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Jesus Christ. Am I supposed to be this happy that he said my name in front of his parents?
And why is he not freaking out like whenever we’re in the same public place?
If anything, his expression is peaceful.
This is starting to creep me the fuck out.
So imagine my fucking surprise when he threads his fingers through mine and smiles at his parents. “Yeah, Mum. This is Nikolai and he’s more than just a friend.”
32
LEVI
He can’t possibly be worse than Killian.
Anyone is better than Killian.
It was an exaggeration on Bran’s part to emotionally prepare me.
Again, no one can beworsethan Killian.
Those were the thoughts I had before I went to bed last night, and I woke up today in a proper fantastic mood.
Until now.
Or, more accurately, since I walked into the kitchen and saw the motherfucking gangster who’s built like a fucking wall, standing beside my son.
I knew it was the little fucker Nikolai before Bran even introduced him. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out when Bran’s lips were all swollen and the bastard’s long hair was finger-raked.
Dear fucking God, I know you’re out there somewhere and I beg you, take this arsehole and give my son a normal lover. Just once, I want fucking normal.
First I get a psycho son. Okay, fine. Love that. Best challenge of my life and pretty sure I passed it. I didn’t need to have my daughter with a psycho boyfriend.
And now, it’s the psycho’s psycho fucking cousin.
What the fuck have I done to deserve that? Was I a mass murderer in a past life or something?
“Levi!” My wife pulls on my shirt’s sleeve from her position on the table beside me. “You’re staring.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I was supposed to be fucking glaring,” I say loud enough for everyone to hear.
We’re sitting around the dining table for breakfast. We had to order takeout from the local bakery because I’m not in the right headspace to cook anything.
And it’s all because of the fucking wanker on my left, right beside my son. I narrow my eyes at the full sleeves of tattoos decorating both his arms. Motherfucking gangster. A delinquent bastard who’s in no way fit to be with my well-mannered, completely selfless son.
My son who’s hidden himself so as not to bother us—his own parents. His closest flesh and blood.
Why would he end up with Killian’s more unruly cousin? At least that waste of space is presentable. This one looks like he was chewed up in a tattoo gun, broke the fucking thing, and got spit right out.
Don’t get me wrong. I have tattoos and so does Lan, but we’re not covered in them like damn mafiosos.
Astrid clears her throat and smiles at Nikolai, who had the decency to put his fork and knife down when I spoke.
Even with his hair tied back, he still gives a major creeper vibe.
Just what the fuck does Bran see in him? He looks like one of those violent wankers. Aka me when I was young. I know an adrenaline junkie when I see one.
“So how old are you, Nikolai?” my wife asks in a soft tone. “You look about Bran’s age.”
