Way to read the room, dick.
My gaze strays to Nikolai, who’s on the opposite side of the ring being prepped by none other than Jeremy—the recent president of my anti-fan club.
The mere look at the brute is enough to kill any erotic thoughts. I definitely have no qualms about destroying his features and giving him the incentive to go through a desperate reparative surgery.
“You okay, Lan?” Remi asks from outside the ring and passes me a bottle of water.
He’s the only one of the guys who loves accompanying me on these bursts of violence. There’s also Ava, who loves to come cheer for me. She must be in the crowd somewhere as the president of Fighter Landon Club.
Ava and I have an easygoing relationship. I help her in bringing Eli down and then she helps me with all my gossip needs. What she doesn’t know is that I also help Eli sometimes. What? He’s still my cousin. The King men might fight and see the world through different lenses, but we’ll always be family.
Or that’s what Grandfather Jonathan says.
At any rate, I’ve been taking part in underground fighting since Eli first took me to one—behind our parents’ backs, naturally.
After his first years in uni, my cousin gradually pulled out from these scenes, but I found a much-needed venting outlet in the adrenaline this provides.
The crowd.
The screams.
The fuck fest that usually takes place after.
REU’s students' shouts surround me in a halo, a drug that shoots through my bloodstream and shoves me toward the sky.
I grab the bottle from Remi, down half of it and pour the other half on my head, then shake it out like a dog. Girls swoon and I offer them my usual charming grins that would make them drop their knickers if I as much as asked. The only difference now is that I couldn’t give a fuck about their attention.
I don’t even have the right motivation to finish this fight.
“Do you have to do this?” my clone asks from the side of the ring.
Brandon is about the last person one would expect to attend fight clubs. He’s more squeamish than a sheltered prince and he looks the part of an upper-class, preppy boy with his groomed hair and snobbish face. He came dressed in a white shirt, a beige cardigan, pressed trousers, and classic Prada loafers.
Still, the fact that he chose to offer his support is a rare event that I plan to make full use of.
My lips curve in a sly grin. “Do you have to be here?”
He slides a hand in his pocket, posture straight and voice calm. “You’re the one who texted me.”
“Oh? Since when do you come running after I inform you of my fights?”
“Mum asked me to keep you out of trouble.”
“Didn’t think you listened anymore.”
“You’re my brother. I won’t like seeing Mum cry if you somehow get yourself killed.”
“Aww.” I jump down from the ring and ruffle his perfectly styled hair, sending it into irreparable chaos, then smile.
He pushes me away. “Stop it.”
“I knew you loved me.” My grin disappears as I grab him by the collar of his shirt and whisper in his ear, my voice hardening, “But try again, Bran. You’re a terrible fucking liar.”
As I pull away, his eyes widen a little, not enough to be noticed by Remi, who’s busy trash-talking Nikolai’s fans. However, Bran can’t hide from me and just unconsciously proved one of my grim theories. The one I was contemplating when I sent him the text about my fight with Nikolai.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” For all intents and purposes, he does sound unaffected.
“I’m talking about your recent fascination with Nikolai. Care to explain yourself?”
He lifts his hand to the back of his neck, but upon seeing me staring at it, he drops it before he can indulge in his stress-relieving habits.
But the fact that he had to do that and hide it in the first place is telltale enough.
I’m about to get in his space, when the referee announces that the fight is resuming.
I narrow my eyes on my brother and he narrows his back.
When I jump back in the ring, I find Nikolai glaring down at me with a bloodied nose—that was my doing, by the way—and a tight posture.
“What’s got your knickers in a twist?” I ask casually, then point a thumb at myself. “Want a piece of this?”
As soon as the referee gives the go, Nikolai pounces on me with the vengeance of a thousand ghost warriors.
I manage to stand my ground for the first few hits, but then he backs me into a corner and nearly jeopardizes my Greek god looks.
Thankfully, the referee manages to break us apart.
“Jesus Christ.” I spit out a mouthful of blood and grin. “I know you’re jealous about your inability to ever reach my superior looks, but tone it down a notch, would you?”
“You’re going down, motherfucker.” He punches his bandaged fists together.
I suppose that’s a no about breaking the news about my cock’s unorthodox relationship with his sister’s cunt.
But then again, his cousin took my sister, so this could be seen as fair payback. Just saying.
When he charges again, I punch him in the ribs as hard as I can. Nikolai recovers faster than lightning and knocks me down on the canvas, then hails me with fast, sharp punches.
Fucking fuck.
“Hey, twat,” I manage between groans. “That hurts.”
“Exactly the point, motherfucker.”
I block some of his hits, but some of them land straight on my rib cage.
I wonder if I’m bleeding on the floor. Perhaps my ending won’t be as glorious as I thought it would be. Preferably in the middle of my studio, surrounded by my masterpieces that come to life à la Pygmalion style.
“Is this the best you can do, mafia prince?” I taunt with a barely audible voice. “You punch like a girl.”
A certain girl comes to mind whenever erotic violence is involved.
Only, I don’t mind if she shatters my ribs as long as she rides my cock and chokes on it for redemption right after.
“Stop!”
The voice filters through my haziness, and I pause. Please don’t tell me I lowered my standards and asked Nikolai to stop.
It’s then I realize it does sound like mine. Only one person has the audacity to be so chaotically emotional while sharing my otherworldly physical traits.
Surprisingly, Nikolai jerks back, putting the episode of “Punching Bag Landon” on hold as he stares at who I assume is my brother. His eyes narrow and darken and his nostrils flare.
What. The. Fuck?
I’m going to kill this bastard. How dare he look at Bran—my fucking twin brother—like he’s his next bitch?
My. Fucking. Brother.
The Landon King’s identical twin.
I slam my fist against his cheek so fast and hard, he falls sideways, and blood explodes on his face.
My ribs ache, and I can feel my own blood decorating my features, but I manage to stagger to my feet in the midst of roaring cheers.
“King! King! King!”
I kick Nikolai in the ribs before he manages to get to his knees, then I jerk him up by a fistful of his hair and whisper in his ear, “This is your first and last warning. Keep your fucking eyes off my brother or I will claw them the fuck out.”
He kicks me back, but I dodge at the last minute, letting the hit fall to the edge of my leg. Then I jump out of the ring.
Fuck the fight.
Fuck the lot of the Heathens. I’m going to set their lives on fire before they get another one of my siblings. I’m not even over the fact that my sister defected to Killian, and now, this fucker thinks he can set his sights on my brother.
Remi and Bran rush toward me and I grab my brother by the collar and drag him out while Remi dabs at my lip and tries to stop the bleeding.
“What did you say to him?” Bran asks, not bothering to fight my grip.
“None of your fucking business.”
“It is if it was about me.”
I stop in the middle of the tunnel that leads to the changing rooms. “Do you want it to be about you, Bran? Is that it?”
This time, he pushes me away and stands toe to toe with me. “I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to for me to get the message. What’s with you lately?”