To the ones who scream in silence

Introduction.

I’m not attracted to men.

Or so I thought before I slammed into Nikolai Sokolov.

A mafia heir, a notorious bastard, and a violent monster.

An ill-fated meeting puts me in his path.

And just like that, he has his sights set on me.

A quiet artist, a golden boy, and his enemy’s twin brother.

He doesn’t seem to care that the odds are stacked against us.

In fact, he sets out to break my steel-like control and blur my limits.

I thought my biggest worry was being noticed by Nikolai.

I’m learning the hard way that being wanted by this beautiful nightmare

is much worse

PLAYLIST

Yellow – Coldplay

Do I Wanna Know – Arctic Monkeys

I Wanna Be Yours – Arctic Monkeys

Your Blood – Nothing But Thieves

Impossible – Nothing But Thieves

Demons – MISSIO

Maniacs – Conan Gray

Run Into Trouble – Bastille & Alok

Somebody Else – The 1975

Someone Else – Loveless

Losing Control – Villain of the Story

Yours – Conan Gray

Sorry I’m Yours – Circa Wales

Half-Life - Essenger

Dear Reader – Taylor Swift

Half of My Heart – Josh Makazo

Silence – Marshmello & Khalid

W

BRANDON

hat am I doing here?

Deep in the hollow corner of my heart, I know the answer. I

know it so well that I can taste the nausea that slithered down my

throat and hooked onto my bones the moment I got that godforsaken text.

A text I should’ve very well ignored, deleted, and then blocked the

number.

A text I shouldn’t have dignified with a look, let alone given it enough

weight to intervene with my decision-making.

I did.

And that’s the reason I’m here.

I did.

And now, I’ve put myself in an irreversible position.

I did.

And I’m not sure I can shove this lapse of judgment on to the possibility

of having no choice.

In reality, I do.

I’ve just never been good with choices. Don’t appreciate them. Don’t

care for them. Would rather not be presented with one.

The text was an obligation or, more accurately, a pertinent piece of

information.

It was not a choice and certainly not a situation I could’ve escaped.

The reason I’m here is sorely due to my sense of responsibility that I’ve

carried like excess baggage since I started learning what life is all about.

I’m at what looks like an indoctrination center. Other students stand on

either side of me, forming parallel lines and wearing white rabbit masks that

cover their features.

We’re facing a huge three-story mansion with old-looking stone walls

and an ancient tower on the far right.

The longer I remain unmoving, the more unsteady my breathing

becomes.

My inhales and exhales flow in a fast, fractured rhythm, forming

condensation on the plastic and forcing me to breathe my own air.

Tick.

The sound is low, but it slams into my brain like a fatal crash. My

mouth starts to fill with saliva and I gulp it down, forcing my stomach to

settle.

Tick.

I lift my hand, about to pull at my skull. Sometimes, I wish I could

smash it against the nearest wall and watch as everything spills and shatters.

Once and for fucking all.

Tick.

My fingers curl in midair, but I lower my hand and force it to hang limp

at my side.

It’s fine. I can do this.

Breathe.

You’re in control.

My soothing words of affirmation splinter and crack as the scene around

me comes back into focus.

No matter how much I attempt to delude myself, the reality is that I’m

in the last place I should be.

And I’m not one to challenge fate or go places I’m not supposed to.

In my twenty-three years of life, I’ve always been the type of man who

follows the rules. I’ve never deviated from what’s expected of me and I’m

creeped out at the notion of being different.

In any sense.

For whatever reason.

And yet here I am at the Heathens’ mansion because I received a text

and made the conscious decision not to ignore it.

I made the decision to attend the initiation of the most notorious club on

Brighton Island—a secluded place near the UK’s southwest coast.

For a university I’m not even enrolled in.

The Heathens are the leading club of The King’s U college. A uni that

reeks of mafia money and la nouveau bourgeoisie, where all American

students flock like birds of a feather.

We have our own malicious club at Royal Elite University—or REU—

where I’m working on my master’s degree in art. It’s called the Elites and is

led by none other than my headache of a twin brother, Landon.

However, The King’s U’s clubs—the Heathens and the Serpents—are

much more nefarious since they come from real mafia families and are

using the uni experience to sharpen their fangs for the leading roles

awaiting them back in the States.

If a week ago someone had told me I’d be standing here wearing a

creepy rabbit mask and waiting for the entitled, violence-thirsty Americans

to make their appearance, I would’ve laughed.

I’m certainly not laughing now. A lot of variables have changed in the

span of a week and I find myself under the obligation to be here.

As part of the herd.

And it has everything to do with that headache of a brother I mentioned

earlier.

Though they took my phone at the entrance, I can still recall the text I

received yesterday word for word.

HEATHENS

Congratulations! You are invited to the Heathens’ initiation

ceremony. Please show the attached QR code upon arrival at

the club’s compound at four p.m. sharp.

While I’d heard of their nefarious initiations, I had absolutely no

interest in them or the clubs. If I did, I would’ve joined the Elites since Lan

has been asking for years.

So I ignored that text and was about to block the number, but then I got

another one.

UNKNOWN NUMBER

If you want to see your twin brother breathing instead of being

shoved in a casket and showcased to all participants, be at

the initiation.

That’s the reason I came here, even though every fiber of my being

revolted against the idea of taking part in this madness. I called and texted

Lan, but he didn’t reply, so I had to save him from himself as usual.

My brother has always been the reason I’ve deviated from the core of

my existence, though he’d argue this is my true character, and what I

consider normal is a product of repressing.

Hiding.

Shackling my real self.

A sudden movement comes from my side and I tighten my muscles,

ready to run away, move from the center of danger and pretend none of this

has taken place.

The girl beside me—judging by her breasts and frame—laughs as she

hits her companion’s shoulder.

A general murmur of excitement bubbles in the air.

I don’t understand people’s obsession with these types of events. Is it

the feeling of grandiosity? The opportunity to walk amongst gods?

But then again, it’s impossible for me to understand some people due to

how drastically different my personality is compared to the rest of my

peers.

Don’t get me wrong. I get along with almost everyone and I’m often

described as extremely polite and a good sport, but my close friends are

only a few. The only reason we’re tight is because we grew up together and

I spent several years familiarizing myself with their personalities.

Maybe my inability to form close connections after my childhood is due

to being completely detached from most people’s source of happiness. A

glaring example is my complete bafflement at these people’s sense of a

thrill. They talk about the Heathens as if they’re the personification of

everything they aspire to be.

Wealth, influence, and, most importantly, morbid power.

I, Brandon King, belong to one of the most influential families in the

UK, if not the most influential, but I still don’t get people’s obsession with

selected elites.

Is it the illusion? The unknown? Something entirely different?

The girl’s chatter comes to a halt and she looks up as everyone else

grows silent. I follow her field of vision and pause when the balcony doors

on the second floor open and five men stroll outside, all of them wearing

neon-stitch Halloween-esque masks.

The one in the middle has an orange mask and carries a metal club. He’s

tall and broad, but the guy by his side who’s wearing a yellow mask is taller

And buffer, and he reeks of hostility, even from this distance.

He stands out because he’s the only one without a weapon, but he still

emanates a nefarious energy. The rest of them, however, seem to have their

thoughts and tempers under control.

Red Mask’s fingers wrap around a bat, letting it rest nonchalantly on his

shoulder.

A recurve bow is nestled in Green Mask’s hand and there’s a quiver

attached to his back, and White Mask strokes a heavy-looking chain that’s

hanging around his neck.

They’re all dressed in black T-shirts and trousers like a conformist unit

of destruction.

Fortunately, I’ve never crossed the Heathens’ paths or interacted with

them, which can’t be said about my prick of a brother. Is he with them?

Perhaps he’s playing a sick game to be part of their inner circle?

Or is he maybe somewhere in front of me or behind me? Maybe next to

me?

The problem is, I can never imagine Lan being a participant in another

group’s glory or a mere follower in someone else’s mayhem. He’s too

narcissistic for that. Besides, how could he possibly get an invitation?

The same way I got invited?

Probably.

Maybe.

I watch the five Heathens closely. The one in orange, standing tall in the

middle, is most likely Jeremy Volkov, the leader of the Heathens and a

Russian mafia prince. If my friends’ gossip can be trusted, he’s ruthless to a

fault and is rumored to kill everyone in his wake.

Green and Red Masks are possibly Gareth and Killian Carson. The

siblings are affiliated with the mafia but are more American royalty instead

of mafia princes. However, I’m not sure which is which. White Mask seems

like the leanest of the bunch, so he can’t be any of the three previously

mentioned.

Yellow Mask can only be Nikolai Sokolov. Another Russian mafia

prince, Killian and Gareth’s cousin, and the craziest twat who ever walked

the earth.

If rumors are anything to go by—and in Nikolai’s case, they probably

are—he’s capable of punching someone to death just because they had the

audacity to piss him off. I’ve only stood close to him once, a week ago

When—again—my twin brother was fighting him in an underground fight

club.

I honest to God thought he’d pummel Lan to death.

He didn’t, because my brother is a cat with nine lives.

My concern about Lan shifted to disturbing unease when Nikolai looked

at me with a manic expression while wearing my brother’s blood on his

bandaged hands.

I had this inherent need to get the hell out of there. And I did—after

dragging my brother along, of course.

I’ve never gotten that feeling from someone younger than me, and

Nikolai is way younger. Nineteen, I think. A kid right out of secondary

school—high school for Americans.

Only, he looks nothing like a kid.

Even now, while wearing black clothes, his build stands out as if he’s

sculpted from pure muscle and malicious intent.

Good thing I don’t run in these people’s circle and never will.

Today is an exception. The sooner I locate Lan, the faster I can leave

this immoral place.

Static rings in the air before a distorted voice speaks from all around us.

“Congratulations on making it to the Heathens’ highly competitive

initiation. You are the selected elite the leaders of the club think are worthy

of joining their world of power and connections. The price to pay for such

privileges is higher than money, status, or name. The reason everyone wears

a mask is because you are all the same in the eyes of the club’s founders.

The price of becoming a Heathen is handing over your life. In the literal

sense of the word. If you aren’t willing to pay that, please exit through the

small door to your left. Once you leave, you’ll lose any chance to join us

again.”

A door beside the big gate opens, and about a dozen or less people exit.

I contemplate joining them and putting an end to this madness, but I’d

never, in good conscience, abandon my brother.

Never.

The distorted voice returns. “Congratulations again, ladies and

gentlemen. We shall now begin our initiation.”

I lift my head to the five Heathens, who remain unmoving. Completely

grounded, absolutely apathetic about the promise of violence they’re

unleashing on the world.

All except for one.

The anomaly.

Violence on steroids.

Yellow Mask clenches and unclenches his fists at a rhythmic pace as if

he’s performing a ritual. That guy needs to be locked up instead of being

allowed to be part of this nonsensical initiation.

“Tonight’s game is predator and prey,” the voice continues. “You’ll be

hunted down by the club’s founding members. That will be five to ninety,

so you have the upper hand. If you manage to reach the edge of the property

before they hunt you down, you’ll be a Heathen. If not, you’ll be eliminated

and escorted out. The founding members have the right to use any methods

available to hunt you down—including violence. If their weapon of choice

touches you, you’ll be automatically eliminated. Bodily harm can and will

happen. You are also allowed to inflict violence on the founding members—

if you can. The only rule is not taking a life. Not intentionally, at least. No

questions are allowed and no mercy shall be granted. We don’t want any

weaklings in our ranks.”

Barbarians. The lot of them. Hopeless, outrageous savages with no

grace whatsoever.

But then again, what to expect from mafia people?

“You have a ten-minute head start. I suggest you run. The initiation has

officially begun.”

The girl beside me and her companions sprint so fast, the pebbles

crunch beneath their trainers. Everyone else rushes in the direction of the

forest and I’m left with the option of following or remaining here like easy

prey.

Cursing under my breath, I run as fast as possible. My heart rate

remains the same—unperturbed, calm, and completely unaffected by the

lick of danger and the lust for the thrill that hangs in the air like splashes of

magenta on turquoise blue.

I guess that’s the upside of having an abnormal brain. This type of

nonsense doesn’t affect it.

Despite going late, I manage to run faster and farther than the other

participants. I might not be into these types of events, but I’m an athlete,

pretty much a professional runner and also the captain of the lacrosse team

at REU.

I take my physical activities seriously and never miss a day of training

and running, whether for the team or for myself.

It’s important to keep order and discipline, and I’m nothing short of

perfection in creating stability and habits.

Besides, if I don’t maintain a routine, I’ll only slither down that rabbit

hole of nothingness and eventually skid into an unfortunate freak accident.

No thanks.

In no time, I manage to reach what looks like the middle of the forest

after losing the rest of the students. Late afternoon light casts ominous

patches of orange on the dirt and between the huge trees. But soon enough,

the gray clouds strangle the beams of hope and swallow them into darkness.

I crouch behind a large bush that covers my entire frame and wait.

That’s all I can do at this point.

Stay low. Wait. Observe. And never ever draw attention to my presence.

An activity I excel at.

If Lan shows up, whether as one of the Heathens—which is highly

unlikely—or one of the participants, I’ll get a gut feeling thanks to the

useless twin hunch.

A few people run by like a pack of wolves, squeals of excitement falling

from their lips and painting the sky in blotches of brick red on midnight

black.

The stench of mindless violence lingers in the air and forms sinister

halos around the participants' heads.

Their thrill is short-lived, though. Orange Mask stalks right after them,

carrying his vicious club. I silently cringe when he hits one of them so hard,

their face swings to the side, and blood explodes on his mask, which cracks

in two.

I catch a glimpse of someone walking around dazed with an arrow stuck

in his shoulder and a limp arm glued to his side.

Eliminated students’ numbers are announced by that disturbing robotic

voice, sometimes one after the other. I think the process is automatic,

because whenever I catch a glimpse of someone getting hit by an arrow or

Orange Mask’s club, their number is immediately announced.

Throughout the whole freak show, I don’t move, and when I do, it’s

only to adjust my position.

Where are you, Lan?

While I take pride in my stamina, I probably can’t keep this up for an

extended period of time.

Maybe I should strategically move to another nook of this extravagant

forest in case my brother is on the other side—

A sudden chill scrapes the back of my neck, followed by scorching hot

heat as a deep, rumbling voice whispers in my ear, “Why aren’t you

running?”

My senses saturate in a rush of overwhelming external stimuli and my

brain is unable to keep up with the overload. I lose balance and fall on my

arse, hitting the ground with an impact that reverberates in my bones.

I stare up, my eyes clashing with the yellow-stitch mask that’s marred

with splashes of dark red.

Blood.

It’s everywhere—clinging to his mask, staining his dark shirt, forming

rivulets on his neck, covering the tattoos on the backs of his hands like

gloves, and sticking to strands of his jet-black hair that falls in waves to his

shoulder blades.

Nausea floods my mouth and shoots straight to my fucked-up brain.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick tick tick tick—

“You didn’t answer the question.” Yellow Mask’s gruff tone ripples

down my throat and drowns the nausea, only to substitute it with dread.

Harsh and poignant.

What’s worse is that I can’t breathe.

The wanker is crouching close. So close that my nostrils fill with the

metallic stench of blood and the smell of cigarettes, alcohol, and a hint of

mint and bergamot.

The overwhelming mixture flows and floods my senses like a chaotic

swirl of colors that blend and throttle each pigment until they settle on

unassuming gray.

Faultless. Timeless. Empty.

Yellow Mask, who can only be Nikolai, pokes my forehead with a

bloody finger. And although he’s only touching the mask and not my skin,

my stomach cramps, choking out rampant nausea that’s ready to lurch

forward and leave me heaving

“Oy. You listening?” He’s only using a forefinger, yet so much power

emanates off the single action that I crack under the pressure.

I’ve never been good with direct confrontations and prefer not to engage

in them. Besides, if what I’ve heard of his infamous reputation is true, I

could never take on Nikolai Sokolov, even if I were reincarnated a few

times in the spirit of a warrior.

He’s notorious for his savage behavior, unhinged tendencies, and

penchant for breathing violence instead of oxygen. The evidence is

splattered in red all over his person.

Definitely the last person I’d want to get in a disagreement with.

He clucks his tongue, the sound exceptionally loud despite the constant

announcements of eliminated numbers.

I don’t hear mine, eighty-nine, but Nikolai doesn’t have a weapon like

the rest, so maybe he has to do it himself.

Meaning, if I escape, I can resume my hiding game and look for my

brother. I swear I’m going to be so cross with him about this mess—

Nikolai circles his forefinger against my forehead, but then he seems to

wipe something. His movements come to a halt and his body remains so

completely still, I cease to breathe.

The hostility and thirst for blood that emanated off him subside. Or

more like, they lessen in intensity, no longer tightening his outrageously

ludicrous muscles and bulging biceps.

Although he’s crouching, his height and broadness are unmistakable. At

six-foot-three, I’m not short by any stretch of the imagination, but Nikolai

has an inch or two on me, and he’s ridiculously pumped with more muscles

than anyone needs.

But then again, he seems like the archetype of a sadist who gets off on

inflicting pain.

However, that doesn’t seem to be the case right now.

The flood of violence that he exuded in threatening waves a few

seconds ago has been replaced by something a lot more morbid.

Amusement.

No, curiosity?

Interest?

His finger falls from the mask, but before I can release a breath, he

suddenly wraps his hand around my nape, near the hairs I constantly

assault.

Maybe it’s because that area is particularly battered and sensitive, but

the moment his rough skin touches mine, a flood of what I assume is nausea

threatens to spill from my gut.

Only, it’s not nausea.

It’s—

Nikolai barks out laughter that echoes around us in a swell of burgundy

and hot red-orange. “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you,

eighty-nine.”

“Y

BRANDON

ou know who I am?”

I have no clue how the words tumble out of my mouth—in a

sickeningly unsteady voice, I might add.

Tick.

A crack appears in my outer walls and extends to the ground beneath

me.

Tick.

The black hole widens, and muddy black ink swallows my feet until I

can’t feel them.

Tick—

“Hmm. Should I?” The rumbling gruff of Nikolai’s voice sounds

sinister, reinforced by the splashes of blood on his neon mask.

I’ve been in a constant state of hyperawareness ever since he crowded

my space, but that’s not right.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

A puff of breath heaves out of my constricted chest and, with it, my

inhales and exhales return to normal.

I’m thinking too much—as usual.

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.

I can’t think. 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 I feel

him instead of see him.

“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 still not nausea.

Not in the least.

The sensation spreads from where his fingers glide over my nape and

ends at my earlobe, where he whispered.

I need out of here. Now.

I reach to the ground behind me and grab the first object I find and then

haul it square against his face.

He loses his hold on my neck and I don’t wait to see his reaction as I

jump up and sprint behind the bushes.

Fast.

Not looking behind.

I run as if we’re in overtime during a game and the team depends on me

passing the ball to the attackers.

It’s me against the screwed-up notion of time. It’s always been that way.

The sense of apprehension is replaced by a shot of adrenaline and the

inherent need to escape.

Far.

So far.

A dark figure nearly slams into me and we both skid to a halt right

before we crash into one another.

Red Mask.

He’s carrying his bloody baseball bat and watches me as if I’m an insect

that crossed his path.

The rush of adrenaline slowly dissipates and a tremor spreads in my

limbs like wildfire.

Stop shaking.

Stop shaking, you damn weakling.

Stop!

I nearly manage to crack the sudden sporadic emotions, but disgust

lurches from my stomach to my throat faster than I can blink.

The distinctive smell of alcohol, cigarettes, bergamot, and the stench of

metallic blood envelops me.

No.

No.

No.

I glance behind me and my eyes clash with Nikolai’s darker ones.

They’re more unhinged than a witch during a pagan funeral, bloodshot and

filled with a promise of drawing blood.

My blood.

Not allowing myself to think about it, I walk in Red Mask’s direction.

He can hit me with that bat, for all I care. Maybe I’ll be lucky and will lose

consciousness and, therefore, can remove my brain from this situation.

“Look, I caught a stray cat.” Nikolai’s rough voice sounds like the

trigger for nightmares. “He just wouldn’t stop running, you know, and has a

temper. Threw a whole fucking branch at my face and nearly knocked me

out. Gotta love the motherfucking feisty ones. They’re so fun to break into

pieces.”

I stride to Red Mask, who studies me up and down and then lifts the bat.

Finally.

It’s done.

It’s over.

I’ll go back to a world where I don’t cross paths with these wastes of

human—

A heavy weight lands on my back, and I flinch as a strong arm wraps

around my neck and nearly crushes my windpipe.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t—

Survival instinct kicks in and I elbow Nikolai with every ounce of

energy I have left. He might as well be a wall because not only does he not

release me, but he also tightens his grip

Panic stiffens my muscles and I push with feral strength and bite him at

some point, but Nikolai doesn’t flinch. He drags me behind the trees, my

feet scraping the ground, and I open my mouth to call for help, even if it’s

from another damned Heathen.

Nikolai slams another hand on my mouth, digging the mask against my

lips. “Shhh. I’m going to need you to shut the fuck up.”

My words come in mumbled, haunted sounds, like in those creepy

horror movies where the nerd dies first.

That’s me. I’m the nerd.

In a last-ditch attempt, I throw the entirety of my weight back. My

muscle mass doesn’t compare to his, but I work out a lot.

I run, too. More than should be humanly allowed.

Nikolai loses his footing and I dart to my right, but the world is pulled

from beneath my feet. He tackles me to the ground, and I land on my

stomach.

A massive weight slams against my back, and Nikolai is on top of me

like a brick wall.

I cough, straining, and my deep inhale forces me to breathe in tiny

particles of dirt. My lungs burn and I realize it’s because he still has me in a

chokehold.

“A fucking fighter. Jackpot.” His voice echoes like the dark ink from

my fucked-up nightmares. “Fight me more. Do it harder. Stronger. Faster. I

want the fight!”

I tap his arm twice, wheezing and gasping for breath.

I get lightheaded and spots of yellow and orange spark behind my heavy

lids.

“No fight?” He sounds disappointed. “Fine, guess you can’t if you’re

being choked. If I release you, will you behave?”

My short nails scratch the long sleeves of his shirt, and he hums.

“Though I’m fine with the status quo. I rather like this position.”

Humiliation rushes through my bloodstream like poison as the feel of

his body crushing mine registers faster than the lack of oxygen. His chest

covers my back and his knee is jammed between my thighs. His entire

weight spreads over me and he’s so damn heavy.

I press myself against the dirt as if that will help me escape him. A dark

chuckle erupts in my ear as he loosens his grip enough for me to breathe.

He makes no move to release me or push the hell off me, though

I inhale cracked breaths and cough at the sudden rush of air.

“Anyone ever tell you how fucking hot you feel when struggling for

control? I could swallow you alive and leave no crumbs.” The last sentence

is whispered against my earlobe and I nearly retch.

Out of my skin.

Out of my fucked-up brain.

I don’t know where I get the strength, but I elbow him and crawl from

beneath him faster than he can blink.

Once I’m on my feet, I start to run—

“I take it you’re not worried about your brother?”

I come to a halt and slowly turn around. Nikolai is on his feet, arms

crossed and head tilted to the side as he watches me nonchalantly.

Only, there’s nothing nonchalant about him. The twat could only be

described as mental.

“Heard he’s into a lot of shit,” he continues. “Landon, I mean. He’s the

reason you’re here, right?”

My eyes widen behind the mask. “Are you the one who sent me the

invitation?”

“And you didn’t disappoint. Brother love for the win.”

I storm toward him and grab him by the collar of his shirt, hauling him

so close, his chest collides with mine. “Where is he?”

His hand shoots up to my hair and he grabs a handful, pulling at the

roots until my head snaps back, then he peers down at me. “Where do you

think?”

My grip doesn’t loosen on his collar. I don’t care if he’s crazy or

downright insane. If he messes with my loved ones, I’ll be his worst enemy.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” I grind out.

“Why? What will happen if you repeat yourself? I’m kinda curious, and

by kinda, I mean I have to know. Now.”

“You—” I cut myself off because his mask scrapes against mine.

His breath bathes the plastic and my lips.

“Hmm? What? What am I?” he asks with an edge of lunacy, like a child

ghost in a haunted castle who keeps repeating himself in a distorted voice.

I shove him away and he stumbles back, letting go of my hair, but like

an elastic band, he bounces right back, invading my space and crowding me

He’s much more looming and intimidating in person. And I don’t even

get intimidated.

“Stop!” I place both hands up and the bastard bumps right against them,

his muscles flexing beneath my fingers.

“You still didn’t tell me what I am. Go on. Don’t leave me hanging.” He

grins, the motion looking savage behind the bloodied mask. “Is it something

good? Or bad? Either? Neither? Both?”

“Just stop.” I have to keep all my strength in my hands as he pushes and

wiggles against them like a damn bull.

The sound of his tut echoes in the air as he finally quits trying to glue

his chest to mine.

I still keep my hands up, not trusting him to discontinue his frantic

movements. I can’t help noticing how taut he is, like a wall.

His pectoral muscles twitch beneath my fingers and I drop my arms to

either side of me, chasing away the haze and the strange taste of adrenaline.

When I speak, my voice is calm. Collected. In control. “Landon. Where

is he?”

“Fucking dull preppy kids,” he mutters under his breath, then turns on

his heel and marches in the opposite direction.

I stand there for a few seconds, my breathing condensing on the interior

of the mask. Then I follow after, my legs feeling weightless and completely

foreign, as if they’re no longer an extension of my body.

“Are you taking me to him?” I ask when I fall in step beside Nikolai.

He whips his head in my direction and I have to suppress a cringe at the

sight of blood. It’s not a view I’ll ever get used to, no matter how long I try.

“If I do that, what will you do for me?” he asks with that glint that I

swear was muted not two minutes ago.

“Not report you to the police for your illegal activities. Though you

should consider a change of hobbies to something less violent.”

“But where’s the fun in that?”

“Being normal for once?”

“Is that spelled boring?” He gets close and I step to the side, narrowly

escaping his shoulder bumping into mine.

“Back off.”

“Ah, fuck. I want to defrost that layer of control you’re wrapped in and

see what lurks inside the preppy boy

My teeth clench and I release them slowly so as not to trigger the

sensation I’ve been coexisting with for most of my life. “I’m not a boy.”

“Whatever you say, posh kid.”

“What the hell is your problem?”

“Me?” He points a thumb at himself. “You seem to be the one crowded

with issues, boy.”

My nostrils flare and my hand balls into a fist.

You have issues.

Lots of them.

You don’t want to be a disappointment.

Nikolai tilts his gaze to my hand, bouncing off his heels as if he’s

waiting for a Christmas present. “What you gonna do with that? Punch me?

Just so you know, you might get disgusting blood on your pretty hands.”

The urge to hit him snaps my muscles into a tight knot, but I force my

fingers to uncurl.

I don’t do violence. Ever.

This crazy wanker won’t be changing that.

“No? Bummer.” As fast as they sparkled, his eyes become muted again,

turning into two orbs of black.

Black on black.

Black on—

I briefly close my eyes to chase away the clouded thoughts. When I

open them, I catch a glimpse of Nikolai stalking into what looks like an

annexed house.

I didn’t notice it earlier during our walk, too focused on the bastard and

his unpredictable behavior to watch where the hell we were going.

Against my better judgment, I slip in behind him. Not that I have a

choice. Nikolai knows where Landon is and I need to make sure my twin

brother is safe.

The interior looks far simpler than the outside—clean and clinical—but

the white walls are smudged with dirt in places. The decor consists of a

leather sofa and a table against the wall, and there’s a door to what appears

to be a storage closet.

I stand at the entrance as Nikolai throws his weight on the sofa, arms

flung on the back and legs wide apart like one of those macho guys who

think they own the world.

He beckons me over with a forefinger and I snarl behind my mask. And

I don’t even snarl.

I don’t run away or elbow or scream for help, either, and I’ve done all of

the above this evening. Thanks to this bastard.

“Do that again and I’ll break your finger,” I deliver the threat with

calmness and a smile. He probably can’t see it, but fuck it.

“Get your ass over here if you want to see your brother breathe another

day.”

My shoulders tense and I take careful steps toward him, each one

echoing a louder-than-necessary sound.

It isn’t until I’m within arm's reach that I realize he’s crowding the sofa

that should fit at least three people.

I’m still contemplating his sheer size when a noise spills from my lips.

A startled, funny noise that feels foreign as it scratches out of my throat.

But I don’t focus on that, more concerned with the reason behind said

noise.

Nikolai grabs me by the wrist and hauls me over so fast, I land on him,

my chest crashing against his and our masks bumping.

The assault on my senses is much more prominent this time as that

stupid glint rushes to his previously muted eyes. “Well, hello there. Lovely

of you to finally join the party.”

I bite back a curse as I attempt to get up. Nikolai lets me, but then I

make the mistake of turning my back.

Brutish hands land on my hips and I stifle whatever noise that’s trying

to escape. A curse. It was definitely another curse.

And it doesn’t matter that I actually don’t curse.

Nikolai drags me down and my arse meets a hard surface. His thighs.

What the—

Panic dashes in my veins and I start to get up, but he pushes with

enough force to knock my bones against his. “Stay fucking still unless

you’re in the mood to take care of the boner you’re giving me.”

My face falls, figuratively, of course. I’d pay money for it to disappear

literally. Indefinitely.

I try again, needing to escape the wanker. But before I can move, he

wraps his arm around my waist and spreads his palm over my stomach.

“Someone has nice abs.”

“Stop touching me and throwing out sexual innuendos,” I hiss under my

breath, sinking my fingers into his arm and pushing. “I’m straight and have

no interest in your weird nonsense.”

He chuckles, the sound reverberating like a symphony gone wrong.

“You don’t say.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know. The fact that you say sexual innuendos, maybe. Such a

preppy boy.”

“What?”

Whatever he has to say is drowned out by voices and the shuffling of

feet outside. Green Mask stalks in from another door to the right that I

didn’t notice and I stiffen.

The situation I’m in registers quickly and heat rushes to my head. I’m

sitting on a random guy’s lap.

Me. Brandon fucking King.

Yet I remain completely still, not wanting to draw attention to myself.

I’m wearing the mask anyway. If I stay still, he won’t look at me or notice

me—

My jaw nearly hits the floor when none other than my baby sister rushes

through the door, her cheeks red and her demeanor flustered. Glyn stares at

me and I feel as if I’m being stripped naked, free falling from the sky

without a safety net.

I lower my head, staring at my feet, and soon, that dark inky water

swallows them whole, creeping up my calves and to my knees.

Veiny-like tendrils strap around my flesh in a vise, pulling, gripping,

plunging me into the endless hole.

Down.

Down.

Down—

“She’s gone,” a chilling voice whispers in my ear and I jerk.

The black ink slowly dissipates and I lift my head to find that Glyn and

Green Mask are disappearing out a third door to the left.

I release a puff of air, but it gets stuck in my throat when Nikolai strokes

his hand on my stomach.

It’s over my shirt, but it’s like he’s scratching at the surface of my skin,

nearly peeling it off the muscles. A burn erupts at the pit of my belly and

rushes to the rest of my limbs.

“Such a responsible brother. First, you came here because I made up a

story about Landon, and now, you’re worried about your sister. We have

something in common. I like it.”

My head spins, mostly due to his breath near my ear, his hand on my

stomach, and his rock-hard thighs underneath mine.

Then something he said comes back to me and I narrow my eyes. “You

made up a story about Lan?”

He lifts a shoulder. “How else would I have gotten you here? On my

lap, I mean.”

A volcano of rage splinters inside me, and I want to punch his fucking

stitch mask so bad.

So, so bad.

But I don’t, because I don’t do that.

I use the energy to push against him and spring up. “Take your nonsense

away from me. Far away.”

That glint flashes again, but before I can find out what type of absurdity

he’s planning, Jeremy walks through the door Glyn and Green Mask

disappeared through, holding his orange mask and a bloodied club.

He’s only second to Nikolai in broadness and unpleasant facial

expressions. But where the arsehole behind me is outwardly loud, violent,

and generally obnoxious, Jeremy is the calmer version. The type who

appears collected, but is in fact as notorious as his precious idiot friend.

He’s scowling now, seeming lost in thought as he throws his club on the

ground and runs his fingers through his damp hair that’s stuck to his nape.

“Jer!” Nikolai jumps to my side and wraps an arm around my shoulders

as if we’re mates. “Meet eighty-nine. Pretty sure he’s the only one who

made it here and, therefore, can be a member of the Heathens.”

Jeremy lifts his head and takes in the scene for the first time. He was so

lost in his own head that he didn’t even notice us.

He cocks his brows at Nikolai, then narrows his eyes on where he’s

grabbing me.

I flash the crazy bastard a death glare that he lets roll off his bloodied

mask as if it was never there.

He’s high. Must be.

There’s no other explanation for why he’d think the twin brother of Lan,

aka his worst enemy, should join his precious club’s ranks. Or why he’d

possibly think I would.

Now that I know Lan isn’t in danger, I have no reason to tolerate his

distasteful presence.

I shove his hand off my shoulder, not bothering to hide my contempt,

and turn around and leave.

No, I run.

Far. Away

K

NIKOLAI

olya Jr. has been an adventurous whore since he got his first boner at

the fresh age of five.

It was such a marvelous discovery when I found my then-wiener

hard that I giggled with glee. Then I proceeded to run all over our house,

dangling, pointing, and showing it off to anyone who crossed my path while

shouting, “Look! I have a gun!”

Dad laughed his head off. Mom looked like she was going to either

throw up or burst into flames.

Good times.

For me and my dad. Definitely not for my mom since she was covering

my twin sisters’ eyes, ushering them inside, and telling me to get my weenie

back in my pants.

I pouted as I muttered, “But my weenie really likes the air.”

Mom looked at the sky, probably to the invisible big bro up there, and

when that didn’t work, she directed her gaze at the actual semblance of a

real God in our lives. My dad.

After he laughed his ass off—five out of five sense of humor on that

man, love him—he helped me pack a pouty Kolya away, and sure as shit,

my dick had every right to be offended since his first show was put to a

nonconsensual halt.

Dad told me that I actually couldn’t use my wiener as a gun. At least,

not yet—see, told you that man has the best sense of humor, as expected of

my dad—and stripping in front of my baby sisters is a no-no.

He also said the stupid rule where I couldn’t be naked all the time.

Fucking social restrictions and all that bullshit.

At any rate, that was the official birth of Kolya Jr., or Kolya for short.

Kolya happens to be the Russian diminutive form of my name, but it’s

rarely used, and only by my very Russian grandfather, who snarls at the

reality that Niko won the nickname battle a hundred to one.

And no, Grandpa doesn’t know I actually call my dick Kolya or I’d

need to revoke my Russian card. And that’s no fun. I breathe vodka.

Anyway, ever since that boner incident, Kolya has become the sluttiest,

most adventurous cock anyone would ever meet.

He’s resourceful, to put it mildly, and a flat-out whore if we’re being

fucking blunt.

Part of his extended arsenal is being easy to satisfy. Give him a willing

hole and he’s weeping in joy—literally.

So imagine my goddamn bafflement when he woke up today and chose

the silent treatment.

I presented an especially sexually frustrated Kolya with his favorite

flavors. At the same time.

A dick and a pussy? Fucking jackpot, if you ask me.

After the initiation, I got back to the Heathens’ mansion and shot three

of my contacts a text to come and worship at Kolya’s altar.

All three of them replied, so what the fuck? A foursome sounded like

fun, so I told them to come the fuck over, and they did, stacked with weed

and booze, and one was chewing on a blue pill.

Not sure you’re supposed to chew on it, but I couldn’t be bothered and

gave him vodka to help…uh…with digestion and shit.

Don’t ask me how I know those two guys and the girl. The girl is from

school, probably. Again, don’t ask what happens at school. I’m studying

business there, but I’ve barely attended any classes since I’ve been at

college. As long as I keep my GPA up, thanks to my superior genes, nobody

cares. Me included.

The two guys, anyone’s guess. I happen to attract a lot of attention—

might have to do with Kolya’s extravagant magic cross piercing that many

swear made them see heaven.

Or hell. Depending on their kink.

Also, it might have to do with how unbothered I am by any request.

Once, a girl was like, “Choke me, Daddy,” and I nearly killed her. In my defense, she didn’t specify how hard I should choke her, so I went with the

flow—the flow being maximum violence.

Another guy sent me a text saying, “Are you looking for a doormat?

Because you can step on me any day and I’d bend over and take it.” So I

did just that and stepped on him. What? He asked for it and, I kid you not,

he jizzed all over my room. Then he did bend over and took it.

Fun times.

Last night, however, most definitely was not.

It was so far from fun, it gave me fucking whiplash.

I had three sexy-as-fuck people at my disposal and Kolya was playing

hard to get like a virgin motherfucker. Which he’s not.

For the first time in my nineteen years of life, I couldn’t get off. Not

when they offered their mouths, holes, and everything in between. In fact, I

wasn’t even motivated to release Kolya from his least favorite confinement

—my pants.

They soon forgot about me and turned to one another while I watched,

sitting on the stairs and nursing a bottle of good ole vodka. It was a

threesome of epic proportions that started with making out, sucking each

other off, and both guys double penetrating the girl and fucking her

senseless until she nearly passed out. At some point, they pushed her aside.

Viagra boy clearly couldn’t get enough, so he bent the other guy over,

fucked him, then nutted in his ass. Or I think he did. Because that’s the

point where I fell asleep.

At the bottom of the stairs.

If that doesn’t tell you how desperate Kolya’s state of no fun is, I don’t

know what would.

Not the sleeping at the bottom of the stairs part, because I swear to fuck

my body can only lull itself to sleep on anything that isn’t a bed. It comes

with my head’s fucked-up state of mind.

This is about the not-participating part. Usually, I’d be all over that shit,

and, in retrospect, bringing the beautiful queer energy out of everyone.

There’s a reason why people say yes whenever I shoot them a text. I’m a

guaranteed source of crazy fun.

Last night, not only did I not fuck my way through multiple holes, but I

was also bored.

Completely and utterly indifferent.

Like I was earlier, when the professor was about to give me head. Hot

bombshell with luscious lips and everything.

Kolya was almost hard but didn’t want her lips anywhere near his

goddamn annoying presence.

Fuck.

I walk through the door of the mansion after school and stop in the

entrance hall, tug my T-shirt over my head, and throw it down. My necklace

that Dad gifted me jostles free and I stroke the bullet that hangs from it

before I let it fall to my naked chest.

There. Much better.

People should be thankful I wear pants. Fucking prude society could use

a chill pill. I have a beautiful body and I would rather show it off instead of

keeping it tucked away. The same applies to my monster cock. I’m usually

hella proud of Kolya’s size and porn star-level performance, but today is not

it.

I narrow my eyes on the half-tent in my pants. “The fuck is wrong with

you, motherfucker?”

Is it all the fucking? No. Hell no. That’s what he thrives on. It’s why he

chose to be completely cool with any hole. Endless options and all that.

Maybe I should extend those options… But to whom? I’ve been literally

fucking my way through any and all of the population available at my

disposal.

Let’s rewind.

What could’ve happened to trigger Kolya’s silent treatment? He’s been

caught in this strange stage where he’s about to grow a boner but never

exactly gets there.

Yesterday morning, I was coming all over an ass and a pussy, or was it

two asses and a pussy? Anyway, I was a bit high at the time, so who knows

how many?

What I do know, however, is that Kolya was definitely pumped up for

the highly awaited event—the initiation. Punching people to near death?

Holding power over their insignificant existence?

Fucking ecstatic.

Kolya was most certainly feeling himself and had the night of his

dickish life, especially after…

A twitch rushes to my groin and I pause.

He was feeling himself more than usual when…

A reluctant, uptight preppy boy was gliding his firm ass all over him.

“Oh no.” I glare down at my pants. “Fuck no, you fucking fuck.”

He twitches again as if saying, “Fuck yeah.”

“The fuck are you? A masochist? He said he was straight. Told you to

keep your nonsense away from him as if it were an insult.”

My dick doesn’t understand insults, since he has the moral compass of a

used condom, and remains standing at attention like an eager kid in class.

“You need to get yourself fucking checked, dude. Preferably by an

exorcist so they can get those demons out and shit.”

Now that I think about it, when I was falling asleep, I wasn’t seeing the

hot threesome, but the up and down of a gorgeous Adam’s apple as he

flinched, jerked, and swallowed thickly.

Fuck me sideways.

Kolya is definitely hard and in the mood now. Maybe if I get him the

same flavor as the three from last night…

He flops down so fast, I curse his goddamned maker.

It’s me. I’m the maker.

“Fuck you right the fuck off, motherfucker,” I mutter.

I don’t fuck with straight guys.

At all.

Many of them have fragile egos and macho manly energy that pisses me

off and propels me to sudden, impulsive violence. I prefer queers who are

comfortable in their own sexuality, like myself, thank you very much.

The only time I hover near a heterosexual man is if he’s a lost bi-curious

lamb who wants to experiment. In that case, I make it my mission to take

him to heaven. Like an angel did to some prophet—don’t ask me what his

name is; I can’t even remember mine half the time.

Brandon King does not belong on any of my lists of interest.

He’s too uptight and closed off, not to mention standoffish and arrogant.

His entire existence should give me a serious case of erectile dysfunction.

Jesus fuck.

That guy could use a chill pill. Or a few. In fact, someone should shove

the entire bottle down his throat and make him choke on it.

Fuck him and his back off and stop touching me.

I’m straight. Like fuck he is.

He nearly bounced on my cock and he sat there so prettily while I was

nursing an erection of epic proportions for a whole five minutes. Not that I

Was counting or anything.

Or maybe I was. To prove his theory.

Straight, my ass. Or his, to be more specific—pun totally intended.

I should note that during that time, his sister walked by and he nearly

lost his marbles, which is probably why he remained frozen for a long

period of time, but I digress.

I’m completely uninterested in his mythical straight battle. Fuck that

right the fuck off, if you ask me.

The reason I invited him to the initiation was solely to mess with his

twin brother. The major asshole who leads the preppy kids in the Elites and

thinks he could go head-to-head with us.

A few nights ago, Landon and I fought at one of my favorite places on

the island—the fight club. I was so pumped to pummel that English prick to

the ground in front of his wannabe fans.

But then Brandon showed up and stood there like the prince version of

his brother.

I admit that I lost concentration because he looked so fucking agitated at

the prospect of Landon being beaten to death, and I also admit Kolya

appreciated the view.

He’s hot. And it’s different on him than his show-off, in-your-face

brother.

Brandon has a quieter presence and carries himself in a total golden-boy

fashion.

Slick brown hair, groomed face, tall and slim frame, but muscled. Yup,

don’t let those preppy clothes fool you. Asshole has abs. All six of them. I

counted them yesterday since I had nothing else to do with my hands. I

would’ve preferred to let my hand go down a more fun path, but I doubt

grouchy Brandon would’ve been thrilled.

Anyway…stop sidetracking. Now, brain. I mean it.

I almost lost that fight because Brandon got in the way. Side note, I

don’t usually get distracted during fights because of this lame reason, I

assure you.

So, naturally, I had to mess with Bran the way he dared to mess with

me. And it so happened that the initiation was coming up and I couldn’t

miss that chance.

Since he was so concerned about his idiot brother, I made up a whole

drama about his participation. It was a shot in the dark. I really thought Brandon wouldn’t fall for it, since he’s this major snob who looks down on

people like me from his high horse.

Imagine my fucking surprise when he walked right in like a lost lamb.

A straight lost lamb.

What I didn’t expect was his subtle aggressiveness and hints of

submissiveness peeking from beneath the mask of rigorous control that he

wears like a second skin.

From the outside looking in, he seems too boring and snobbish and like

he could use some drugs. Maybe a mixture of them would help loosen up

the layer of asshole wrapped around him.

However, something changed when he was put under pressure—his

body trembled and he struggled to hide behind his mask, literally and

figuratively.

My dick jumps at the memory of him remaining as still as a statue on

my lap. I don’t think he noticed it, but he had both his palms flat on his

thighs like a well-behaved prince.

But then he left before I could convince the others to add him to our

club. Not that they would’ve agreed, and Jeremy looked fucking horrified

when he found out his identity, but oh well. I just wanted to toy with him a

little.

Use him against his brother if the shoe fit.

Maybe destroy his fantasies about being straight in the meantime. I’ve

never played around with straight men, but this was too tempting to pass up.

Blood rushes to my groin and I mutter, “Fuck you, you fucking fuck.

You need help.”

“You need help, Niko.” My cousin Killian brushes past me on the way

inside, accompanied by his brother, Gareth, and my best friend, Jeremy.

They must’ve finished school and come back together, which I

should’ve probably done as well.

But oh well, I forgot.

Jeremy stops a few inches away from me. He’s an inch shorter than me

and definitely the most muscled after yours truly. He’s a few years older,

but he’s been my best friend for as long as I remember. I might have

pestered him for it, though.

He pushes his dark hair away from his face and narrows his eyes.

“Niko, please tell me you weren’t talking to invisible people just now.”

“Of course not. I was having a very frustrating conversation with my

dick.”

“That’s even worse.” Gareth shoves my shoulder and chuckles.

My older cousin, twenty-one, is the prince of our little group of

mayhem. Slick blond hair, sharp jaw, green eyes like some elf, and fucking

dimples. The problem with him is that he’s wiser than should be allowed. It

makes him a little boring, just saying.

He’s worlds apart from his younger brother, Kill, who’s my age—dark

hair, piercing blue eyes, and possesses the personality of a serial killer. My

favorite type of personality. The crazier, the better.

He’s a prick, but at least he’s a prick who doesn’t try to stop me from

causing mayhem, and, under certain circumstances, he endorses and

encourages it.

“Why would you even talk to your dick?” Jeremy asks, looking half

curious, half petrified. Which is pretty much the standard when it comes to

me.

“We’re having a difference of opinion. We’ll come to an agreement

sooner or later.”

“Or you can take care of that ED we talked about earlier. I can hook you

up with one of my professors in the local hospital,” Kill muses as he strolls

past me and sits on the sofa, grinning like a fucker who’ll have that Colgate

smile smashed when I knock out his fucking teeth.

“If you wanna see my dick again, just say so.” I grab my belt, ready to

die on this hill.

Gareth slams his hand on mine, a terrified expression covering his

features. “Don’t show us your dick, Niko. Seriously, why do you feel the

need to get naked whenever someone mentions your dick? We’re cousins,

for fuck’s sake.”

“Well, your brother keeps running his mouth about ED and I want to

prove that I don’t have it.”

“We believe you,” Jeremy grunts with obvious displeasure. “Keep that

thing in your pants. No one in this room wants to see it.”

“I don’t believe you.” Kill lifts a shoulder as he toys with the remote.

“Kill!” Gareth growls. “Stop encouraging his crazy or he’ll be walking

around naked for a couple of days.”

“Good idea.” I snap my fingers at him. “You’re so smart, Gaz.”

His face falls. “Please don’t.”

Killian throws his head back in laughter while Jeremy sighs for the

thousandth time since he got here and then sits beside him. His state of

bubbling displeasure might have to do with me, but I honest to fuck don’t

know what I did or am doing wrong.

“Oh, right!” I snap my fingers again and sit opposite Kill and Jer.

Gareth disappears in the background and I catch a glimpse of him going

up the stairs, probably to escape my pending exhibitionism.

But that’s a thought for another time.

“What now?” Kill asks with visible amusement. “You going to tell us a

tale about your dick?”

“Tempting, but I’ll have to take a rain check on that. I’ve been

thinking.”

“You actually do that? Maybe we should check that head of yours when

you receive that treatment for the ED.”

“Haha. Hilarious,” I deadpan. “Now, shut the fuck up. I have a very

important question to ask. Have you ever been attracted to a guy?”

Kill crosses his legs at the ankles. “You do know that I hook up with

anyone, right? Gender doesn’t matter as long as they have a hole I can use.”

Right. He did go on a spree similar to mine, but that was different. I

don’t think he’s genuinely attracted to people in any shape or form. He just

loves the power.

I do, too, so fucking much that the fact that I haven’t had my fill in a

while—the while being thirty-six hours—is causing Kolya’s friends the

infamous blue balls situation.

Kill is useless. Next.

“What about you, Jer?”

“I don’t find men attractive.” He frowns. “What’s this about?”

“Yeah, Niko. Don’t tell me you’re having a sexuality crisis after you’ve

been bi for over four years?”

I ignore Kill because he’s too manwhorish to offer me the angle I’m

looking for and sit on the coffee table, leaning into Jeremy’s space. “Why

have you never been attracted to men?”

“Because I prefer women. What kind of question is that?”

My face is so close to his, anyone else would be intimidated and jerk

back, but Jeremy doesn’t even breathe differently or attempt to move. He’s

so confident in his straight sexuality that he’s not fazed by my outwardly

weird behavior.

“You got a boner for Jeremy?” Kill asks from the side like a witch that

will be burned in hell while Satan cackles manically.

“Nope.” I push back. “He’s straighter than straight.”

“Thanks?” Jer mutters.

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

He releases that defeated sigh again. “What’s going on, Niko?”

“Get me someone to maim. That’s what’s going on.” I jump up and run

up the stairs three at a time, sprint down the hall, then whip the door to

Gareth’s room open and shove it against the wall.

He looks up from his desk, pausing on doing homework like a boring

prick. Jesus. If he didn’t indulge in some violence on occasion, I would’ve

already disowned him.

No cousin of mine becomes boring and gets away with it.

“Gee, thanks for the death scare. Please don’t tell me you’ll start

stripping…?”

I stalk toward him, eyes narrowed.

“Don’t you dare, Niko, or I swear I’ll tell Aunt Rai about your annoying

habits—”

“Have you ever been attracted to men?”

It’s subtle, and I probably wouldn’t have noticed it if I’d stayed by the

door, but Gareth’s eyes widen a little.

He drops his pen on his notebook and exhales loudly. “What are you

talking about?”

“You’ve always fucked women, but have you done that because you

feel you have to due to peer pressure and what’s defined by society as

normal or because you want to?”

“What is this about?” He stands up. “What did you hear?”

“What should I have heard?”

His face falls for a fraction of a second and I step into his space. “So?

What? Tell me. Tell me! What should I have heard?”

He pushes me away. “Stop doing that shit.”

“Not until you answer my question.”

He runs a hand over his face. “I love women. Happy?”

“What about men?”

“I…don’t know. Could be.” His eyes spark like a tropical forest before

he clears his throat. “Why are you probing?”

“I’m testing something. When did you discover you like men?”

“I don’t like men. Jesus.” He jogs to the door and slams it shut, then

leans against it, arms and ankles crossed “I’m not sure. I don’t know. I love

fucking women, but…”

“But what?” I walk up to him and then peer down at him until I can see

the tiny freckles on his nose. “What changed your mind?”

“I didn’t change my mind and, seriously, stop looking so intense. It’s

creepy.”

“Blah fucking blah, just tell me what made your straight ass sway on the

line. Figuratively, of course.” I grin. “Or is it literally?”

“Fuck you, asshole.” He closes his eyes with pure exasperation. “If you

tell anyone about this, especially Kill, I’ll murder you.”

“I won’t if you just fess up. What made you change lanes?”

“I’m not sure I did—or would, for that matter. It’s just…one person.

That’s it.”

One person.

One. Person.

That’s it.

Fucking interesting.

I ruffle Gareth’s hair and offer courses in butt stuff, but I’m not even

done enumerating things he should know before he proceeds to throw me

out and shut the door in my face.

His groans can be heard through the door as I grin and walk down the

hall.

On a scale of straighter-than-straight Jer to fluid-as-lube Kill to

confused-as-shit Gareth, I wonder where Brandon King falls.

Not that I’m tempted to find out.

That would be crazy.