“We’ll negotiate my terms now, shall we?” I drop her hand and it’s only after I release her that I register how small that hand is. In fact, all of her is, from her tiny nose to her petite features. She’s not short, but she’s not that tall either.
A height that can comfortably fit in a casket.
Crikey. I’ve done it again.
Imagining people dead. If I get to witness her funeral, I vote for her eyes to be kept open. So what if it creeps everyone else out? As long as I get to enjoy it, the world can piss off.
The softness doesn’t fool me, though. Despite her delicate appearance, this girl has over-the-top tendencies and has proven to possess balls bigger than some men.
The moment the little mouse is free, she signs furiously, her cheeks turning red with unmistakable rage. One of the perks of my genius neurons is being proficient in languages and picking them up from a very young age. I speak five fluently and a dozen more at different levels. Sign language, however, never really crossed my radar.
I don’t understand a thing Mia is trying to communicate, but I smile and nod anyway. “I gather from your expression that you’re not happy about the sharp turn of events. I’ll find the capacity to empathize when I find some fucks to give.”
She lowers her hand to the table and forces a breath in. It appears staggeringly ineffective and worse than a child’s attempt to remain calm.
With a dramatic huff, she punches her phone’s screen with nails that are painted blue—like her ribbons and sunglasses.
“Easy, tiger,” I repeat what I told her the night she dared to provoke me and promptly signed her death certificate. “It’s not the phone’s fault you’re losing in epic fashion.”
She thrusts the phone in my face. “If you dare hurt my sister, I’ll slice your throat and hang you out to dry by the balls.”
My attention shifts from the text to her when she slides her forefinger along her translucent neck that would look ethereal with a few marks. Then she squashes something imaginary—presumably my balls—in her palm and points at me.
I can feel my smile broadening as I connect my forefinger with hers. “Is this some telepathic method?”
She jerks her hand away and flips me the middle finger while wearing a sickeningly sweet smile.
One that’s meant to look not only fake but also forced.
Interesting.
Seems that Mia Sokolov has no qualms about provoking me for the fuck of it.
Seems that I’ve stumbled across someone who’s not particularly receptive of my godly personality and immaculate charm.
Then again, she wouldn’t have bathed me in blood if she were.
She plays her rook, and I block it with my queen, then place an elbow on the table and lean my head against my fist. “I’m curious.”
She types, “About how to be a better person? I can help with pointers.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. No one is curious about something that dull, and you’re far from being the person to provide any pointers.” I push my queen forward and she narrows her eyes at the unexpected move. “What I am curious about, however, is the reason behind your attack.”
Her features contort in an “Are you kidding me?” expression before she shakes her head with a huff. It looks as patronizing as a teacher who’s fed up with her problematic student.
Her attitude is eerily similar to my sister Glyndon’s whenever she tells me how done she is with my antics. But since I’m about to be twenty-four and she’s only nineteen, I get older-brother privileges.
And I’m the second King grandchild to roam the earth. Each is a different superpower in its own right.
“What?” I tap my fingers against my lips. “If it’s something I’ve done, you have to be more specific. I have no recollection whatsoever of my countless masterpieces. See, I have to delete some to leave space for the newer ones.”
She reaches into her little dress that appears to be stolen from a gothic doll, retrieves what looks like a pen, and scribbles on the screen of her phone for longer than usual.
Her handwriting, if that’s what it can be called, is tiny and messy, like a drunk ant that’s trying to find its way home after a wild night out.
“You forgot about hurting my cousin Kill? Or kidnapping my brother, which directly resulted in his injury? How could you even kidnap my brother anyway? He’s much bigger and stronger than you.”
“Strength holds no importance when he was drugged. I slipped it in his vodka, and he was none the wiser. Word of advice, don’t drink anything a stranger offers. But then again, your dear brother is a bit thick, isn’t he?”