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Astrid showed me a lot of his paintings from when he was younger, and it’s clear he has a god’s talent. He painted people with so many details and soul that it would captivate anyone—even an illiterate at art such as myself. That soul is tragically missing from the landscapes he does now.
Bran is about to say something when a little girl with dark skin and hair held up in colorful ribbons stops in front of him and gives him a daisy. “This is for you.”
He smiles and lowers himself to his haunches in front of her and has the audacity to accept the flower. “Thank you. Are you lost?”
“No, Mummy is just slow.”
He laughs, the sound like smooth honey.
And I’mnotthe reason behind it.
Am I thinking about pitching a little girl in the water so she’ll join the fucking ducks?
Yes, yes, I am.
She must feel my glare, because she looks up and glares back. This little shit isn’t scared of me while most people obviously are. Let’s say that during our walks, dogs like me, but their owners definitely do not. Both dogs and humans love Bran, though.
Not that I care or anything.
Except for glaring at anyone who bats their eyelashes at him. Bran is so fucking oblivious to their attention, but he’s also too polite for my liking and engages in any conversation people start. Why can’t he just give the ‘fuck off’ vibe I’m notorious for?
Because he’s such a Prince Charming, that’s why. I have to work at not being murderous or entertaining kidnapping thoughts whenever I see him exchanging pleasantries with others.
This little girl is a new situation, though. Especially since she’s immune to my superior glares.
She leans in to whisper something in Bran’s ear, and he listens attentively before he whispers something back.
The girl releases an exasperated sigh. “But why? You’re like a prince from the fairy tales.”
“I am?”
“Totally.”
Okay, that’senough.
“Hey, kid.” I pull Bran up and wrap my arm around his waist. “He’smyprince. Back off.”
“Nikolai!” He elbows me. “You’ll scare her. Stop it.”
“Shoo.” I wave her away.
“Nikolai!”
“Hmph.” She hikes a hand on her hip. “When I grow up, I’m going to marry him.”
“Dream on.”
Bran has dug a hole in my side by now.
“Nour!” an older woman calls as she hurries toward us, panting. “What did I say about running off…?”
She stops in front of us and stares, unlike all of Bran’s precious Londoners. He pulls away from me, and although it’s subtle, I don’t like it. But then again, many people are homophobic assholes, though I haven’t encountered that here and I’m thankful, not formysake, but for Bran’s. I don’t give a fuck what people think, he does.
Though he didn’t seem to mind when he kissed me in public yesterday or the day before that.
I expect him to put distance between us, but he threads his fingers with mine.
Fuck me.
