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I narrow my eyes. He said he was playing stupid video games with Mia earlier, so he better not have lost track of time.
And no, I’m not jealous of my baby sister.
Much.
I head to the guest room down the hall that he turned into a mini art studio. He said that since he’s spending more time here than at the Elites’ mansion, he can at least be productive and work on his art.
And seriously, that’s one of the best decisions he’s ever made. I love sneakily watching him being all concentrated as he does these bold strokes of color. I don’t understand them, but they look pretty and, most importantly, he looks hot as fuck when he’s in the zone.
He has this picturesque mountain painting that he’s been working on, but he doesn’t look pleased in the least when he does.
I open the door, ready to jump him from behind and attack his ticklish sides until he bursts out laughing. The sound is so rare that I can’t resist any chance to make it happen.
Usually, he laughs or smiles effortlessly whenever I’m telling him about my past adventures in school or with Mom and Dad, so I need to narrate more of those tonight. I even called Mom to ask about any shenanigans I might not remember…
My hand falls from the knob when I find him standing in the center of the room, in front of a canvas full of chaotic black strokes. His palette is on the floor, smudged in black as if he poured it out to murder all the other colors.
Splashes of black stain his feet and his khaki pants and even his usually spotless white shirt.
This isn’t like him. Bran is so organized and despises the idea of chaos. So to see him standing in the middle of it is not normal.
I slowly approach him and catch a glimpse of him staring at the canvas with a blank face. His hand pulls at the back of his hair so harshly, his nape is red, and his knuckles are white.
“Lotus flower?” I call, but he doesn’t make any sign of acknowledging my existence.
So I move in front of him, blocking his view of the canvas.
He looks straight through me as if his body is here, but his soul is floating somewhere else. I reach for his hand and pause when I feel how stiff he is, as if he’s hardening his body against a threat.
What the fuck is messing with you, Bran?
I have to apply pressure to peel his fingers from his hair one by one. My chest squeezes when I see brown strands in his hand.
“Brandon?”
I circle his nape, stroking the spot he abused. “Baby, look at me.”
My lips brush against his and they twitch. When I pull back, I find him watching me with bemused, lost eyes.
“Nikolai? When did you get here?”
“Just now,” I lie, my fingers still caressing his nape. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine. Your skin is pale and you’re standing in the middle of a mess.”
He looks at his surroundings as if he’s seeing it all for the first time.
Little by little, light blooms back behind his irises and he winces. “Bloody hell. Sorry.”
“Stop fucking apologizing.” I breathe harshly, watching him closely, trying to find a trace of the zombie version from a moment ago.
“Sorry…uh, I mean sorry. Jesus…” he trails off. “You should go. I’ll clean up.”
He starts to move, casting his gaze anywhere but at me.
My hold tightens on his nape and I clutch his jaw with my free hand so he’ll look at me. “What happened?”
