I don’t know how I drive home.
There’s definitely crying and some blurry vision as I strangle the steering wheel. But the persistent feeling is the constant need to follow in Devlin’s footsteps and just hit the gas to the nearest cliff.
I shake my head.
Thinking about Devlin under the current situation is about the worst step I can take.
The best step I take, however, is stopping across from a police station with the intention to report what just happened.
One thing stops me from opening my car’s door. What evidence do I have?
Besides, I’d rather die than have my family battle a media war for my sake. Yes, Dad and Grandpa, and even my mum, would probably shred the stranger to pieces and be willing to battle all types of wars for me if they knew.
But I’m not like them.
I’m not antagonistic and I sure as hell don’t want them to be in the spotlight because of me.
I just can’t do that.
And I’m so damn tired. I’ve been tired for months, and this will only add to the weight that has been perching on my shoulders.
Mum will be so disappointed in me if she hears that her little girl is covering for a predator. She raised me with the motto of holding my head up. She raised me to be a strong woman like herself and my late grandma.
But she doesn’t need to know about this.
It’s not that I’m covering up for him. I’m not. I won’t make any excuses for him. I won’t consider it anything less than what it is.
However, it’ll remain buried between me and myself. Just like everything about Devlin.
Is justice that important? Not when I have to sacrifice my peace of mind for it.
I’ve already dealt with a lot of things on my own. What’s another thing to add to the list?
I finally arrive at my family home with a heavy soul and a shredded heart. The blue hues of early dusk start descending over the vast property as the huge gate closes behind me. The door creaks with a haunting sound, and the fog forming in the distance doesn’t help in diminishing the spookiness of the scene.
I step out of my car and freeze, staring behind me. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and my limbs start shaking uncontrollably.
What if that crazy bastard followed me here?
What if he hurts my family?
If he so much as poses a threat to them, I’ll become homicidal. No doubt about it.
I might be ready to move past what he did to me, but it’s different when my loved ones are involved. I swear I’ll go mental.
Long moments tick by as I inspect my surroundings with my fists clenched by my sides. Only after I’ve made sure I didn’t actually bring a rabid dog with me do I start heading inside.
Mum and Dad made this house so big, imposing, but with enough warmth to feel like a home.
The building stretches over a large piece of land on the outskirts of London. The wooden gazebo that sits in the middle of the garden is filled with multiple paintings from our childhood.
The stars I drew when I was around three appear grotesque and absolutely appalling compared to the ones my brothers painted. I don’t want to look at them or be hit with that inferiority complex.
Not now.
So I remove my shoes and sneak down to the basement. It’s where our art studios are.
Right next to a world-renowned artist’s.
Anyone in the art circuit knows the name Astrid Clifford King, or they’d recognize her signature, Astrid C. King. Her sketches have captured the hearts of critics and galleries all over the world, and she’s often asked to attend as a guest of honor at an opening here and an exclusive event there.
My mum was the reason behind my and my brothers’ artistic tendencies. Landon is damn effortless about it. Brandon is meticulous.
Me?
I’m chaotic to the point that I don’t understand it sometimes.
I don’t belong to their inner circle.
My hand trembles as I open the door leading to the studios Dad had built for us when the twins were ten.
Lan and Bran share the big one, and I have a much smaller one. I used to hang with them in my early teens, but their talent crushed my soul and I spent months unable to paint anything.
So my mum asked Dad to build me a separate one so I could have more privacy. No clue if she figured that out by herself or if Bran confided in her, but it didn’t make much of a difference. At least I didn’t have to be slammed by their genius and feel smaller every day.
In reality, I shouldn’t even compare myself to them. Not only are they older than me, but we’re also so different. Lan is a sculptor, a hardcore sadist who can and will make his subjects into stones if he gets a chance.
Bran, on the other hand, is a painter of landscapes and anything that doesn’t include humans, animals, or whatever has eyes.
I’m…a painter, too. I guess. A sketcher and a dabbler in contemporary impressionism. I’m just not as defined as my siblings.
And definitely not as technical or talented.
Still, the only place I want to be right now is the small nook in my art studio.
My hand feels cold and stiff as I open the door and step inside. The automatic lights illuminate the blank canvas lining the walls.
Mum often asks where I hide my paintings, but she never pushes me to show them, even though they’re just in the closet on the far wall where no one can find them.
I’m not ready to let anyone see that part of me.
This part of me.
Because I can feel the darkness shimmering under the surface. That suffocating urge to let it consume me, eat me from the inside out and just purge everything.
My fingers tremble as I pick up the can of black paint and splash it on the biggest canvas available. It smudges all the others, but I pay it no attention as I grab another can and another until it’s all black.
Then I get my palette, my red colors, my palette knives, and my large brushes. I don’t think about it as I create bold strokes of red, then I kill the red with the black. I even use the ladder, sliding it from one end to the other to reach the highest point on the canvas.
I go at it for what seems like ten minutes when it’s actually a lot longer. By the time I step down from the ladder and slide it away, I think I’ll collapse.
Or dissolve.
Or maybe I could just go back to that cliff and let the lethal waves finish the job.
I’m panting, my heart pounding in my ears, and my eyes are about to bleed the same red on the painting I just finished.
This can’t be.
This…just can’t be.
Why the hell would I paint this…this symphony of violence?
I can almost feel that raw touch on my heated skin. I can feel his breath over me, his control, and how he took it from me in return. I can see him in front of me with those dead eyes, tall like the devil and with the same imposing presence, his way of taking everything from me.
I can almost hear his mocking voice and his effortless manner of speech.
I can even smell him—something woodsy and raw that causes my air to get stuck at the back of my throat.
My fingers slide to my neck to where he touched me—no, choked me—when a zap slashes through my body and I drop my hand, startled.
What the hell am I doing?
What happened earlier was obscure, disturbing, and absolutely not something I should paint with these raw details.
I’ve never even drawn anything this big before.
Wrapping my arms around my middle, I’m about to hunch over from the assaulting pain.
Shit.
I think I’m going to throw up.
“Wow.”
The low word coming from behind me startles me and I flinch as I turn my head to face my brother.
The more approachable of the twins—thankfully.
Brandon stands near the door, wearing khaki shorts and a white shirt. His hair, a realistic imitation of dark chocolate, flies in all directions, as if he just rolled out of bed and landed in my studio.
He throws a finger in the general direction of my horror-esque canvas. “You did that?”
“No. I mean, yeah…maybe. I don’t know. I certainly wasn’t in my right mind.”
“Isn’t that the state of mind all artists strive for?” His eyes soften. They’re so blue, so light, so passionate, like Dad’s. So troubled, too.
Ever since he developed that strong aversion to eyes, Brandon hasn’t been the same.
It takes him a few steps to reach my side and wrap an arm around my shoulder. My brother is about four years older than me and it shows in every contour of his face. In every sure step he takes.
In every calculated move.
Bran has always been orange to me—warm, deep, and one of my favorite colors.
He doesn’t speak for a moment, silently eyeing the painting. I don’t dare to look at it or how he studies it.
I almost don’t dare to breathe as his hand lies nonchalantly on my shoulder like whenever we need each other’s company.
Bran and I have always been a team against the tyrant Lan.
“It’s…absolutely fantastic, Glyn.”
I stare at him from beneath my lashes. “Are you teasing me?”
“I wouldn’t do that about art. I didn’t know you were hiding this talent from us.”
I would rather call this a disaster, a manifestation of my fucked-up muse, than talent.
It can be anything but talent.
“Wait till Mum sees this. She’ll have a blast.”
“No.” I step away from him, the reassurances from earlier fading into terror. “I don’t want to show her… Please, Bran, not Mum.”
She’ll know.
She’ll see the violation in the bold strokes and the chaotic lines.
“Hey…” Bran pulls my shaking body into a hug. “It’s okay. If you don’t want Mum to see, I won’t tell her.”
“Thanks.” I bury my face in his chest, and I must dirty his clothes with all the oil paint, but I don’t release him.
Because for the first time since the ordeal, I can finally let go.
I feel safe from everything.
My own head included.
My fingers dig into my brother’s back and he holds me. Silently.
This is why I love Bran the most. He knows how to be an anchor. He knows how to be a brother.
Unlike Lan.
After a while, we break apart, but he doesn’t allow me to leave. Instead, he perches down to stare at me. “What is it, little princess?”
That’s what Dad calls me. Little princess.
Mum is the original princess. The one Dad worships at her altar and makes all her dreams come true.
I’m the princess’s daughter and, therefore, the little princess.
I wipe at the moisture in my eyes. “Nothing, Bran.”
“You don’t sneak to the basement at five in the morning, paint this, and then say it’s nothing. It can be every word under the sun, but nothing should not be on the menu.”
I grab a palette and start mixing random colors just to keep my mind and hands occupied.
Bran, however, doesn’t drop it. He takes a long detour, then stands between me and the painting I’m totally going to throw in the nearest fire.
“Is it about Devlin?”
I flinch, my throat bobbing up and down with a swallow at the name of my friend.
At one point, my closest friend.
The boy who understood my haunting muse as much as I understood his lonely demons.
Until one day, we were ripped apart.
Until one day, we went in different directions.
“It’s not about Dev,” I whisper.
“Bullshit. You think we haven’t noticed that you haven’t been the same since his death? His suicide is not your fault, Glyn. Sometimes, people choose to leave and nothing we could have done would’ve stopped it.”
My eyes blur and my chest constricts until it’s impossible to breathe properly. “Just drop it, Bran.”
“Mum, Dad, and Grandpa are worried about you. I am worried about you. So if there’s anything we can do, tell us. Talk to us. If you don’t express yourself, we’re unable to go anywhere with this situation.”
I feel myself disintegrating and losing ground, so I stop mixing and push the palette into his hands. “You can probably make a beautiful forest à la Bran style with all that green.”
He doesn’t refuse the palette, but he sighs deeply. “If you’re so intent on pushing us away, you might not find us when you actually need us, Glyn.”
A small smile grazes my lips. “I know.”
I’m good at keeping it all in.
Bran isn’t convinced and stays around to try and fish information out of me. This is probably the first time I’ve wished it was Lan who found me and not him. At least Lan wouldn’t push.
He doesn’t care.
Bran cares too much.
As do I.
After a while, however, he takes the palette and leaves. As soon as the door clicks closed, I fall to the ground in front of the painting of a dark cliff, a black star, and reds of passion.
Then I hold my head between my hands and let all the tears loose.
By the time day breaks, I’m ready to escape without facing anyone in my family.
I pack my suitcase for the new semester, then I take a shower that probably lasts for an hour. I scrub my mouth, my hair, my hands, my nails.
Anywhere that psycho touched me.
Then I put on a pair of jeans, a top, and a jacket, ready to hit the road. I pull out my phone and text my girls. We’ve had a group chat since we were basically in nappies and it’s where we always talk.
Ava: Is it weird that I’m losing hair because of Ari? She won’t shut up about wanting to join the group chat.
Cecily: Tell her to reapply in two years once she’s of age. We only talk big girl stuff here.
Ava: Big girl stuff? Bitch, where? Didn’t see that on your prude menu in the last…nineteen years.
Cecily: Very funny. Rolling on the ground as we speak. Not.
Ava: You know you love me, Ces *kisses emojis*
Juggling my bag on one shoulder, I type with my other hand.
Glyndon: Ready to hit the road for uni. Who’s driving?
We can actually fly to the island in a shorter amount of time, but that would mean taking a plane, and I’m scared of flying.
My screen lights up with a reply.
Ava: Not me. That’s for sure. We stayed up with Mum, Dad, and our grandparents last night, and I feel like a zombie.
Cecily: I’ll do it. Give me another hour. Still didn’t get my fill of Mum and Papa.
I’m about to type that I’m in a hurry but stop mid-text when Ava texts back.
Ava: Gonna miss Mum and Dad like fucking shit. Grandpa and Grandma, too. Sigh. I’ll even miss the troublemaker, Ari. Have you guys seen her new IG handle? Ariella-jailbait-Nash. That bold little bitch, I swear. If Dad sees it, he’ll lock her the fuck up. Did I mention that I’m losing hair because of her?
With both of them being sentimental, if I said let’s leave right now, it’d seem as if I were the one who was running away from my parents or something.
I’m not.
And really, I’ll miss them like hell, too. Maybe even more than Ava and Cecily will miss theirs, but sometimes, I just don’t like myself around my family.
When I peek down from upstairs, the dining table is already buzzing with energy.
Mum is putting some eggs in front of Bran, and Dad is helping but somehow getting in the way since he touches her every chance he gets. Something that she scolds him for but still laughs about anyway.
I stop at the base of the stairs to watch them together. It’s been a habit of mine since I was young and dreamed about my own Prince Charming.
Dad is big, tall, muscular and so blond, it’s like he’s a Viking god, as Mum likes to call him. He’s also one of the two heirs of the King fortune. A man of steel with a ruthlessness that’s often spoken about in the media.
However, around Mum and us? He’s the best husband and father. The man who gave me higher standards.
Ever since I was young, I’ve seen how he’s treated my mother as if he can’t inhale oxygen without her around. And I’ve seen how she looks at him as if he’s her protector. Her shield.
Her partner.
Even now, she shakes her head as he slips a hand around her midsection and steals a kiss from her lips.
Her cheeks turn red, but she doesn’t attempt to shoo him away. I inherited her height and the rich depth of her green eyes. But other than that, we’re as different as night and day.
She’s such a talented artist, and I can’t even reach her ankle.
She’s a strong woman, and I’m just…me.
Bran is oblivious to the PDA happening near him as he elegantly cuts his eggs and focuses on his tablet. Probably reading some arts magazine.
It’s Mum who notices me first and promptly pushes Dad away. “Glyn! Morning, baby.”
“Morning, Mum.” I plaster the brightest smile on my face, drop my backpack on the chair, and kiss her cheek, then Dad’s. “Morning, Dad.”
“Morning, little princess. Where did you sneak to last night?”
I step back with a start and stare at Bran, who merely lifts a shoulder. “I wasn’t the only one who noticed.”
“I just went out to get some air,” I whisper, dropping down beside my brother.
Mum and Dad take their seats with my father at the head of the table. He picks up his fork and knife and speaks without taking a bite. “You could’ve gotten some air within the property. Roaming around at night is dangerous, Glyndon.”
You have no idea how true that statement is.
I take a sip of my orange juice to stop myself from reliving the rotten memories from last night.
“Let her be, Levi.” Mum passes me a boiled egg—well-cooked, the way I like—with a smile. “Our Glyn is a big girl now and can take care of herself.”
“Not if she’s attacked by some crazy scum in the middle of the night.”
I choke on the bit of juice that’s stuck in my mouth. Bran passes me a napkin and gives me a weird look.
Shit.
Please don’t tell me it’s written all over my face.
“Don’t jinx it,” Mum tells him with a frown, then points at the egg. “Eat, honey.”
I stuff my mouth with the white of the egg and Mum shakes her head when I basically throw most of the yolk away.
“Do you need anything?” Dad asks, seeming suspicious of me. Jeez. I really hate having him in this mode. He’s like a crooked detective fishing for any sort of information.
“No, no. I’m fine.”
“Good. But if you happen to need something, let me or your brothers know,” he says after swallowing his food.
“Will do.”
“Speaking of your brothers,” Mum fixes me and Bran with her stern parental gaze. “I heard you two avoid Landon on campus?”
“It’s not that we avoid him…” I start.
“It’s that he doesn’t have time for us with all the attention he gets from both professors and students,” Bran finishes, lying through his teeth.
Because we do try to spend as little time with him as possible.
“Still.” Mum makes me a piece of toast, still treating me as if I’m a little girl. “You guys go to the same university and even the same art school, so I’d hoped you’d at least keep your bond.”
“We’ll work on it, Mum,” I say in my pacifying tone, because even though Bran isn’t antagonistic either, he can definitely channel that energy when it comes to Lan.
I start to get up, my stomach feeling heavy and absolutely refusing to accept more food.
After kissing my parents goodbye and telling Bran I’ll see him later, I contemplate driving to Grandpa’s house, but he’s probably at work now.
Also, if a slight interrogation from Dad rustled my feathers, an encounter with Grandpa will probably make me break down.
So I send him a good morning email. Because my granddaddy doesn’t do texts. Doesn’t even honor them with a look.
I’m about to tuck my phone away when it pings with a text.
I think maybe Grandma is texting on Grandpa’s behalf, but it’s an unknown number.
My heart nearly explodes from my chest when I read the words.
Unknown Number: Maybe you should’ve died with Devlin, huh? After all, that was the plan, wasn’t it?
