It’s a bright red Aston Martin that appears to be a custom—something my uncle would collect in his motor collection.
The driver’s door flings open and a larger-than-life shadow staggers out of it.
My heart stops when he drags his fingers through his hair, his jaw clenching. “Last I checked, we had a ride to go on, didn’t we?”
GLYNDON
Red drips onto the concrete.
Dark.
Ominous.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
I follow the direction from which the blood is pouring and pause.
Killian still wears the red shorts and has thrown on a black T-shirt. His muscles flex, but he doesn’t appear to be cold, or in pain due to the bruise peeking from his arm or the cut on his lip.
That’s from where the blood drips, smearing his chin and collarbone.
“Get in the car,” he orders with complete assurance.
Someone honks because the crazy bastard stopped in the middle of the street, but Killian doesn’t pay them attention.
I shake my head and try to bypass him.
“I can always go back in there and pick up where I left off. The only difference is that you’ll regret the decision once your precious Creighton ends up in a body cast.”
My fists clench. “Don’t.”
“I heard he doesn’t tap out. So maybe he’ll be hooked to a machine in a hospital next time you see him.”
“Stop it!”
“Get in the fucking car, Glyndon.”
The guy honks again and while Killian doesn’t seem to hear him, the sensory overload nearly drives me up the wall.
“Get out of the way, motherfucker!” the guy screams from the window in an American accent.
Once Killian stares at him, he swallows and reverses, then hits a rubbish can on his escape route.
“You have until the count of three. If you don’t get in the car, I’m going back to Creighton.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Three.”
The bastard didn’t even count.
He slides back into his car, and I don’t let my brain think as I throw the passenger door open and get inside.
I’m breathing harshly, my skin crawling and my heart about to leap out of my skin. It isn’t normal that I’m on an emotional upheaval whenever I’m in his orbit.
One hand on the steering wheel, the other casually lying by his side, he faces me. “That wasn’t so hard.”
I glare at him and cross my arms over my chest. “For your information, I still don’t trust you. In fact, I distrust you even more now that you proved you’re not only prone to violence, but you’d also threaten my family with it.”
“All humans are prone to violence. I just have better control over it.”
“You don’t sound so convincing with blood dripping all over your face.”
“Worried about me, baby?”
“You’d be bleeding out and I wouldn’t even notice. In fact, I’d use the blood to mix colors on my palette.”
“Ouch.” His voice drops. “Though you’re such a horrible liar. You looked as pale as a ghost when I was being punched.”
“I dislike violence, so it’s not about you. I would’ve reacted that way to anyone.”
“I choose to believe that you felt especially aggravated because it’s me.”
“That’s called delusional.”
“Semantics.” He reaches for the glovebox and I push against the leather of the seat.
The squeaking sound fills the interior and I whisper, “What are you doing?”
Killian grabs a tissue and smiles. Or more like smirks. “Don’t worry, I won’t bite you.” He wipes the blood, smudging it all over his mouth further before making it go away. “Yet.”
The engine revs and I startle when I’m physically flung back against the seat as he speeds forward. My mind races with endless possibilities about where the hell he’s taking me while I fasten my seatbelt and hold on to it for dear life.
Logically, the northern side of the island isn’t that big. Aside from the two campuses, there’s downtown, shops, a library, and some restaurants and hotspots that the students frequent.
So he can’t kidnap and kill me around here.
Still not a reassuring thought, though.
“I figured you’d be a good girl.”
My eyes leave the road and focus on him. He motions at my seatbelt that I’m digging my nails in.
“It’s for safety.”
“Don’t worry. I’m an excellent driver.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “I’m sure you are. I bet you’re good at everything.”
“Pretty much. I’m good at what I’m interested in.”
“And what are you interested in?” I sound nonchalant enough that it flies under the radar.
Because I’m changing gears here.
I can’t just keep getting blindsided by him and thrown around like a helpless doll. I need to somehow make the first move.
If my previous interactions with Killian are of any indication, then I’m sure he’s on the antisocial spectrum. Like Lan—maybe even worse.
Because while he’s a beast to the world, my brother chooses to spare us. The keyword being chooses. Because Lan can become insufferable when he’s bored. It’s why we stay away from him—it’s just impossible to figure out what goes on in his unpredictable head.
And if Lan is of any indication, then like him, Killian must have an obsession. A stimulus. A need for something to keep his tendencies regulated.
For my brother, it’s sculpting. He became a more socially accepted being after focusing on his art. The only time we voluntarily approach Lan is after he exits his art studio.
It’s when he’s the most elated, somewhat normal, and even jokes with us.
I choose to think that Lan would never be as subhuman as Killian, though. I choose to think that deep down, my brother cares about our parents and us.
Back at RES, he beat up a bunch of entitled kids who called Bran a fag. He came home bloodied, but those kids had to be admitted to the A&E.
He also slashed the tires of a teacher who called my painting mediocre and told her she had no business judging me when she was a tasteless, talentless piece of rubbish herself.
Bran says Lan only does those things to protect his own image that we’re an extension of. But I’m not as pessimistic as he is.
Anyway, I need to figure out what makes Killian tick and try to counter it.
“For now, you.”
I swallow at his neutral tone as he keeps his attention on the road. He’s speeding, the lights and trees blurring in my peripheral vision, but I’m unable to focus on that right now.
“Why would you be interested in me?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“The fact that we don’t know each other? Oh, and you assaulted me the first time we met.”
“As I said, I saved you. You should learn to become more grateful.”
“That was assault, Killian.”
“Call it whatever you like.” He tilts his head in my direction, a dark gleam shining in his eyes. “By the way, I like the sound of my name on your lips.”
“Then you won’t be hearing it anymore.”
“You know, defying me every step of the way will only tire you. It could be so much better and easier if you enjoy this and try to free yourself.”
“And let me guess, I’ll have to give in to your every whim?”
“It’s highly recommended.”
“I would rather choke to death.”
“I can make that happen, but I prefer feeling that wild pulse in your neck.”
My palms turn sweaty and I rub them against the sides of my shorts. There’s no need to guess if these are casual words or not, because I have no doubt that this psycho would make them come true.
He’s really unhinged.
“You should work on quitting that habit.” He motions at my palms that are slowly going up and down. “It gives away your discomfort. Or is it anxiety? Maybe nervousness? Or the three combined?”
It hits me then.
If he’s like Lan, then he doesn’t process emotions like the rest of us. It’s not only about a lack of empathy for these guys. They literally don’t see emotions through the same lenses as normal people.
Almost every single socially acceptable emotion they have to portray is gradually learned through their environment. Little by little, they perfect their outer image to the point where they’re indistinguishable in a crowd.
But if anyone gets close, close enough to see behind the façade, they find out just how dysfunctional, how cardboard they are.
How…lonely they actually get.
Lan has never liked how Bran and I get along—how alike we are—because he can’t fit in with us. He thinks he reigns over us, but I’ve almost always pitied his lone wolf status.
He’ll never know how to love properly, laugh properly, experience joy, or even feel pain properly.
He’s a mash of molecules, atoms, and matter with complete and utter emptiness for which he needs constant stimuli to keep filled up to the brim.
Like a house of cards, he can scatter at any second.
He’ll never live like the rest of us.
And neither will Killian.
I just feel zero sympathy for this bastard.
And that’s why I can provoke him.
“Giving away my emotions is my business. At least I have those unlike a certain someone.”
“Is this the part where I should act offended? Maybe try to shed a tear or two?”
“Yeah, and look into ways to grow a heart while you’re at it.”
“The world won’t function correctly if all of us are emotional, morally right creatures. There needs to be a balance, or else there’ll be chaos.”
“Are you kidding me? You guys are the ones who instigate chaos.”
“Organized chaos is different from anarchy. I choose to uphold society’s standards by reigning over it instead of ruining it.” He pauses. “And who are you guys?”
I huff but say nothing.
He taps a finger against the steering wheel. “I asked you a question, Glyndon.”
“I obviously refuse to answer.”
A large hand falls on my bare thigh. The touch is callous and so possessive that my skin erupts in a wild heat.
“As much as I like your fight, there are situations where you should read the atmosphere and not defy me.”
I grab his wrist, attempting to remove his hand, but it’s like I’m pushing a wall. It’s scary how much strength he has and how weak and fragile I feel in his presence.
It’s impossible to stop his fingers from sneaking up my skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. There’s pure command in the way he touches me with dripping control, as if I’m a conquest he’s set on finishing off.