Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 170885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
By the time the fight finishes with the absolute destruction of my cousin, the crowd is going wild. My name echoes and reverberates, but the thrill doesn’t touch my skin.
Nothing fucking does.
I storm to the locker room, my shoulders tense and my throat dry. Every swallow feels as if I’m slowly cutting at my insides, curling and twisting them into a huge pool of fucked-up red.
Whenever my mind goes into overdrive, violence is usually enough to root me back in place. Not this time.
This time, I want out of my fucking head.
My fist slams into the locker, leaving a huge dent in the metal, and I breathe harshly, my exhales rebounding around me like animalistic growls.
A light catches my attention in the corner and I pick up my phone to find a string of texts from none other than my lotus flower. My heart beats faster, harder, tugging at the strings that are keeping it in place.
The first text arrived soon after I left the locker room for the match.
Bran
I heard you’re going to fight tonight. Can you not?
Okay, listen. I didn’t mean to ignore you. It’s just that I didn’t know what to say. It’s weird to ask a guy to fuck me.
I don’t mean you’re weird. Really, I don’t. Though you are. But that’s not the point. What I’m trying to say is that you’re not weird for your sexuality. I apologize if it came out that way. I just meant that it feels weird to me. I’m not used to this.
I’ll come to your place tonight. If you want. Just don’t fight, please.
He stopped texting after that and probably got his ass here.
His next texts appeared just now.
Bran
So you did fight and you looked like you were enjoying yourself. Should I take that as a no?
You know what? I’m going to your place. You’re the one who said this was a date.
Ah, fuck.
Fuck it.
Fuck. Me.
I know I should be pushing him away. I really, really should. But he’s so fucking irresistible.
Looks like my lotus flower will meet the crazy Nikolai.
God save his soul.
Or, more accurately, his body.
16
BRANDON
Maybe I should leave.
That’s the dozenth time I’ve had that thought since I invited myself to Nikolai’s penthouse.
After I left my Tesla in the car park, I contemplated not actually invading his place. That’s just rude.
But the other option was to wait in the reception area, where anyone could walk in and see me.
Not happening.
Getting myself in was safer. If he’s mad about that, then, well, maybe he should’ve changed the code.
Or not asked me to come here ten times a day like a mantra.
Still, I’m uncomfortable as I sit on the sofa, my uneasy breaths only interrupted by the creaks of the leather beneath me.
His place is proper huge compared to the rest of the flats on the island and would definitely be considered a penthouse anywhere in London.
The decor is modern, slick, and polished. Everything is in perfect shape and the decorations seem untouched, probably because it’s a new building. I don’t think he lives here most of the time, though, considering the lack of life anywhere in this place.
Feeling a bit stuffy, I shrug off my jacket and place it neatly on the chair’s armrest. I’d rather hang it instead, but I don’t want it to feel like I’m taking liberties in his space.
I removed my shoes at the entrance as well so as not to track in any dirt.
The other day, I was a bit too preoccupied to remember my manners. Not that I’m in a better state of mind today, but he’s not here so…
I run a hand over my face and stare up at the cloudy sky through the transparent ceiling. What am I doing, seriously?
This will inevitably lead to a disaster that will undoubtedly push me to purge the pain.
This will hurt. Again.
This will make the black ink submerge me and shove me to the darkest corners of my soul.
And yet I can’t move.
I don’t want to.
I lift my phone and stare at the texts I sent Nikolai. My chest constricts when I see that he read them, but he didn’t reply.
What does that mean?
He never ignores my texts, aside from when he ghosted me. This morning was the first time he didn’t glue himself to my side despite my grumbles and attempts to push him away. In fact, he didn’t show up at all.
Maybe he’s done chasing me. He definitely didn’t seem that interested in me when Jeremy was all over him between rounds of the fight.
Bloody hell.
I cover my eyes with my arm. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can’t I remove the image of Jeremy touching him so intimately from my head?
In fact, that was part of the reason why I left the fight club. The first part was being unable to watch him being punched by Killian. Even if he punched back twice as hard.