The idea of a muse has often eluded me.
I understand the concept and the general consensus, but the overrated obsession of artists with the existence of a muse has always left me in a rare state of bewilderment.
And that’s coming from someone who used sand to sculpt at the age of two. It was a female devil with a long, pointy tail, inspired by a painting in Grandpa’s house. I recall that first time I created a sculpture and the raw feeling of the wet sand slithering between my small fingers.
I also recall the unperturbed emotions that ran through me when I watched that she-devil get washed away by a wave.
It was only later that I found out my apathetic reaction to the destruction of my first creation wasn’t the norm and that I was, in fact, the definition of neurodivergent.
My steady relationship with art in general, and sculpting in particular, has been persistent throughout my twenty-three years of life. My world-renowned artist mother calls it a natural talent. The world labels it as genius genes.
For me, it’s been the sole method I could use to cope with my beast, his demon friends, and dull humanity without resorting to an extreme. Like transforming someone into stone, for instance.
Every artist has a muse—or so they say.
Since I’m a very important—if not the most important—member of a family of artists, I have come to the realization that I don’t share Mum’s, Bran’s, or Glyn’s over-idolization of their imaginary friends.
In my mind, that’s what a muse is all about—an imaginary childhood friend whose constant chatter they couldn’t lose during adulthood, so they decided to give them a fancy name.
The idea of a muse has always been redundant, useless, and categorically ridiculous.
But since I’m a master of blending in and fitting societal expectations, whenever someone has asked me about my muse, I’ve said geniuses don’t talk about their muse, as if it’s some sort of MI6 intelligence.
Now, don’t get me wrong. There’s no doubt that I’m the definition of an artistic genius who brings the sculpting community to literal tears. However, I’ve partaken in the absolute nonsense of the nonexistent muse and fake superstitious rituals to divert the horde’s attention.
I also figured my muse manifested in the massive creative energy that’s impossible to satiate.
She was the inner sadism of my outward charm.
The violence that burst at the seams whenever my plans faced an obstacle.
But that lousy half-arsed explanation lasted until yesterday.
Not in my wildest dreams did I figure that a muse could manifest at the most random time.
When I was facing an enemy, no less.
When I saw the youngest Sokolov running toward the car park like her little arse was on fire, I figured I’d toy with her and provoke those wildflower eyes—to tears if I felt like it.
After I left her tending to her crushed pride, I had a fleeting curiosity about how her eyes would look when she was crying and begging for my nonexistent mercy.
Since the blasphemous blood bath incident, I’ve been concocting a multi-phase plan, all dedicated to her demise. In a nutshell, I’d start by tormenting her and end with using her against her brother and cousins.
While those plans remain in the background, there’s a slight hitch in the process.
The way she froze up when I approached her.
I’ve never seen a human go so completely still—professional art models included. There’s always the rise of a chest here, the flaring of nostrils there, and micro-movements to remind me that the fools aren’t really stones.
Mia, however? She was the definition of a lifeless statue.
It was my sign that it’s never too late to find the perfect human stone.
I release a long puff of smoke and then stub the cigarette in the middle of the crowded ashtray. My cancer-inducing habit has been going on since my name started making the rounds in the art circles about eight years ago.
The prodigy.
The special one.
The gifted child.
It’s by no means due to pressure. If anything, the sudden surge of marketing my name experienced has stroked my ego in all the right places and given me better pleasure than a pro choking on my cock.
Smoking simply gives me the right balance while I’m using both hands to produce people’s next favorite sculpture.
My fingers hover over the countless pieces of clay I’ve created since I retreated to my studio after Mia ran away.
At that time, I had two options—follow her or purge the burst of inspiration that suddenly crashed into my skull.
I opted for the second, and ever since then, I’ve been modeling miniature sculptures in search of the right image of the inspiration I had at that exact moment.
A million mini sculptures later, I’ve exhausted my clay supply and I’m still not satisfied with any of them. I’m certainly not using them on a real sculpture.
If my art professors at REU were to see them, they’d fall arse over tits and call them masterpieces like everything I’ve made with my supremely gifted hands.
I don’t.
Something is missing.
If that little fucking shit had just remained still for a few more minutes, I would’ve gotten the full image. But she was more pressed about escaping me.
Granted, I might not have stopped at just touching if she hadn’t run away.
I grab the last miniature and throw it against the raw stone opposite me. My details were the sharpest in the first ones, but they dwindled as I made more.
The last ones are absolute rubbish and a staggering disgrace.
The first stab of inspiration that hit me has faded, and my mind is now the usual barren black.
Black used to be the standard for me. It was with black that I sculpted and with black that I continued to thrive.
But for the first time ever, this type of black isn’t as satisfying.
I want the dash of colors.
The strike of lightning.
The sound of thunder.
None of them come.
“Lan!”
I stare up from my distasteful miniatures to find my brother standing in the middle of my kingdom. Brandon is a striking identical picture of me, who can’t resemble my sublime character to save his life.
“How did you manage to get in?” I sound groggy to my own ears, so I pull out another cigarette and jam it between my lips.
My brother doesn’t like the smell of cigarettes, but then again, he shouldn’t be in my space.
“I helped.” My cousin Eli flashes me a vicious grin as he appears from behind Bran like a horror cliché.
He’s my second cousin, if we’re being specific, since his dad and mine are cousins. Being a couple years older than me, he takes that as a pass to brag about the King firstborn privileges.
Oh, and he happens to be antagonistic for the fun of it. Yes, I’m the same, but I don’t like competition in my own game. One of these days, he’ll take it too far and they’ll find his body mysteriously floating in the Thames.
“With what?” I deadpan. “Giving yourself a personality?”
“The only one in this building in need of a personality transplant is you.”
“He found the master key so we could open the door,” Bran says in his usual attempt at peacemaking. It’s so disturbing to see him being Mother Teresa and spouting nonsense with my face.
I blow smoke in his direction. “And you trespassed in my space because…”
He closes his eyes for a beat, but, like a boring nun, he doesn’t display any form of anger or even displeasure. “You weren’t answering your phone or the door when I knocked for the past fifteen minutes.”
And the hole of fucking strange keeps widening.
I’m usually more aware of my surroundings than a predator in a dark African jungle.
“I told you he’s fine,” Eli supplies like an arsehole. “As unfortunate as it might sound, nothing can hurt the twat.”
“You, however, could accidentally end up on an MIA list.” I match his grin with my wolfish one. “Don’t worry, I’ll console Uncle Aiden and Aunt Elsa after they receive the news.”
“Not if you magically disappear first.”
“Catch me if you can.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“I don’t know. Is it?”
“Can you both stop?” Bran shakes his head like a headmistress who’s sick and tired of her most troublemaking students. “We’re family.”
Eli and I snort and then we burst into laughter at the same time.
Did I mention that my brother can be the sappiest plain Jane who ever walked the planet?
Eli pats his shoulder. “Family is what makes this more fun, dear cousin.”
Bran doesn’t appear the least bit amused, though his shoulders relax now that he’s figured out Eli and I like to rile each other for sport.
He still wants to kill me for my plan that included his brother, but I’m sure he won’t do it.
At least, not if he still wants to belong to the King family.
As in, the one that owns the UK and half of the world. My grandfather, Jonathan King, is a ruthless monarch with an iron fist and a sharp sense of business. He built the fortune his brother and father nearly eradicated.
My father, Levi King, and my uncle, Aiden King, have been transforming the business and making it more lucrative than oil princes’ fortunes.
The future of the King empire falls on Eli, me, and probably Creighton. Bran and Glyn were never interested in business and prefer to be artists like Mum.
My art career is just a temporary ruse before I take over the world. Might need to study some business first, but who gives a fuck. I’m sure I’ll excel at that like everything I’ve done thus far.
Nothing is permanent, and the world is a mere vessel to make my desires come true.
My every whim and want has been catered to, which tends to be boring, for lack of a better term. Someone give me a challenge, for fuck’s sake.
“Is everything okay? You’ve been locked in here for over twelve hours…” my brother trails off when he sees the miniatures lying on the floor, and his eyes grow in size. “Wow.”
Yes, wow. I’ve never made so many useless miniatures in one session.
“Wow for the murdered Smurfs he’s been making?” Eli asks with a note of depleted sarcasm.
I side-eye him. “You’re an uncultured swine with not an artistic bone in your miserable body. Don’t pollute my studio with your lack of taste.”
“I do have taste. It just doesn’t include your ugly art.”
“It’s far from ugly,” Bran says without looking at Eli, then lowers himself to his knees to inspect them closely. “These are some of your finest work. They’re stunning.”
“All of my work is stunning.”
Bran stares at me. “You haven’t sculpted a thing in months, Lan.”
“These aren’t sculptures.”
“You haven’t done any model miniatures either.”
“They’re doodles. They mean nothing.”
“You’re such an arrogant fool. If others… No, if I could make something like this while doodling, I wouldn’t ask for anything else.”
“You need to stop painting happy-go-lucky nature scenes and you’ll be able to do better than this. You’re welcome for the free advice from a genius.”
“I told you not to meddle with my artistic choices.”
“Cry me a river.” I kill my half-finished cigarette and crack my neck. “What time is it?”
“Past your beauty bedtime,” Eli says. “Dark circles look hideous on you.”
“And that striped jacket gives you a fantastic grandpa vibe. Have better fashion sense before patronizing me about my looks.” I point at the door. “Now, out of my space, and I’m going to need that master key so no one trespasses again.”
Eli leans forward and whispers, “No,” before he buggers off to make the world a worse place than it was an hour ago.
“You need some sort of an escorting service?” I ask when Bran lingers behind, still staring at the miniatures.
He reaches a hand to one of them but thinks better of it and retracts it. Good. That hand might have been accidentally broken if he’d put it on my possessions.
Though I might not be as murderous if he asks for permission. He’s always wanted to touch my sculptures after I’ve given him the green light. Now, he doesn’t even ask if he can.
My brother stands to his full height and faces me with a furrowed brow. “Are you going to sculpt any of them?”
“No. They’re not worth it.”
“Have you positively lost your mind? These are your…”
“Finest work. Stunning. A stroke of a genius,” I finish for him. “We obviously have a different definition of excellence. What you see as extraordinary is mediocre at best to me.”
“Well, excuse me for not understanding the genius genes.”
“Nonsense. You have them as well, but as I’ve mentioned a million times, you’re shackling them to the best of your abilities.” I prop an elbow on his shoulder and grin. “Want my help to bring out the side you buried so deep, you almost forgot it existed?”
“If by help, you mean to drown me in your blood-flavored activities, then no thanks.”
“One day, you’ll take me up on my offer.”
“Not even if you’re reincarnated as a saint.”
“Bloody hell, Bran. Don’t go manifesting pure torture over a small disagreement.” I pat his cheek with the back of my hand.
It’s a gesture he used to like when we were growing up. Now, however, he drops his shoulder, making me lose my balance, and steps out of the way.
“No disagreement with you has ever been small, Lan.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Is this one of those times when you turn sappy on me as if I’m your imaginary therapist? If that’s going to be the case, I get paid by the hour and in advance, thank you.”
He releases a long breath and shakes his head with the surrender of an old man in the last stages of cancer.
“Just call Mum when you get the chance. She asked about you when I talked to her earlier.”
Saint Bran.
The peacemaker who thinks he’s holding our family together by a thread Bran.
Sometimes I wonder if the fact that he of all people happens to be my twin is some form of a calamity.
After one last lingering look at the miniatures, he leaves the studio as if his arse is on fire.
It’s no secret that Bran doesn’t like me. Might have to do with the number of treacherous, elicit activities I’ve been conducting over the years.
As Mum likes to say, we’re like night and day, and while she means that as a compliment, the truth remains, it’s impossible for us to meet halfway.
But Bran and his righteous shenanigans can wait another day.
I’ve already missed half a day in my attempts to retain the vision from last night. I don’t have enough time or inspiration to resurrect it.
One thing’s for sure. My next course of action starts with a certain little muse who’s gotten herself into the deepest clusterfuck of her life.
To say I’m entering unfriendly territory would be an understatement.
Let’s say The King’s U college and I share the same level of disagreement of right- and left-wing politics.
In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if the Heathens have put a bounty on my head and a wanted poster at the entrance of every class.
My track record with Killian, Nikolai, and even Jeremy doesn’t help. The only member I haven’t harmed, at least not directly, is Gareth, but I doubt he’d be interested in having a cheeky drink and smuggling me onto their grounds.
Which is why I came in partial disguise.
The saving grace of being among the unpolished, rowdy Americans is that there are so many of them. Definitely more than the students at REU. Therefore, wearing sunglasses and a hoodie is enough to conceal me from the unholy masses.
According to my extensive research on the Heathens and, after the blood episode, on Mia Sokolov herself, I know she’s studying business.
So I make my way to that school and wait by the corner outside her classroom like a perfect gentleman. Thankfully, her clone studies law, so they don’t take the same classes.
I check my watch and count the seconds until she’s out. After this, Mia still has one more class, but she’s going to have to take a rain check on that.
The students buzz around me, their chatter clashing with the seconds on my watch.
I don’t mind the wait. In fact, a sensation of calm overtakes me at the prospect of catching prey.
I’m good at camouflaging myself when need be and waiting for the right moment.
Like the night, I’m silent, overpowering, and—under the right circumstances—deadly.
Students start flowing like ants in a disorganized colony, but I’m not concerned about missing Mia in the crowd.
That won’t be possible after the alien sensation I experienced during last night’s meeting.
Sure enough, I catch a glimpse of her blonde hair and blue ribbons flying in the wind as she checks her cat-themed backpack.
She’s wearing another black dress that’s fit for a luxurious funeral, and a certain detail stands out. The upper half has a few straps that stop at a choker around her delicate throat.
My, my.
She even dressed for the auspicious occasion.
Mia Sokolov is a beautiful goddess without putting in any effort. She barely wears any makeup or tries to doll up like most girls. She also adopts a troublemaking personality that’s designed to put a damper on her physical superiority.
I’ve barely seen her offer a genuine smile, and that includes all the footage I’ve gathered on her in my attempts to dig her a hole she’ll never get out of.
However, she excels at offering fake socially accepted smiles and pretending to be a naive cute girl to draw the right people’s attention.
And while she might argue that we’re different, she’s wearing the same version of the mask I do. Which means she might have a beast inside her, too.
And I will have to murder and cut it into pieces because I only need her as a statue.
Not flesh and bones. Thoughts and opinions. Words and existence.
Still rummaging through her bag, she walks in my direction as clueless as innocent prey.
There, little muse. I might give you a treat after I turn you into a statue.
“Mia!”
She’s only a few meters away from where I’m lurking when she comes to a halt and turns around.
I curse under my breath upon detecting the last two people I need in this situation.
The first is none other than Killian—the guy who stole my sister’s heart despite my explicit refusal of the damned relationship. The other is Nikolai, Mia’s older brother, who might be out to slice my throat the moment he sees me.
Both needless presences catch up to her and I have to change my position to get a better view of the situation.
Logically, I should leave before those two catch a glimpse of me and choose to give me a taste of my own torture medicine. And it’ll be much worse than I could imagine, considering I trespassed on their turf.
The risks I’m willing to take for the sake of my muse are irritatingly stunning.
She signs something to them that I believe means, “What are you doing here?”
I might have looked at some sign language videos—ASL, not BSL since there are significant differences. And by some, I mean dozens of them. It was enough to become proficient. What? It’s not my fault that I’m not only an effortless polyglot but also a fast learner.
“I’m taking Niko on a stroll,” Killian replies with an easy grin.
His cousin kicks his foot. “I’m not your dog, motherfucker.”
Killian doesn’t seem perturbed in the least. He’s probably the one who resembles me the most from that bunch of little fuckers. The only difference is that I’m culturally superior and have a more prominent penchant for anarchy.
As I’m contemplating the best way to dump his body in the ocean without permanently losing my sister, something happens that derails my whole thought process.
Mia’s eyes twinkle as her lips pull in a genuine, happy smile. It’s the wildest look I’ve ever seen on her face. And, coincidentally, they’ve all happened around her family members.
As if they’re the only ones who deserve this side of her.
“Wanted to check on you,” Nikolai says and pushes a cup in her hand. “Bought your favorite Frappuccino. Double espresso shot with caramel syrup and cream on top.”
“I, unavoidably, helped him,” Killian says.
“You did not,” Nikolai retorts.
“My presence was in itself a massive help. If I hadn’t been there, you would’ve been kicked out by the cashier, who was scared to death by your grim, unconsciously frightening presence.”
Mia signs a thanks and accepts the cup, then she leans in for a quick hug with both her brother and cousin.
A hugger. A blasphemous, absolutely distasteful habit with no practical meaning whatsoever. It’s not needed for sex and, when used, can lead to an awkward angle.
But then again, I’ve never appreciated touching people when my cock isn’t involved.
“Want to grab something to eat before we continue our stroll?” Killian asks her.
She shakes her head and signs that she has a class.
Nikolai pats her head as if she’s still a child. “Don’t make any trouble, and if you do, for all that’s unholy, tell me about it.”
“And me.” Killian points a thumb at himself. “We can turn mere trouble into a tornado.”
She signs an “Okay,” then they finally part ways.
Thankfully, Killian and Nikolai go in the opposite direction, while Mia continues toward me as she slurps her drink.
She reaches into her dress pocket and retrieves her phone, completely oblivious to the trap she’s walking right into.
I don’t make myself noticeable when she’s near. No.
I wait and bide my time for the right moment.
Once she passes me, I stand behind her and whisper, “So you do use your phone, and yet you left me on Read. Where are your manners, little muse?”
