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“I’m not running away. I’m leaving.”
I let him go with an exasperated breath and I expect him to fuck off to the bathroom, but he faces me.
“Don’t do this, Nikolai. I’ll see you in the morning?”
I release an affirmative noise and he smiles, but it’s tight, like my fucking insides.
He opens his mouth to say something else, but he shakes his head and slips into the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a fucking lock.
Locking me out.
Figuratively.
Literally.
19
BRANDON
Abit longer than two weeks pass in the most bemusing blur.
What started like a temporary loss of control has categorically turned into the most tragic addiction.
Every night, I say I won’t go to the penthouse and I manage to hold out for a few days—nightmare-riddled, completely sleepless, and absolutely torturous days.
I bury myself in the studio, in practice, in being outside of my skin. Day in and day out, I manage to lie to myself for a few hours, only to relapse to daunting bad habits again.
The blood and the penthouse. Both are dangerous addictions of different proportions.
Both are pulling me apart and leaving me completely desolate and unable to look at the distorted face in the mirror anymore.
Only one addiction can actually lead to my decimation. One addiction forces me to forget everything else whenever he’s in my vicinity. Whenever he touches me, kisses me, fucks me. I pretend my outer skin doesn’t exist.
I’m not Brandon King. I’m not the broken entity who sees black ink instead of his reflection in the mirror. Not the weak man who’s more often than not swallowed by disgusting nausea and the terrifying notion of nothingness.
I’m justme.
His lotus flower. His Prince Charming. Hisbaby.
But that vacuum of emotions only lasts for the duration of the mindless release and the unbound lust. It lasts until I lose his touch and I’m forced back into my own skin.
I do the forcing—every time. I just rip off the plaster and walk away, but it’s getting harder to willingly lose his lips, his touch. I’m almost scared of that moment when I have to lock myself in the bathroom and battle my demons. They’re rather vicious lately.
The more I enjoy myself, the more painful the aftermath.
But it’s not as painful as forcing myself away from that damn penthouse. It’s not as painful as waking up every day and having this queasy feeling in my stomach because I know he’s waiting outside the mansion’s gate. Grinning.
Nikolai isn’t really a cheerful man. I’ve seen him outside, multiple times, even though I like to pretend I don’t. And yes, he’s loud, but not in Remi’s carefree, funny way. He’s notoriously violent and curses a lot.
Killian often kicks him so he’ll shut up, or Jeremy will whisper or speak to him calmly so he’ll stop drawing attention or rein in his infamous bursts of violence.
He doesn’t show them the version he shows me. Always smiling, grinning, and being an infuriating ray of sunshine, as if my mere presence makes him happy.
That part boggles my mind. Why would he be happy with me when I can’t stand myself most of the time?
No matter how often I ask that question, I can’t quite find an answer.
Still, I enjoy whatever I get, even if it hurts.
