I’ve never been addicted to anything, so I didn’t realize how notoriously painful it is to go through withdrawal.
It’s been two weeks since Nikolai told me we were done—in a text—and I’m still not over the bursts of loneliness.
Two weeks and it’s getting worse, not better.
It’s not your common withdrawal, after all. Or maybe I’m just a newbie at this entire thing and don’t have the foggiest clue about how to handle these types of situations.
Sometimes, the pain and nausea get too much and I’m smothered by the black ink and have to purge it out.
Somehow.
Anyhow.
I’ve seen my blood more often than not in the past two weeks. The other day, I let it flow and flow until I lost consciousness in the bathroom. A part of me wished I’d never wake up.
A part of me prayed for it as I lay on the bathroom floor, my eyes blurred with moisture and my heart too tired to keep pumping life into my useless body.
My brain checked out and my thoughts came to terms with how utterly fucking tired I am.
Of myself.
Of everything.
I still am.
My brush ghosts over the canvas, adding strokes of warm colors, intertwining and mixing them until they match my hollow insides.
Art is the only thing that keeps me grounded. I don’t even go to practice anymore after I purposefully sprained my ankle.
I’m withdrawing from social circles with all sorts of excuses. Studies. Work. Pending deadlines.
I just don’t have the energy to deal with anyone or anything at the moment. But more alone time only pushes me toward bad habits.
Cutting and blood and fucking self-loathing.
I’m spiraling and I can’t stop it.
I’m falling and can’t hit the bottom.
My hand trembles and the plaster that I covered with my thick watch burns. The injury tingles and my blood pumps into the barely healing cut.
The doomsday feeling racks my brain and saliva floods the inside of my mouth.
Tick.
You’re so fucking weak.
Tick.
A disgrace.
Tick.
Fucking useless.
The brush falls from between my shaky fingers and hits the floor, leaving an orange stroke on the plastic.
I open the drawer to my right and grab my Swiss Army knife almost on autopilot. If I just open it one more time, no one will know.
If I just purge the black ink surrounding me, I won’t feel trapped in my own skin and it’ll be over.
Except that I repeated those same words the last five fucking times I did this. Five times in the span of two weeks. Five.
Bloody hell. I’m losing control.
And yet my fingers wrap around the handle and I remove my watch and then place it on the table. I peel off the plaster and stare at the dark-red skin. The last time I did this, the cut was so deep, I lost a lot of blood. I thought it’d never heal and I’d need stitches.
The skin mended itself back together again, fruitlessly hoping for closure, for healing, like a fucking masochist.
The first time I cut myself was by accident when I was shaving at seventeen. I watched the tiny droplet of blood rolling down my jaw and neck and felt an immense sense of relief.
It was the first time I looked at myself for a solid minute without feeling the need to smash the mirror.
So I became a bit careless with my shaving and cut myself here and there just to see more of my blood. The harder the blood flowed, the more the black ink receded.
But I didn’t do it often. I was extremely careful not to make my parents suspicious. So when Dad joked that maybe he should teach me how to shave again, I stopped doing those small nicks on my face and neck.
I started shaving down there and cutting between my thighs where no one could see. I would sit in the bathtub and watch the blood trickling out of me, close my eyes and suck in clean air.
After I started uni, I began cutting my wrist, but only in the exact same spot, drawing over the three lines that could be hidden by a watch.
But I didn’t let myself do that often, either. No more than once a month, maybe. When the nausea constricted my throat and I couldn’t breathe without gagging on the black ink.
When it hurts to the point I can’t exist within my own fucking skin.
The frequency hiked up in the past couple of weeks to the point that I can’t control it anymore.
When I was with Nikolai, I didn’t do it, because he was awfully perceptive. He could sense something was wrong with my hand and arm and kept asking about it for weeks. I kid you not, he would be like, “By the way, how did you hurt your hand? It looks serious.”
Considering all the sex, I didn’t dare cut my thighs, and the weird part is that I wasn’t really overwhelmed by the urge to see my blood.
It was manageable, until it wasn’t.
Until now, where I’m fantasizing about cutting my fucking wrist off.
“Hon…please. I’m so worried about you. Please talk to me. Tell me something. Anything.”
Mum’s words from earlier rush into the fog and I release a shaky exhale. I told her I loved her and then hung up, because I couldn’t deal with the pain in her voice.
Dad called me and I didn’t pick up, because hearing the concern in his voice would undo me. It scares me that I’m the disappointment who’s nothing like him in any shape or form. He might have been strict with Lan, but, really, that’s because he reminds him of his younger self.
I’m the fucking anomaly who only ever caused my parents’ concern. A fucking hurricane of disappointment and failed potential.
A vibration pulls me out of the trance and I blink twice, then reach for the phone with my injured hand, slightly trembling, my heart lodged in my throat.
Over the past couple of weeks, my coping method to get over the never-ending withdrawal was texting myself as if I were texting Nikolai.
I have enough pride to not contact him after he dumped me, but it didn’t hurt to send those texts to myself. Pretending it was him. At least, that way, I got to express what I felt in words.
Daft words like:
Why did you come into my life if you were going to leave?
Why did you make me addicted to you if you didn’t plan to stay?
If I say I’m sorry will you come back?
You were never a booty call. I don’t even do those. And I’m the fucking toy, not you.
I don’t even like running anymore. You ruined it like everything else. Fucking bastard. Fuck you.
I’m messed up, Nikolai. Extremely so. You should be glad to have dodged a bullet.
I hate myself. Why don’t you hate me, too?
Oh, right. You do now. Finally. Congrats on the wake-up call. Better late than never.
Are you back with Simon and your other friends with benefits? Did you find a replacement already?
That last thought often crams me down the black hole of my mind and I can’t shake it off, no matter how much I try to.
I’ve seen Nikolai in the fight club a couple of times, mainly because I can’t handle not looking at him anymore, but I always leave before he takes notice of me.
Just like I wrote those texts to myself instead of him.
But here’s the thing.
Last night, I got hammered with Remi, and when I came back to my room, I was on edge. So I went through Nikolai’s chaotic Instagram, which he fills with the most random nonsense.
It’s a habit I indulge in lately and it helps to quiet down the demons. At least, for a while.
Around ten thirty, which is when I usually go to the penthouse, he posted a picture of the telly on a scene from the nightly murder mysteries. The hashtags were #Watching #Alone
My heart revived from the ashes at that moment, but only for a fraction of a second before I saw all the comments from men and women thirsting over him and offering to accompany him. Including fucking Simon.
You can watch me, Daddy 😉
So remember the part where I was drunk? I wasn’t thinking straight, so I kind of texted him.
ME
Do you miss me?
I kept pacing my room back and forth, waiting for his reply. My mind, heart, and fucking body were a mess of epic proportions. I wanted to drive to the penthouse and see him.
I wanted to throw away whoever he’d invited to our space.
But I would’ve definitely gotten into an accident if I’d driven in that state, and while I couldn’t give two flying fucks about my life, I wouldn’t endanger other people’s lives.
He replied after a whole two minutes, even though he read it immediately.
NIKOLAI
Who’s this?
My heart plummeted and I stopped in the middle of my room, staring at the text as if it were a knife that had plunged itself into my chest and protruded through my back.
Maybe I read the post wrong. He’s already moved on and I’m the one stuck in this fucking prison of my own making.
ME
Wrong number. Sorry.
I was about to throw down my phone and indulge in my self-destructive hobby, but it vibrated in my hand.
He was calling me.
I swear I never felt so shaken up as when I swiped up and placed the phone to my ear.
“Why the fuck—” He inhaled sharply and I felt the vibration of his voice in my ear.
Then I stopped breathing altogether as if that would make me hear him better.
“It’s obviously not the wrong fucking number. What the fuck do you want from me, Brandon?” His tone warred with calm, but I could hear the agitation beneath it.
I smiled and closed my eyes briefly in relief as I listened to his breaths and soaked in his voice. He didn’t forget me or delete my number.
“You never call me by my full name,” I whispered. “I don’t like it when you do.”
“I don’t give a fuck what you like. I don’t give a fuck about you or how you’re doing. I told you we’re fucking done, so stay the fuck away from me.”
“But I don’t want to,” I threw his words back at him, too drunk to care about how desperate I sounded.
“What the fuck did you just say?”
“I don’t want to. You obviously don’t want to, either, or you wouldn’t be talking to me. You’re that obsessed with me, huh?”
“I’m so over your bullshit.”
“Liar. You can’t stay away from me, Niko.” I used another one of his sentences. “You know you want me. No matter what I do, you come crawling back to me.”
He hung up then, and I cursed myself for the overconfident tone I used when, really, I just wanted to hear his voice, even angry and wrong. Even if he was calling me by my full name, it was still his voice that I’d spent way too long without.
Then I went to bed, imagining his strong arms encircling me and his chest beneath my head.
For some reason, I thought he’d text me today and had my hopes up when I felt the vibration just now, but it’s not his name that’s on the screen.
DAD
Call me as soon as possible, Bran. No matter how hard it is, I want you to remember that you have a family who loves you and would stand behind you no matter what. You’re not alone, son. Okay?
Pressure builds behind my eyes and I let the Swiss Army knife fall to the table, then rub the heels of my palms against my eyes.
I don’t think he knows how much I needed to hear that. Or maybe he does. Dad has always been really good at reading the atmosphere and providing me with the right support at the right time.
ME
What’s normal, Dad? And please don’t call. I don’t want to talk on the phone.
DAD
Normal is whatever you decide it is.
What if my notion of normal is drastically different from everyone else’s? I don’t like being different. I hate it. I can’t cope with it.
Bran, listen. Society’s perception of normal is a learned concept. It’s an opinion that was passed down through generations until it eventually became a tradition. It’s rooted in people’s minds because it’s been taught for a long time, but fundamentally, it’s just an opinion. It means nothing just because people conform to it. You being different is fucking fantastic, son. You’ve risen above their sheep mentality and you can choose to be proud of your difference instead of hating it. It might take time to shake off society’s perceptions, but that’s okay. I’m here. Your mum is here. Your whole family is here to help you. All you have to do is say the words.
I don’t want to be different, Dad. I want to be like Lan. Why can’t I just be like him?
Lan is different, too, Bran. He’s so different, it drives me insane. He’s so different, he wears it like a badge of honor. You know this. He’s literally been diagnosed with narcissistic and antisocial personality disorder.
Yeah, but he seems normal.
Because he fakes it.
I fake it, too, but I don’t tell him that.
ME
Thanks, Dad. I’ll talk to you later.
DAD
Come over when you can. I have a lot of new recipes to teach you.
I send him a few heart emojis and then hide the knife, add a new plaster, and put on my watch.
On my way out of the studio, I congratulate myself for stepping back from the edge. Though it was all Dad’s work, really.
But for how long can I keep up this façade before it explodes in my face…?
Loud voices reach me as soon as I’m close to the living room. Lan—of course, he’s ninety-nine percent the reason behind all trouble—Eli, and surprisingly, Creigh, who barely speaks.
He’s shouting now.
“What’s with all the commotion—what the…” I trail off when I see Creigh beating Lan to a pulp against the sofa.
I storm toward them, but Eli grabs me by the nape and pulls me back. “This isn’t your place.”
“What the actual hell? Lan’s bleeding.”
“Aw. You worried about me? I should’ve asked Creigh to beat me up earlier.” My brother can barely speak, teeth bloodied, but he drops a hand on his chest. “So touched, I could cry.”
I wiggle against Eli’s hand, but my cousin keeps me in a death grip while Creigh continues punching my brother.
“Stop them!” I bark at Eli. “Why are you letting this happen?”
“Your brother needs to be put in his fucking place.”
“He’s going to kill him!”
“Small price to pay for all the fuckery he does.”
My heart lunges harder the more Creigh beats Lan. The sound of his punches echoes in the air like a haunting symphony of violence. The fact that I can’t help fills my throat with nausea.
Through it all, Lan steals peeks at me and even winks. Fucking twat.
Lan and I are different and I’ve always suffered from an inferiority complex when it comes to him. Where he’s the god, I’m the unknown peasant.
Where he excels at everything and makes a show of it, I excel at everything silently.
One would think his actions would make me hate him, but I don’t. Seeing him hurt is no different than me being punched in the gut.
I’m thrown back to the first and only time Lan ever begged as he held me close while I cried in his chest.
“Please, Bran, please! Tell me what’s fucking wrong.”
Though that happened during the darkest time in my life, his words and his hug are my favorite memories.
That was almost eight years ago, and no matter how we change, whenever I look at Lan, I see his face from when we were fifteen as he kept me together.
So I always want to keep him together as well, even if he puts himself in the worst fucking situations.
I have no doubt that he wronged Creigh in some way. He wouldn’t hit Lan for no reason.
Is this because of that fire at the Heathens’?
I’m about to hit Eli and go to Lan’s aid when Remi walks in, stops at the entrance, and stares at the scene while blinking several times. “Not sure what type of freak show—or kink, not shaming—you King men are into, but I have a serious question. Am I too drunk or is there actually a guy tied up in our basement?”
I go still in Eli’s hold, that doomsday feeling trickling back to my mind. “A guy is tied up in our basement?”
“Sure as fuck, and if I’m not too drunk, then I’m pretty sure it’s Nikolai Sokolov.”
My lips part.
My heart falls.
What the fuck—
“That’s the surprise I kept for you, Cray Cray.” Landon grins like evil incarnate. “He’s your path to vengeance. Told you I had everything figured out.”
I came up with a plan to save Nikolai.
I don’t give two flying fucks about Creighton’s need for vengeance against Jeremy. Which is the reason behind this whole thing, as Eli explained.
Lan used Creigh in one of his games and concealed information about his past.
A past that Jeremy’s family has to do with.
To make up for his shenanigans, Lan concocted a plan to lure Jeremy into our house. And what’s better than using his best friend as bait?
Apparently, Lan managed to drug Nikolai, which is how he could transport him and lock him up in the basement.
I know I said I don’t hate Lan, but I’d really love to punch him in the face for all the rubbish he keeps pulling.
The thought of Nikolai drugged and tied up for my family’s entertainment sobered me up immediately.
I spent the whole night and half a day trying to think of how to get him out of here unscathed.
The problem is, Lan and Eli have strictly forbidden me from getting close to the basement since, well, they know I won’t stand by.
I asked Remi for help and he categorically refused to get involved in whatever this is.
“Mate, Lan is your brother, so he won’t hurt you no matter what you do. I, on the other hand, could be skinned alive. And that psycho Eli is also in on this. Hell no, I’m just going to lock myself in my room and watch porn. Thank you very much.”
So I went on my own to the electricity generator room, studied the blueprint, and managed to cut the power in the basement, where they’re keeping Nikolai.
That way, the cameras won’t work.
Then I stole the key from Lan while he was taking a shower, fetched a knife and a flashlight from the kitchen, and snuck to the basement.
Once I arrive in front of the door, I search my surroundings before I unlock it and slip inside.
My heart beats so loud in my chest, I barely manage to keep my hand steady as I’m overwhelmed by his scent, his presence, just him.
I’ve always frozen up when I’m in a state of shock, and that happened more often than not when I was with Nikolai.
His massive unconscious body lolls on a chair in the empty room.
Thick ropes swirl around his chest and dig into his inky arms, binding him to the chair, and his head is slumped forward, his hair camouflaging his face. It’s longer now, wavier.
My fingers twitch, wanting—no, needing—to touch it again, feel it, see if it’ll still bring me peace like it used to.
I can’t stop it. Even if I know I shouldn’t do it. Even if I’m sure this is just a recipe for disaster.
My hand moves of its own accord as I sink my unsteady fingers in his hair and glide it back.
The moment I see his face again this close, I want to throw away my pride, fall between his knees, and beg him to take me back.
I want to kiss his lips and feast on his tongue.
Two weeks without him has been a fucking eternity. I didn’t care before him, but after him, it’s torture to go day in and day out without his touch.
Survive without his presence, his flirtatious nature, and his clingy texts.
Without his grins and his daft jokes.
Without…him.
I stroke my fingers in his hair and contemplate kissing him. Just once.
No one will know—
He releases a groan, the sound vibrating and striking me in the chest. I let him go and pull at the hair on the back of my neck to keep my hand busy and stop me from touching his cheek, or, worse, actually kissing him.
Nikolai opens his unfocused eyes, pupils dilated, probably because of the drug Lan gave him.
My heart thunders so hard behind my chest, I’m surprised he doesn’t hear it.
“Lotus flower…? What are you doing here?”
My hand stops its incessant pulling and I swear I’ve never felt so relieved as when he called me that instead of my real name. But then again, his speech is slurred, so maybe he’s still drugged and doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
I let my hand fall from my nape and fetch my knife, then start cutting the rope, trying to remain composed, to not actually stroke every slope of his muscles as I speak in my signature detached tone. “You’re the one who came into my house. You just couldn’t stay away?”
I feel the rumble of Nikolai’s chest against my hands and make out his grin from the corner of my eye as he drops his voice. “How else would I see you so adorably worried about me?”
“I am not worried about you, and don’t fucking call me adorable again.”
“Wow. The posh boy can curse.”
“Shut it or I’ll leave you to my brother’s and cousins’ nonexistent mercy.”
“If I’d known I’d see this side of you, I would’ve gotten myself kidnapped long ago.”
I stare at him, my chest aching and my heart begging for something. Anything. “Are you insane?”
Nikolai rolls a shoulder. “Probably.”
I puff out a long sigh. “I’ll release you and leave the back door open, and you’ll have to find your own way out.”
“No.”
The new voice makes me freeze and I start panicking. How long has he been there?
I straighten and slowly turn around. “Creigh.”
Shit.
This whole thing is happening because of his revenge. I need to get Nikolai out of here. Now.
I have a terrible feeling about this.
Still turned sideways, I cut on Nikolai’s ropes, trying to keep my movements as minimal as possible.
Creigh, however, notices and barks, “Step back.”
“This isn’t right and you know it—”
“Step the fuck back, Bran. I won’t repeat myself another time.”
I do, letting my hand with the knife fall to my side as I face my cousin.
“Get out,” he orders.
This isn’t like him. He’s blinded by revenge and isn’t even seeing me. I’m the only person he actually seeks for company, because we’re both comfortable with silence and don’t feel the need to fill it.
He’s easygoing and prefers sleep over anything else, but he also fights and takes after the King genes more than I do.
This is the first time I’ve seen Creigh so unhinged and out of control. I’m worried Nikolai will be caught up in the madness he’s planning with Eli and Lan.
And that sparks a loathsome feeling inside me.
Fear.
The need to protect him beats under my skin like an urge.
“Listen…” I take a step toward Creigh. “I know you feel the need for revenge, but this whole thing is wrong.”
“No one asked for your opinion. Stay out of this.”
“I won’t allow you to throw your life away for parents you’ve never known and a past you’re better off without, Creighton.” I speak in a firm tone. “I’m letting Nikolai go and then we’ll talk about this. Rationally.”
I turn toward Nikolai and I feel like I’m melting when I find him looking at me with those hooded eyes.
I’m sorry, I say with mine. For everything.
I grab the ropes, but a blow lands at the back of my head, and the world is pulled from beneath my feet.
The last thing I see is Nikolai’s wide eyes as I fall on top of him. But I manage to slip the knife between his thighs so he can save himself.
Or at least, I think I do.
My last thought is just how much I’ve missed his smell. Maybe losing consciousness isn’t so bad after all if I get to hug him.
