutters. “That wasn’t a compliment.” He releases that defeated sigh again. “What’s going on, Niko?” “Get me someone to maim. That’s what’s going on.” I jump up and run up the stairs three at a time, sprint down the hall, then whip the door to Gareth’s room open and shove it against the wall. He looks up from his desk, pausing on doing homework like a boring prick. Jesus. If he didn’t indulge in some violence on occasion, I would’ve already disowned him. No cousin of mine becomes boring and gets away with it. “Gee, thanks for the death scare. Please don’t tell me you’ll start stripping…?” I stalk toward him, eyes narrowed.  “Don’t you dare, Niko, or I swear I’ll tell Aunt Rai about your annoying habits—” “Have you ever been attracted to men?” It’s subtle, and I probably wouldn’t have noticed it if I’d stayed by the door, but Gareth’s eyes widen a little. He drops his pen on his notebook and exhales loudly. “What are you talking about?” “You’ve always fucked women, but have you done that because you feel you have to due to peer pressure and what’s defined by society as normal or because you want to?” “What is this about?” He stands up. “What did you hear?” “What should I have heard?” His face falls for a fraction of a second and I step into his space. “So? What? Tell me. Tell me! What should I have heard?” He pushes me away. “Stop doing that shit.” “Not until you answer my question.” He runs a hand over his face. “I love women. Happy?” “What about men?” “I…don’t know. Could be.” His eyes spark like a tropical forest before he clears his throat. “Why are you probing?” “I’m testing something. When did you discover you like men?” “I don’t like men. Jesus.” He jogs to the door and slams it shut, then leans against it, arms and ankles crossed “I’m not sure. I don’t know. I love fucking women, but…” “But what?” I walk up to him and then peer down at him until I can see the tiny freckles on his nose. “What changed your mind?” “I didn’t change my mind and, seriously, stop looking so intense. It’s creepy.” “Blah fucking blah, just tell me what made your straight ass sway on the line. Figuratively, of course.” I grin. “Or is it literally?” “Fuck you, asshole.” He closes his eyes with pure exasperation. “If you tell anyone about this, especially Kill, I’ll murder you.” “I won’t if you just fess up. What made you change lanes?” “I’m not sure I did—or would, for that matter. It’s just…one person. That’s it.” One person. One. Person.  That’s it. Fucking interesting. I ruffle Gareth’s hair and offer courses in butt stuff, but I’m not even done enumerating things he should know before he proceeds to throw me out and shut the door in my face. His groans can be heard through the door as I grin and walk down the hall. On a scale of straighter-than-straight Jer to fluid-as-lube Kill to confused-as-shit Gareth, I wonder where Brandon King falls. Not that I’m tempted to find out. That would be crazy. J ust kidding. I am crazy. A week later, I’m lurking by the entrance of the Elites’ mansion at five thirty in the fucking morning. You know, where Brandon lives with his insufferable brother, Landon, and a bunch of their family/friends. Believe me, I’d never dream of waking up this early. But I can’t exactly survive on images of him trapped beneath me and wiggling his ass against my cock. Kolya, the traitorous bitch who’d deserve castration if I wasn’t a major sexual being, still twitches at those memories. Something he wasn’t interested in despite all the porn shows I presented him with, both live and recorded. He’s being a dick. Literally. Which brings me to this amateurish stalking mission. I might have visited Bran’s Instagram and seen all the stories he posts every single day at five thirty like clockwork. Sure enough, the small gate on the side creaks open and he steps outside, stretching under the hint of sun. He’s dressed in loose shorts and a fitted green T-shirt that clings to his muscles like a second skin. Fucking hot. Now, if he weren’t so groomed with his shaven face, styled hair, and general sophisticated appearance, he’d be even hotter. I love my men filthy, unkempt, and rugged around the edges.  Women are soft and pliant and should be worshipped. Men are to be used. Who am I kidding? Both are to be used. And he’s not one of my men. Jesus Christ. The fuck is wrong with my thought process? Must be the lack of sleep. Has to be. Only psychos wake up this early every day for a satanic ritual. Sure enough, he retrieves his phone from his armband—of course the prick has an armband. Goes so well with his pristine clean image—and snaps a picture of the sky, then his fingers tap on the screen. I grab my phone—from my shorts pocket like a normal human being—and check the story. It’s an aesthetic picture containing part of the gate and the looming sun. #NewDay That’s literally the only hashtag he uses on these posts, as if he’s planning to kill his audience with the repetitive caption. Brandon tucks his phone back into the armband and touches the earbuds in his ears, elegantly, I might add, as if he’s handling a million-dollar painting. All his movements are slow, unhurried. No, not slow. Controlled. His favorite uptight behavior seems to pour from him in everything he does. I bet he doesn’t know how to have fun. I’d feel bad for him if I weren’t itching to tackle him to the ground and pummel his beautiful face a few times. Though beautiful isn’t quite the right word. He’s not pretty like a girl or beautiful like a colorful flower on the side of the road. He’s handsome. Sharp jawline, hard eyes, straight nose, and a set of full lips that would look divine around a cock. Kolya wholeheartedly agrees, considering the significant change in his moody state. I have to adjust my erection and shake my head. Stop thinking about Brandon and dick. They obviously don’t mesh. In fact, the logical thing to do is turn around and leave. But then again, I was never much of a logical person.  If I don’t stay, I’ll come back tomorrow. And if I leave tomorrow, I’ll return the day after. It’s an itch at this point. As Brandon starts running down the road, I release a sigh, tuck my phone back in my shorts, and follow right after. I’m just gonna find out if he’s as confused as Gareth, and if he is, I’ll help offer pointers. Consider it charity work. That’s it. That’s all. I catch up to him in no time, keeping a few yards between us. His back muscles ripple beneath his shirt and his hamstrings extend and repress, causing his shorts to ride up his thighs with every step. Hypnotic. My gaze keeps flitting to the round globes of his ass, though, all peachy and shit. If he’s straighter than straight, it’s such a shame to leave that ass empty. Brandon seems lost in whatever is playing in his ears, because he doesn’t notice when I close the distance between us. I keep running at his pace right behind him. Now, I know I’m supposed to be on a stalkerish mission, but it’s impossible to stay away from his spellbinding pull. Fuck it. I pluck one of his AirPods out and whisper into his ear, “Long time no see. Miss me?”  4 BRANDON I ’m a creature of habit. Neurotically so. In every sense of the word. Without my carefully laid-out routine, I’d crumble and crash into a million irreparable pieces. Without my punctual set of actions, I’m nothing. So every day, I wake up at five. No exception—not during holidays, not after a night of drinking or partying or doing whatever is expected from a uni student. Five. Always. Every single day. Then I put on my clothes, do a smoothie, and go for a run at five thirty. Back at seven. Shower. Breakfast. Wallow in my studio for another hour or two. Then school. Then I go to practice with the lacrosse team. More wallowing. Talking, smiling, laughing, caring, texting, liking, being. Existing. Day in and day out, I have to exist. To be out there and fucking stay there. In the middle of people with blurry faces and names and personalities. All day, I tell myself that I belong with them and that I’m not in fact battling with incessant nausea that saturates my lungs with every breath. That’s what I do best. Pretend. Swallow it all down. Smile. Again and again and fucking again until I can crawl back to my studio, stare at my soul in the form of a blank canvas, then shower longer than necessary. I scrub myself clean, turning my skin as red as a tomato, and that’s the only way I can tune out for the day. Then I have herbal tea and go to sleep at ten thirty. That is, if I’m not dragged to a party by my friend Remi, who likes to have fun on an everyday basis. Sometimes, I can shoo him away and keep to my sleeping schedule, but other times, he’ll be armed with our other friends and I can’t say no. Rejecting invitations constantly doesn’t fit well in the pretending agenda, now, does it? My inconsistent sleeping schedule scratches at my neurotic side like an unreachable itch, but I deal with it. Logically. By waking up at five the next day and resuming the cycle. That’s why I nearly lost it after that godforsaken initiation I shouldn’t have set foot into. That event was a major deviation from my usual habits, and it took me more than just waking up at five to get over it. But I did. Eventually. Because I’m in control. The whole ludicrous experience is in the past. Or that’s what I thought. Another unexpected event just slammed into my steel wall, putting a dent in it and sweeping my perfect cycle into a ditch. My feet come to a halt as I peer back at the waste of space of a human whom I’ve been trying to bleach out of my mind. And I did. I succeeded. Until he spoke just now, that is. My lungs heave in quick succession, chest rippling against my shirt as if hoping to escape from my own fucking skin. Alternative rock keeps playing from my sole earbud, the loud beat pounding in my ear, but I can’t hear anything over the constant static thumping in my skull. Like whenever my carefully built life experiences a hurdle. Nikolai isn’t only a hurdle. He’s a fucking wall that I can’t seem to shove out of the way. He doesn’t notice the clusterfuck he’s brought on with his mere presence and stands there grinning like an idiot.  Half naked. Only a necklace with a bullet dangles on his chest. His white shorts hang so low on his hips, one wrong move would bring them down. A map of extravagant tattoos spread over his chest, shoulders, arms, and all eight of his abs. He’s stupidly muscular in a very unnecessary way. His thick mane of hair is tied in a messy ponytail which highlights his sharp jaw, harsh features, and unhinged eyes. I thought the bloodied mask made him seem monstrous the other time, but no, he doesn’t need a crutch when he can pull off that intense and entirely unpleasant energy with his revolting face alone. He strokes my AirPod between his fingers—definitely disinfecting that later. “Is it just me or are you looking at me like you really missed me?” I barely manage to stop my upper lip from lifting in a snarl as I snatch my AirPod. “I don’t even know who you are. Run along, boy.” There. I threw his insult back at him. Not that I was thinking about that retort, or something similarly obnoxious, hours after the initiation. I turn and start jogging again, hell-bent on finishing my run and going back to the schedule we all know and love. By we, I mean me and my unstable brain. Once again, my plan plummets to the deepest pit of hell. The damn twat catches up to me, jogging at my pace, his shoulder nearly touching mine. “It’s me, Nikolai. We met the other day at the initiation… Oh, right! I was wearing the yellow-stitch mask, so you didn’t see my face, but it’s me! Much hotter without the mask, don’t you think?” I was intending to disinfect the AirPod before I used it again, but I don’t have the luxury. I push it in my ear and blast the volume to the max and run faster, the trees lining the road blurring in my peripheral vision. Order. Habit. Control.  I always run the same path on the same pavement, pass by the same park, and look at the same buildings. It’s intensely infuriating when they have areas of construction on some roads, and I have to take pedestrian diversions. Right now, there aren’t any. I’m a fast runner—the fastest on the team, which is why I play midfield to perfection. Nikolai and his ridiculous size can’t keep up with me. Now I can get back to my rhythm and forget this entire thing happened. Like I thoroughly forgot about the initiation—except for the fact that my baby sister was there. I couldn’t exactly text her, ‘Hey, little princess, for the love of fish and chips, please tell me I was seeing things and you weren’t at the Heathens’ initiation,’ because that would give away that I was there. Although, she did do a double-take, so she could have recognized me despite the mask. Either way, it’s absolutely not happening. My love language is shielding those I love, my precious sister included, from the mess that is my existence. So there’s no way I would’ve voluntarily divulged I was there. I did text and meet up with her and she seemed fine. Aside from the fact that Killian Carson, another member of the Heathens, posted a picture of him kissing her—or, more accurately, eating her face. I must admit I was alarmed and Lan lost his damn mind over it. Killian, coincidentally Nikolai’s cousin, isn’t the type of guy we want our sister with. But she assured me it’s okay and that she knows what she’s doing. Lan definitely didn’t listen to her and made me join him when he went to threaten Killian and give him a deadline to leave our sister. Of course, I had to apologize on his behalf when he was rude to Killian’s cousin, Mia. Despite being Nikolai’s sister, she’s nothing like him. She accepted the apology and invited me over for pancakes and gaming. Not Lan. Me.  I really didn’t want to go to the Heathens’, but Mia insisted, and I wanted to see Killian for myself, so I went. Fortunately, Nikolai wasn’t there, but Glyn came along and I could see how she was longingly looking at Killian the whole time. After that, I was a responsible brother and reminded her to be careful and tell me if anything happens. However, giving any sort of advice always makes me feel like a massive fraud. So I let the whole thing go. Barely. Reluctantly. It’s not my place anyway. It was the first time I’ve seen Glyn put her foot down and vehemently refuse to listen to Lan’s orders — A weight crashes against my back and I stumble as both AirPods are plucked from my ears and Nikolai stands in front of me, breathing as hard as I am. No, he’s panting, but the up and down of his chest doesn’t compare to the frantic thumping of my heart against my rib cage. “What the hell is your problem?” I snap, then bite my tongue because I don’t snap. Ever. “I was calling your name, but you weren’t listening,” he supplies casually, as if he’s not witnessing my temporary loss of control in epic proportions. I shove whatever demon took over me into the darkest corner of my mind and stretch out my palm so he’ll give back the AirPods. Nikolai throws one of them in his other hand, then squeezes my palm in his, his lips curving in an unhinged grin. “Oh cool, you remember! Nice to officially meet you, Brandon. Or, hold on! I actually found you a perfect nickname. Lotus flower. You know, because you managed to bloom so beautifully while surrounded by the muddy swamp that is Landon. Isn’t that so fucking poetic?” I’m momentarily paralyzed, my neatly tucked thoughts almost topple me over into the inky-black hole headfirst. But that doesn’t happen. Because I’m in control. I attempt to pull my hand from his warmer one, but he squeezes, tight, as if he’s attempting to crush my bones.  His grin widens, kicking the creep factor up a notch. “Do you like it? Your new name? Do you?” “Let go,” I mutter from between clenched teeth. “But why?” He appears genuinely puzzled. “You’re the one who offered to shake hands. I forgive you for pretending not to remember my unforgettable presence.” “You need to check your ego.” He looks down at himself and then smirks. “Perfectly awesome, thanks for asking.” I want to pinch the bridge of my nose, but I can’t, because the bastard is holding my hand hostage, tightening his grip incrementally. The worst part is that I don’t think he even notices what he’s doing. It hurts, damn it, but I’d dig myself a hole and rot in it before I’d admit that out loud. “My hand,” I say in a thoroughly unaffected tone. He squeezes more. “What about it?” “Let it go.” “Do I have to? It’s kind of soft and nice.” He tightens his hold again, mushing the fingers together, and I have to stifle a goddamn…groan? What in the bleeding livid gates of hell? Pain. It’s only pain. “I need my hand, so yes, you have to release it, Nikolai.” “Fuck. I love the way you say my name. Though everything sounds amazing in that hot accent.” The gleam that I never quite managed to erase from my mind rushes back to the depths of his harsh eyes. Turquoise blue. Brimming with sharp…curiosity? Violence? It’s impossible to tell with the crazy twat. He’s intensity on steroids. An element I have no interest in whatsoever. “I wonder how you’d say my name in other…more intimate situations.” I pull my hand away so suddenly, he has no choice but to release me. “I told you to keep your gay flirtations away from me. I’m straight.”  ”Hmm.” He tilts his head to the side, eyes watching me intently like a creep. What does a whacko like him think about? Aside from violence, of course. The rumors about him beating people up for sport are all I heard about him prior to the initiation. Maybe if I were more involved in the real world instead of pretending to be, I would’ve found out he likes men. Though he obviously likes women as well. According to…uh, social media. I didn’t search for him. He somehow landed on one of Remi’s tagged pictures. I have zero interest in where he dips his dick as long as he keeps it away from me. “My AirPods,” I demand, not making the mistake of offering my hand this time. “You like talking in monosyllables and giving orders, don’t you?” “Give them back.” “Bossy. Told you I love it.” “Don’t make me repeat myself or so help me God…” He jumps in my space so fast, I flinch, my whole body lurching back so he doesn’t touch me. That manic look in his eyes rushes to the surface, all bright and destabilizing. Like a lethal storm. “What? So help you God, what? What are you gonna do? Don’t leave me in suspense here.” He pushes into me with every word until his naked chest heaves against mine. A dash of unknown emotions explodes and spreads through me. It’s stifling and wrong. Like nausea 2.0. Only, much worse. You know what? He can keep the AirPods. I’m not wearing that pair again anyway. I step back and he steps forward, his chest still glued to mine, his heart thumping in an irregular rhythm. Or is that mine? Not waiting to find out, I whip around and run. I have no idea where I’m going or if I’m keeping with my usual route as I sprint between the trees.  I run fast. As fast as I can. Until my muscles protest and my lungs heave. That black ink is rushing after me in long swirls and sharp strokes. Imaginary hands grab onto my shirt and pull. My breathing is cracked and wrong. No. You’re in control. You’re always in control, remember? Always. And yet I sway as those hands clutch, twist, tug, and— A hard object crashes against my back and I’m shoved over so suddenly, I fall headfirst against the ground. I cough and heave against the dirt, my lungs burning and my vision blurring. Hot breaths warm my ear before the very familiarly irritating voice whispers, “Don’t run away from me, lotus flower. This is the second time you’ve done it, the third if we count the initiation. I’m kinda hurt.” I release a puff of air, relishing the fact that I did not get caught by my twisted imagination. But that leads me to the realization that Nikolai is on top of me. Again. This time, his knee is wedged on my lower back, his hand squeezing my nape as he talks in my ear. Fucking again. “Eh…?” He smiles, and I know this because his lips curve against the damn shell of my ear. “This position is a little familiar. Not that I’m complaining.” “Nikolai,” I growl, my jittering nerves getting the better of me. “Get the hell off me.” “Mmm. More. Give me fucking more,” he growls into my ear. “Back off.” “That’s it. Fight me. I love this energy, lotus flower.” “You won’t love it when…” I trail off before I say I bite your head off. Good grief. This is not me.  “What? I won’t love it when you what?” He speaks so close, I can feel his words inside my darn ear instead of hearing them. “You need to stop cutting yourself off mid-sentence. The suspense is killing me. You’re playing a bit hard to get, Prince Charming, but I’m all over that shit. Fight me. Fight me. Fucking fight me!” I elbow him. “You’re disgusting. Piss off.” Surprisingly, he releases me, choosing to let himself fall onto his arse beside me. The disappearance of his crushing weight gives me back my normal thought process. Barely. That’s when I realize I’ve wandered into the nearby park that I usually pass by on my runs. Early morning light slips from between the huge centuries-old trees and hits Nikolai’s face. Something curious happens then. Under the soft yellow light kissing his cheek and right eye, the blue lightens to a chilling turquoise, revealing tiny flecks of gray in the irises. Blue on gray. Fascinating. “Whatever crawled up your ass better crawl right the fuck out,” he barks, all humor gone. “Call me disgusting again and I’ll pummel you against the nearest tree, then hang you by the balls so that everyone sees who’s the disgusting one. Got it?” I shake myself out of the momentary daze, realizing I actually remained lying on my stomach despite the absence of his weight. Jumping up, I have to regulate my breathing as I glare down at him. “Don’t touch me again and I won’t call you that. In fact, I won’t call you anything, because I’d rather not speak to you ever again.” “Why?” His grin returns as quickly as it disappeared as he stands up unhurriedly like a big cat crawling out from his cave after a nap. “Afraid I’ll grow on you?” I flash him my most fake smile. “The chances of that happening are below zero. Better luck next life, kid.” “Blah blah and fucking blah. Why wait when I have this life?” He frowns. “Also, why are you smiling like a creep?” My smile drops and I snatch the AirPods from his grip. “Stop following me. I mean it. I have no interest in whatever you’re hinting at.” He smiles wide like an unhinged maniac on drugs. Maybe he really is high. “And how do you know what I’m hinting at?” “You haven’t exactly been subtle. The answer is no.” “I can work with a no.” “You’re wasting your time. I’m straight.” “That’s the third time you’ve told me that. Someone is trying to prove a point.” He slaps my shoulder. “But, hey, whatever lets you sleep at night, lotus flower.” He starts to get into my space again, his smell—bergamot and mint—filling my nostrils and clouding my senses. Fucking again. I shove him away, hard, and break into the fastest run of my running history. I eat the distance back to the mansion in no time. Forget my routine. I need to protect something a lot more important. My sanity.  5 NIKOLAI S o I’ve picked up running lately. By lately, I mean this is the third day. The first was when I tackled Brandon to the ground and felt the flexing of his muscles as I whispered in his ear. Good times. In fact, they were infinitely more than good. Fucking hot is the word I’m looking for. There’s something about shoving him around, messing with his golden-boy persona, but what I enjoyed the most was trapping him beneath me, having him compliant one second and fighting the next as if his life depended on it. Kolya got his most straining hard-on in a week. The first being when Bran sat on my lap. Once again, no amount of foreplay or greedy mouths and willing holes were cutting it for my newly picky dick. He couldn’t even get it up or grow enough balls to leave my pants. It’s another story when different images play in my head, though. I had to be a caveman and jerk off alone while picturing that blotch of red creeping up Bran’s neck when I growled in his ear or the goosebumps covering his skin when I locked him in place with a hand on his nape. He didn’t fight. Again. He just lay there begging to be fucking used. Though he’d tell you otherwise.  He’s kind of an asshole, that guy. While I’ve been having a blast running with him the past couple of days, I have a feeling it’s not…mutual. I’ve been only greeted with the narrowing of his eyes, his death glares, and the occasional puff of air from his luscious lips. Not to mention his monosyllabic replies and continued orders. Back off. Step away from me. Do not touch me. Remove your unpleasant presence from my vicinity. He speaks like royalty. Not complaining, though. There’s something about ruining a good boy that does shit to me. Which is why I’m back for round three. I wait by the Elites’ mansion entrance, jogging in place and punching the air. I can’t stay still. Not when the mere thought of Bran in his shorts and fitted T- shirt sends blood rushing to my groin. I’d like to point out that I tried to remain calm, but then again, calm and I have been at odds since I was born, and I can’t possibly be expected to leave him alone. He’s turning into this sweet addiction that adds meaning to my days. Solution? Try to wear him down. Creep beneath his skin. Wreak havoc on his heart in the process. He’s just so fun to mess with. He’s usually expressionless, unless he’s faking this creepy smile that looks like a psycho’s, so whenever I catch him off guard, he has this deer caught in the headlights expression. A flaring of nostrils here, a bobbing of his gorgeous Adam's apple there. I’m living for that shit. Literally. For two days, I’ve only been thinking about bugging the fuck out of him. Five thirty in the morning is my favorite time of the day until further notice. Sooner or later, he’ll fall at my feet like everyone else. Or, more accurately, to his knees. I like to think I’m making progress in some way. Yesterday, he didn’t try to run away from me, though he did attempt to use the stupid AirPods that you can bet I removed and kept hostage until the end of the run. He did pretend I wasn’t there while I asked him a shitload of questions. I can’t remember many of them, but they were mostly things like, what does he do after a run? What’s his favorite food? Movie? Color? Hobbies? Clothes? Hair products? Cologne? Does he like the fight club? Violence? The crunching of people’s bones? Was that a bit pushy? Who the fuck cares, to be honest? He wouldn’t have answered anything even if they weren’t pushy. He’s not exactly cooperative and lets my questions wash off him as if he never heard them until he runs back to his big castle. But then again, I’m nothing short of persistent and fucking love a challenge. Mom and Jeremy say I’m like a bull who doesn’t stop until I get what I want, so…off I go again, I guess. I have all the time in the world now that Kolya is going through a fucking abstinence period. Though he doesn’t seem all that uninterested when a certain brown-haired Prince Charming is in his vicinity, which boggles my mind. Well-groomed, posh men like Bran are not my type. At all. But something about him— My movements abruptly stop when the gate creaks open and lotus flower steps outside dressed in black shorts and a royal-blue tee that stretches over his broad shoulders, expanded chest muscles, and lean waist. He’s not in your face, but he definitely has a superior build. He’s toned in a lean way, hard and firm everywhere. Kolya twitches in my shorts and I groan under my breath. “Fuck, dude.” I glare down at him. “Make up your mind. Are you easy or hard? Pun intended.” I get no answer. Naturally. He’s literally a dick. Lotus flower takes his picture of the day and posts it on Instagram. I’ll peek at it later after he escapes to his prince's mansion. For now, I’d rather get my fill of him. Add new material for my daily jerk-off session and all that.  He marches with sure, slightly forced movements down the road. His gaze flits sideways, probably searching for me, but I’m well hidden behind the trees. Can’t have their cameras catching me and reporting back to the major douchebag Landon. Not that I’m opposed to pummeling that bitch to the ground and cracking his skull in two, but I’d rather not trigger any complications when I’m trying to get into his brother’s pants. Or ass. Anyway, lotus flower keeps searching his surroundings and I remain hidden just to fuck with him. Yesterday, I jumped to his side as soon as he rounded the corner and he was far away from the mansion’s cameras. He looked at me with wide eyes and slightly parted lips, and even though that expression lasted for a fraction of a second, you can bet I added it to my mental catalog full of everything Brandon King. Today, I’m using a different strategy. Can’t let him get used to my modus operandi and quit showing me those special responses. I want him to get as close as possible. Until I smell him. Until — He stops a few yards away on the dirt road and I get a front- row seat of his side profile. Is he sure he’s not interested? Because he dressed up so prettily for me. Though he does wear the same clothes in different colors, there’s something about today’s color. Blue brings out the blue in his mysterious, snobbish eyes. Though I’d rather he go shirtless so I can get a front-row seat to his body and possibly sink my teeth into it. Figuratively, of course. Who the fuck am I kidding? It’s definitely literally. I’m about to close the distance between us when a convertible Audi stops right in front of him. A blonde bombshell jumps out of the car, wearing skimpy shorts that reveal the crease of her ass and a sports bra that barely covers her big tits. Her lips are unnatural as fuck and she’s wearing more makeup than a drag queen.  She lunges at Brandon in a ferocious hug, her entire body gluing to his front. “Babe!! I’m so happy you decided to give this a go again. I promise everything will be better this time. You know how much I love you, handsome.” He pats her back, but there’s no enthusiasm behind his movement. His expression doesn’t change, not even a little. Like a robot. I got a better reaction from him by plucking out his AirPods, blondie. Not that I care. I don’t. And yet my hand twitches, demanding I throw her off the nearest, steepest cliff. How dare she interrupt our morning ritual that’s been going on for three days? Two. She pushes back, smiling like a model, her face soft as she coos at him and kisses the corner of his mouth. Disgusting. Oh, look at that. Brandon’s favorite word. “Do we have to go on a run, though?” She pouts like a goddamn toddler. “You know I don’t like that, or waking up early, actually.” A lot of you knows are thrown around. Who is this chick? I probably saw her on his IG that I spent a whole night going through, thank you very much. Though the only occurrence I remember was two years ago when someone who looked like her, sans the bleached hair, was hanging on his arm. The reason she caught my attention is because he never posts pictures with girls who aren’t his friends. Considering I acquainted myself with his female—and male— friends, I knew she was not on the list. Clara. I remember the name because I made a note to visit her IG as well, but I didn’t have time since it was already five and I needed to get here.  Who the fuck are you, Clara, and what’s your favorite way to die? I’m about to step into the scene and ask her just that—or maybe just scare her away. That shit comes naturally to me. Leaves crunch beneath my shoes and Brandon’s head tilts in my direction, but he doesn’t look at me. “You don?