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Wait, what? Akiller?
It takes me a second to realize that the feminine voice was directing that nickname at Killian.
A tall, slim figure steps out, wearing white mask number one. Straight blonde hair falls to her bare shoulders and she’s wearing a skin-tight strapless top that accentuates her hourglass waist.
She pulls the mask away from her face and I freeze at how stunning she is. Like a model or an actress or both.
And when she smiles, it’s so blinding that I have trouble looking directly at her.
She subtly pushes me away and throws herself at Killian, wrapping her arms around his neck with the ease of someone who’s done this countless times.
“I missed you,” she murmurs, and then her lips meet his.
18
GLYNDON
Istare at the scene, dumbfounded.
You know that moment when you freeze up and have no idea whether moving or even breathing is okay?
Actually, screw it.
The prominent emotion that tears through my chest isn’t feeling like a third wheel or being slammed in the face by PDA—it’s something worse.
A burst of energy slashes through my veins so similar to…rage.
I swear I’m not the jealous type.
In secondary school, I found my boyfriend making out with my classmate and just closed the door and broke up with him via text.
I don’t feel any resentment toward Bran for being Mum’s favorite, for being the vessel of her talent. Nor for the fact that she goes the extra mile in her attempts to protect him from Lan.
I also have no resentment toward Lan for getting all the attention in our family. Or toward Ava for looking like a goddess and being perfect at everything she does. Or Cecily for being the most balanced human I know.
In short, I don’t feel jealous.
So why the hell do I feel the need to dig myself a hole in the ground and disappear in it?
It’s not jealousy. I refuse to categorize it as such. Because if I’m jealous, it means I care, and that’s not close to possible.
I even came up with the proper explanation for it with that suspension bridge effect theory.
That one makes sense. This whole situation doesn’t.
The leggy blonde all but thrusts her tongue against Killian’s lips. I know because I can see it being stopped by said lips—closed lips, thinned-into-a-line lips.
If it were me, clearly rejected like that, I would dig that hole deeper and vanish farther in it. Maybe bury myself alive while I’m at it, too. However, the blonde doesn’t stop and even goes on to bite his lower lip.
Instead of asking for a kiss—she’s demanding it.
Unable to keep looking, I stare at the ground, my eyes blurry and my ears so hot, I think they’ll explode. Is there an exit somewhere? Maybe it’s on the other end of the house?
In my peripheral vision, I make out Killian’s hand shooting out, grabbing the girl by the hair, and wrenching her away from him. Then he steps back, letting his hand fall to his side.
I guess that means he’s not savage with only me.
I expect her to whine or yelp—I would’ve definitely shrieked from how painful it looked—but she just licks her lips, showing a piercing in her tongue. “I love it when you’re being rough.Rawr.”
