“I’m just offering innocent advice, Mum.” I grin at the screen. “I’ve got to meet a professor. Say hi to Dad and everyone.”
“Will do. Don’t cause trouble, Lan.”
“Never.”
More like I absolutely will.
I don’t cause trouble; trouble caused me.
On that note, I end another successful phone call with my mother.
When I was younger, I didn’t realize that letting one’s true nature out was taboo and could be categorized as social suicide. Especially when it’s full of antisocial bollocks.
And while I was completely fine being my beautiful, destructive self, I soon realized I was the reason behind my mother’s distress and my father’s case of epic confusion.
He tried to rein me in by being stern, which failed miserably and backfired. Then he attempted to become my friend, and that only bit him in the arse, because I thought he was giving me the green light to use him. In the end, he was left with no practical solutions to deal with me.
As a last resort, when I was ten and I nearly burned down my school, my parents took me to professionals. The group of pretentious psychiatrists and psychotherapists plugged wires to my head and asked me dumb questions.
My answers to those questions landed me the diagnosis of antisocial disorder, and a brain scan showed mine wasn’t wired like everyone else’s.
I remember the stony expression on my parents’ faces so well. They didn’t show it openly, but I could tell the news upset them beyond words.
They still took me for ice cream afterward and treated me the same. They still considered me their son, despite the fact that I felt alienated.
I was around twelve when I realized the house was in a state of shambles due to my fuck-the-world attitude. I couldn’t possibly let that state fester, now, could I?
So I’ve worn a mask since. I took the useless therapy and pretended that I could be fixed. I convinced myself, while trying not to gag, that all I needed was peace, love, and family.
That’s also when I realized people, including your own family, don’t really like you for what or who you are. It’s all about how you make them feel.
Ever since I started wearing the mask of societal standards, the few wrinkles I added to my parents’ faces have eased a little, and I’m, in a way, their favorite—when Bran isn’t channeling the saint he thinks lurks inside him.
My siblings, however, didn’t get the merciful version of my otherworldly transformation. I don’t like them making fools out of themselves, and I might have taken drastic measures to make sure they’re not acting like idiots.
What? It reflects badly on my pristine image.
I leave the art studio, and even though I’m running on more sleep deprivation than a seasoned hooker, I greet my colleagues, comment on their atrocious edgy clothes, and make small talk with my current and previous professors, who would worship me if I started a cult.
All the social interactions are a strain, painfully empty, and hold the importance of a used napkin. And yet I’m an excellent conversationalist and the holy messiah of charming others.
It all comes down to wearing the appropriate mask in the right situation and with the right people.
It still bores me to tears, though.
People as a concept have only one merit—the ability to be used. Other than that, they’re a brainless, rotten species that I like to pretend I don’t belong to.
Finally, I leave the charade of pretending I give a fuck about their fangirling and fanboying.
I grab a coffee from the nearest coffee shop, making sure I tell the owner she looks like Princess Diana on her wedding day. Complete nonsense that she gobbles up without a hint of doubt.
Then I consume my three-shot espresso in one go and dunk the cup in the bin.
My brain restarts in quick overdrive, ready for whatever I dish his way. Yes, I know too much caffeine isn’t healthy, but I’m not beneath using crutches when I need an extra boost.
Whether it’s cigarettes, coffee, or sex.
I slide into my McLaren and check my phone. After I left last night, I sent Mia a very sweet good night text.
Landon:My cock is pleased to make the acquaintance of your wet little mouth and he can’t wait to meet your cunt after my fingers made a compelling recommendation.
Landon:Oh, and good night. Have an erotic dream of me plowing into your tight little hole.
Unsurprisingly, she didn’t reply at the time.
Now, however, I find a text from her. She sent it about fifteen minutes ago, during the time I was playing my Prince Charming role to perfection.
Mia:Oh, I did dream of you all right. You were hanging from a tree by the balls and I snipped your dick off *scissors emoji* I’d be careful if I were you. My dreams usually come true.
I throw my head back in genuine laughter. This girl is, by all accounts, the most entertaining thing since playing chess with Eli or Uncle Aiden.
Maybe even more so.
Landon:Point is, you still dreamt of me. You like me that much, huh?
Her reply is immediate. Something rare.
I’m breaking that wall, brick by each brick. Once I’m done, my muse will be fully mine.
Mine to own.
Mine to use.
Mine to destroy.
Mia: The delusional police called. You’re under arrest for spreading fake news. In case that wasn’t clear, you’re the last person on earth I’d like.
Landon:And yet you choked on my cock like a good girl.
The dots appear and disappear, but her reply doesn’t come.
Landon:Lost for words?
Mia:More like I’m deciding which voodoo doll of you should I bake in the microwave.
Landon:You’re even making voodoo dolls of me. The obsession is cute. Speaking of cute, are you up to sucking my cock again? I loved your little licks and amateurish attempt at blowing me. The innocence show was such a turn-on.
Mia:No.
Landon:Does that mean you prefer I stick my cock in one of your other holes? Perhaps both?
Mia:Seriously, you need to chill for one fucking second.
Landon:Is that a no?
Mia:Of course it’s a no.
Landon:Pity. You’re missing out on my porn-worthy sex drive. Will try again tomorrow when you’re in a better mood. In the meantime, want to come over?
Mia:To your funeral? Sure. I’ll wear my worst black dress and throw a dead rat in your grave when no one is looking.
I laugh again. I can almost imagine her doing exactly that with a sly grin on her face.
She’s definitely a menace, and I’m loving every second of it.
Landon:That’s tempting, but I meant to come over to the haunted house and model for me.
Mia: No, thanks.
Landon: Your resistance is amusing to a degree, but don’t overdo it, because I could and would crush you once the right circumstances arise. Don’t make the mistake of provoking me again. We both know how it ended up the last few times.
Mia:*Middle finger emoji*
Landon:Very well.
Looks like we’re doing it my way, after all.
I’m about to throw my phone away when she sends another text.
Mia: Just what the hell do you want from me, Landon? Leave me alone.
Landon:No can do. And as for what I want, the answer is simple. I want your soul, little muse.
MIA
Itiptoe to where a familiar figure is standing by the corner of the kitchen, the only sound is the swishing of my boot chains.
Maya is completely oblivious to my presence, despite having the advantage of our twin instinct.
Her fingers clutch the wall as she hides her body and peeks around the corner, spying on God knows who.
We came over to the Heathens’ mansion for dinner and I just finished catching up with Niko and Kill, but that ended when my brother threw us out of his room so he could sleep.
On the balcony.
With his body on the chair and his feet on the railing.
Half naked.
He’s my brother, but he’s weird as fuck. I don’t remember the last time I saw him sleeping properly in a bed.
But then again, he does have trouble sleeping and can only do it in odd places and in odd positions.
I came down to tell Maya we shouldn’t wake him up for dinner if he actually falls asleep, but I found her spying in what’s considered our second home on the island.
At first, I contemplate scaring her, but I think better of it and lean sideways to see who got her attention.
Jeremy and his new senior guard, Ilya, stand by the kitchen counter. Jeremy is a few years older than us, is Nikolai’s best friend, and is possibly the only person who can stop him from launching into a full-on suicide mission.
He’s huge, handsome, grumpy, and serious to a fault. His father is a big deal in the Bratva, and Jeremy is the heir to that legacy like Nikolai is expected to take over my parents’ duties.
Mom said Maya and I can definitely have our place at the table if we want to. Maya said, “No, thanks. I have better things to do with my life.” I also prefer to be a businesswoman with my own company.
Back to the present and Maya, who’s spying on Jeremy, the Heathens’ leader and the one she’s had her claws out for. Since we were children, she’s always thought she’d make him her husband. One, she likes to vie for the strongest man in the room. Two, considering his father’s influence and wealth, he’s, in my sister’s words, a catch.
The fact that he has a girlfriend has never deterred her. When we heard about that, Maya just flipped her hair and announced—smugly, I might add—that he’ll realize his mistake and come begging at her pedicured feet.
But there are two points that contradict the fact that she’s spying on him.
One, Maya never hides. A few weeks ago, she put on her favorite perfume, walked to Jeremy with a sway in her hips, and asked him when he was going to stop making a mistake and pick her.