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I need to get back to working out or painting my calming nature scenes so I’ll stop this vicious cycle of red on black.
Or, more accurately, black on dead gray.
Ican’tthink. Thinking leads to fucked-up images that I’d rather leave in the unremarkable shed of my barely beating heart.
Nikolai sinks his fingers into my nape, digging into the skin until Ifeelhim instead ofseehim.
“The answer is yes, preppy boy. I should know who you are, shouldn’t I?”
A wave of rage tightens my muscles and I let it wash over me as I fall into it.
Rage is better than nausea.
Rage is certainly much more welcome than the doomsday ticking my brain practices like an orthodox religion.
How dare he talk to me in that mocking tone? I’m Brandon King and that last name means something in this world.
But you don’t. Without your papa’s last name, you’re nothing.
The voice rolls in like sandpaper on glass, leaving a dry, scratchy feeling at the back of my throat.
I swallow the sudden rotten taste and force myself to calm down as I slap Nikolai’s arm.
He doesn’t move, not even one inch, as if his brute fingers are now an extension of my nape.
“Let go,” I say or, more accurately, order. I’m nice and pleasant until someone oversteps, which Nikolai has been doing with flying colors since he surprised the shit out of me.
“In a hurry to go somewhere?”
“More like, I don’t appreciate being touched, especially if the hands are filthy.”
He stares at his free palm under the slowly setting sun that casts an orange glow on his haphazard jet-black hair. He glances at the dried blood as if he forgot it was there and lifts a casual shoulder. “You’ll get used to it.”
Get used to what?
Is this freak high or something?
I wouldn’t be surprised if he snorted coke like a nineties rock star and smoked more weed than Bob Marley’s fan club before this damned initiation.
“Let. Go,” I repeat in a firm voice and push at his arm with all my strength.
He loosens his grip but doesn’t release me.
An appreciative hum falls from somewhere in his throat. “Bossy. I like it. But you know what I like more? Your posh little accent. Question. Does it sound the same when you say crude things?”
I narrow my eyes. What on earth is wrong with this twat? Did someone hit him upside the head?
“This is the third and final time I’m telling you this. Let. Go.”
“Why?” He strokes his fingers near my hairline and that wave of something that’s not nausea courses through my veins in flashes of bright yellow. “I rather like it here.”
“I don’t.” I tighten my muscles against the morbid unease flooding my bloodstream. “You disgust me.”
“Yeah?” His eyes, the color of midnight-blue sky, twinkle with pure sadism as he leans closer and murmurs, “Even better.”
His warm breaths skim the side of my neck. My jaw clenches and it takes everything in me to ward off the discomfort that’s stillnotnausea.
Not in the least.
