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“Niko.” Jeremy places a hand on my arm. “Whatever you’re currently thinking about, don’t do it.”
“But she’d look so pretty in a fucking casket.”
“The woman just doesn’t agree with your language. She doesn’t deserve to die for that.”
He thinks it’s because of the Karen, when the fact is, I’m considering ways to add Clara’s name to the MIA list.
I try to focus on the rest of the game, but it’s futile. The Elites end up winning, and I don’t feel that sense of triumph I experienced when Bran assisted the goal.
My mood has taken a sharp dive ever since fuckingClarastaked a public claim on him.
Why shouldn’t I kill her again?
As soon as it ends, she skips over the people toward the exit and I stand up, then follow her.
I can make out Jeremy asking me not to do ‘anything stupid,’ but Ilivefor stupid.
Clara slips through the small crowd, pausing every now and then to take selfies. This chick needs an urgent intervention.
After a thousand pictures, she finally reaches the Elites’ players’ locker room and walks right in as if she owns the place.
I can’t do the same since I fucking stand out and I obviously don’t look the part of the British kids.
Standing by the opposite corner, I scan my surroundings, contemplating the best way to go inside. The fact that Clara is there, with him, makes my vision turn red and fills my brain with violent solutions.
Like that amazing casket idea.
Just when I’m about to walk in there and risk the commotion, she emerges, or more like she’s dragged out by none other than Bran.
And he’s half naked.
Fuck. Me.
I’ve always thought he had a firm, toned body, with all the feeling up I’ve practiced like a religion whenever he’s within arm’s reach. But I didn’t think I’d be fucking foaming at the mouth just because I’m seeing him wearing only shorts.
He’s lean, but well-fucking-built. A smooth plane of chest muscles and protruding abs that end in a delicious V-line that’sunfortunatelyhalf hidden by the shorts.
Not a single blemish or tattoo in sight. He’s all smooth skin and marble-like in his beauty, my lotus flower.
His fingers uncurl from around Clara’s elbow when he gets her to a small corner to the side.
I tiptoe toward them in an epic show of stalkerish tendencies until I’m standing by the corner, close enough to hear and see them in full fucking HD.
“I told you not to come to the changing room, Clara. It’s not a place for a woman.”
She pouts like a fucking child and runs her hands, which will soon be broken, up his chest. “I was just so stoked for your win. I wanted to take a victory pic, babe.”
He is not your fucking babe.
I want to drill that into her head and watch as her skull splinters to pieces.
She takes out her phone and wraps her arm around his waist, and they both fake-smile at the camera.
Once the photo is taken, his smile vanishes and he looks bored out of his fucking mind.
It’s supposed to make me happy, but I can’t stop glaring at her claws all over him.
“You’re so handsome.” She slides her fingers through his hair and gets on her tiptoes to kiss him.
