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.