So now, I’m nothing more than a tension-filled entity of irritation and violence. An existence that can neither be measured nor contained and that keeps growing bigger with each passing second.
My beast has been scratching and clawing at the walls of my sanity, demanding a purging outlet. The crazier the better.
I would love nothing more than to give him a taste of euphoric anarchy. But the downside is, if I let him loose, Mia won’t give me the time of the day ever again. I’ll turn mental and could and would revert to drastic measures to have her.
And believe it or not, that would—according to Bran, who’s up for a sainthood—ruin everything and make me lose her for good.
There wouldn’t be any late-night roof dates like a few days ago. She wouldn’t meet me for chess or for a boring walk along the beach like some Victorian couple.
She wouldn’t open up to me or try to understand me. There would be no more magical laughs, bashful smiles, or pointed glares that only manage to tease my cock out of his hibernation state.
That mere possibility hovers over my chest and sanity like a dangerous brick wall that threatens to crush everything I’ve been building.
I’d be empty again like Uncle Aiden said.
And while I was completely comfortable with my supreme emptiness before—proud of it, even—that option isn’t on or under the table anymore.
So I’m dedicating my energy to something a lot more productive or, more precisely, on something that I’ve been considering for a while now.
“So?” I ask as Glyn stands in the middle of my room like a lost lamb.
Bran gives me a look from his position on the sofa beside me. Let’s just say he’s been enjoying this ‘let’s teach Landon emotions’ mission a bit too much.
He’s a glutton for righteousness and likes to think about other people’s emotions. All the time. Like a psycho.
I honestly believe he needs urgent apathy lessons from yours truly. But that’s a topic for another day.
Glyn releases a long sigh and slowly sits on the chair opposite us and pushes strands of her hair behind her ears. Her movements are wary and a bit awkward, like when she couldn’t figure out where she belonged in our extremely artistic family.
She often felt like she was the least talented, no matter how much Mum told her that art manifests in different manners for different people.
I taught her how to sketch for the first time when she was maybe three years old. For some reason, as I watch her now, I’m hit by the magical look that she had in her big green eyes when she looked at me back then.
The awe, the wonder, and the complete enchantment that was there when I used her little fingers to doodle on some paper. Of course, that was my creation, but Glyn took that paper and went running to Mum, screaming, “Look what Lan teached me!”
I realize with a sense of slight discomfort that back then, I experienced these bursts of pride and joy for reasons unknown. Naturally, those moments were few and far between and diminished the older I got, but they did exist.
It’s like a reminder of how largely the emptiness staked claim inside me. I refuse to lose any more of my agency to the demons lurking in the dark corners of my soul.
“Are you sure this is the right thing to do?” Glyn asks Bran instead of me since he’s the morality police around here.
“He doesn’t want to hurt her,” Bran says with the calmness of an ancient monk.
“Still. Isn’t it a breach of privacy to talk about something the family has kept hidden?”
“Not if I have information they don’t.” I take a sip of my beer in a failed attempt to hide my grin.
I happen to be quite proud of the fact that Mia told me things she’s never spoken of to her family. Prick Nikolai and pretentious Maya included.
Have you ever thought she told you that because she believes whoever knows will be killed by her kidnapper? part of my brain that’s wishing for a bullet whispers like a stage-five twat.
Besides, I could’ve asked Mia about the rest of the story and she would’ve eventually told me, but I didn’t want her to relive her kidnapping incident when she already gets nightmares about it.
“But…” Glyn trails off and plays with the zipper of her tiny backpack that I’m surprised can fit anything bigger than a mouse.
Speaking of which, I would rather I was in the company of my own little mouse, but, apparently, we’re not supposed to meet often.
When I asked her if she was hiding me from her family, she didn’t reply, and that was enough of an answer. She’s still ashamed of me, possibly refusing to tell her brother and his band of meddling fools that she’s seeing me.
And will be for a very long time.
But that’s okay. Everything will fall back into place. Not because I’m a hopeful romantic—disgusting—but because I’ll make it happen whether she likes it or not.
I’m open to anything, including relearning the entire world fucking history and seeing it in rosy colors instead of human greed, but letting her go is not an option.
Not in this lifetime or the next, or the twenty after.
“You don’t like lying to Killian?” Bran finishes for Glyn, bringing me back to the present moment.
Of course he’d figure out what she was about to say just by looking at her. I figured it out, too, but mainly because I’m nothing if not brilliant at linking patterns.
Glyn is somewhat of an empath, so she’s partially fine with exposing Mia’s secret if it means she’ll participate in helping her. What she’s not fine with, however, is going behind that twat Killian’s back to help me.
And I happen to be her brother, for fuck’s sake.
“He told me what he knows because he trusts me,” she says. “I don’t want to lose his trust.”
“You won’t, because none of us will tell,” I say in a calmer tone than I feel. “Think about it this way, the good outweighs the bad in this situation. Do you think he’ll be mad if what you disclose will help his beloved cousin?”
“Well, I don’t think so.” She releases her bag’s zipper and straightens. “Okay, so Kill has always avoided this subject whenever it comes up, but a few days ago, after the show you put on, something changed.”
Thank fuck.
I don’t say that out loud, though, or my attempts at rehabilitating my image with my siblings would take a sharp dive toward the worst.
I actually like that they don’t wear expressions of dread or disgust whenever I’m in their field of vision. They actually come to hang out in my room without me forcing them to—in Bran’s case it’s more to keep an eye on me.
They’re tangible proof that, yes, I controlled them over the years, but despite my godly logic, that process never produced a great relationship. This softer version, while not my favorite, is able to generate better results.
“In what sense did it change?” Bran asks.
Glyn leans forward in her seat. “So he was livid, understandably, since you apparently called her a mute upon first seeing her.”
“An ancient mistake,” I say.