“Past your beauty bedtime,” Eli says. “Dark circles look hideous on you.”
“And that striped jacket gives you a fantastic grandpa vibe. Have better fashion sense before patronizing me about my looks.” I point at the door. “Now, out of my space, and I’m going to need that master key so no one trespasses again.”
Eli leans forward and whispers, “No,” before he buggers off to make the world a worse place than it was an hour ago.
“You need some sort of an escorting service?” I ask when Bran lingers behind, still staring at the miniatures.
He reaches a hand to one of them but thinks better of it and retracts it. Good. That hand might have been accidentally broken if he’d put it on my possessions.
Though I might not be as murderous if he asks for permission. He’s always wanted to touch my sculptures after I’ve given him the green light. Now, he doesn’t even ask if he can.
My brother stands to his full height and faces me with a furrowed brow. “Are you going to sculpt any of them?”
“No. They’re not worth it.”
“Have you positively lost your mind? These are your…”
“Finest work. Stunning. A stroke of a genius,” I finish for him. “We obviously have a different definition of excellence. What you see as extraordinary is mediocre at best to me.”
“Well, excuse me for not understanding the genius genes.”
“Nonsense. You have them as well, but as I’ve mentioned a million times, you’re shackling them to the best of your abilities.” I prop an elbow on his shoulder and grin. “Want my help to bring out the side you buried so deep, you almost forgot it existed?”
“If by help, you mean to drown me in your blood-flavored activities, then no thanks.”
“One day, you’ll take me up on my offer.”
“Not even if you’re reincarnated as a saint.”
“Bloody hell, Bran. Don’t go manifesting pure torture over a small disagreement.” I pat his cheek with the back of my hand.
It’s a gesture he used to like when we were growing up. Now, however, he drops his shoulder, making me lose my balance, and steps out of the way.
“No disagreement with you has ever been small, Lan.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Is this one of those times when you turn sappy on me as if I’m your imaginary therapist? If that’s going to be the case, I get paid by the hour and in advance, thank you.”
He releases a long breath and shakes his head with the surrender of an old man in the last stages of cancer.
“Just call Mum when you get the chance. She asked about you when I talked to her earlier.”
Saint Bran.
The peacemaker who thinks he’s holding our family together by a thread Bran.
Sometimes I wonder if the fact that he of all people happens to be my twin is some form of a calamity.
After one last lingering look at the miniatures, he leaves the studio as if his arse is on fire.
It’s no secret that Bran doesn’t like me. Might have to do with the number of treacherous, elicit activities I’ve been conducting over the years.
As Mum likes to say, we’re like night and day, and while she means that as a compliment, the truth remains, it’s impossible for us to meet halfway.
But Bran and his righteous shenanigans can wait another day.
I’ve already missed half a day in my attempts to retain the vision from last night. I don’t have enough time or inspiration to resurrect it.
One thing’s for sure. My next course of action starts with a certain little muse who’s gotten herself into the deepest clusterfuck of her life.
To say I’m entering unfriendly territory would be an understatement.
Let’s say The King’s U college and I share the same level of disagreement of right-and left-wing politics.
In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if the Heathens have put a bounty on my head and a wanted poster at the entrance of every class.
My track record with Killian, Nikolai, and even Jeremy doesn’t help. The only member I haven’t harmed, at least not directly, is Gareth, but I doubt he’d be interested in having a cheeky drink and smuggling me onto their grounds.
Which is why I came in partial disguise.
The saving grace of being among the unpolished, rowdy Americans is that there are so many of them. Definitely more than the students at REU. Therefore, wearing sunglasses and a hoodie is enough to conceal me from the unholy masses.
According to my extensive research on the Heathens and, after the blood episode, on Mia Sokolov herself, I know she’s studying business.
So I make my way to that school and wait by the corner outside her classroom like a perfect gentleman. Thankfully, her clone studies law, so they don’t take the same classes.
I check my watch and count the seconds until she’s out. After this, Mia still has one more class, but she’s going to have to take a rain check on that.
The students buzz around me, their chatter clashing with the seconds on my watch.
I don’t mind the wait. In fact, a sensation of calm overtakes me at the prospect of catching prey.
I’m good at camouflaging myself when need be and waiting for the right moment.
Like the night, I’m silent, overpowering, and—under the right circumstances—deadly.
Students start flowing like ants in a disorganized colony, but I’m not concerned about missing Mia in the crowd.
That won’t be possible after the alien sensation I experienced during last night’s meeting.
Sure enough, I catch a glimpse of her blonde hair and blue ribbons flying in the wind as she checks her cat-themed backpack.
She’s wearing another black dress that’s fit for a luxurious funeral, and a certain detail stands out. The upper half has a few straps that stop at a choker around her delicate throat.
My, my.
She even dressed for the auspicious occasion.
Mia Sokolov is a beautiful goddess without putting in any effort. She barely wears any makeup or tries to doll up like most girls. She also adopts a troublemaking personality that’s designed to put a damper on her physical superiority.
I’ve barely seen her offer a genuine smile, and that includes all the footage I’ve gathered on her in my attempts to dig her a hole she’ll never get out of.
However, she excels at offering fake socially accepted smiles and pretending to be a naive cute girl to draw the right people’s attention.
And while she might argue that we’re different, she’s wearing the same version of the mask I do. Which means she might have a beast inside her, too.
And I will have to murder and cut it into pieces because I only need her as a statue.
Not flesh and bones. Thoughts and opinions. Words and existence.
Still rummaging through her bag, she walks in my direction as clueless as innocent prey.
There, little muse. I might give you a treat after I turn you into a statue.
“Mia!”
She’s only a few meters away from where I’m lurking when she comes to a halt and turns around.
I curse under my breath upon detecting the last two people I need in this situation.
The first is none other than Killian—the guy who stole my sister’s heart despite my explicit refusal of the damned relationship. The other is Nikolai, Mia’s older brother, who might be out to slice my throat the moment he sees me.
Both needless presences catch up to her and I have to change my position to get a better view of the situation.
Logically, I should leave before those two catch a glimpse of me and choose to give me a taste of my own torture medicine. And it’ll be much worse than I could imagine, considering I trespassed on their turf.
The risks I’m willing to take for the sake of my muse are irritatingly stunning.
She signs something to them that I believe means, “What are you doing here?”
I might have looked at some sign language videos—ASL, not BSL since there are significant differences. And by some, I mean dozens of them. It was enough to become proficient. What? It’s not my fault that I’m not only an effortless polyglot but also a fast learner.
“I’m taking Niko on a stroll,” Killian replies with an easy grin.