Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time I knew what lost felt like, was the day my mama was buried six feet deep in the ground. 

I stood there in the heavy rain while they buried her and even when the guests dispersed after greeting my grandpa and I their condolences, my eyes were stuck on that fresh patched of wet dirt covering where her casket laid beneath my feet. 

Grandpa stayed with me throughout my silence, just standing there beside me with an umbrella despite the harsh weather. He did not force me to move, instead sharing my silent grieving with his large palm on my shoulder. A comfort gesture coming from a man who barely showed his emotions when even when her daughter got buried. 

From what I have seen so far, grandpa was like that; a man of few words and even fewer after the loss of his only beloved daughter who left him with a child he barely had any idea what to do with. I can’t even blame him. My existence was known for less than three days before mama passed her last breath on the hospital bed. I didn’t even know I had any family members beside mama before grandpa appeared in the hospital room with stern yet kind green eyes, the color similar to mine and mother. 

Unwanted child, I heard one of our relatives whispered when I stepped down the stairs after getting ready for the funeral this morning. Grandpa had smacked my uncle’s face and with a harsh growl, threaten to shut his mouth with a shotgun if he uttered a single word in front of him during the service. My uncle did not say a word, or even look at grandfather and me, the whole time. 

I continue to look at her grave, the temporary headstone with her name written on it. 

Stella May Reed

Beloved daughter and mother.

May the stars accompany her soul and show her peace.

I can’t even fathom what was happening. I knew she was sick; she had been sicked the whole time until I finally understood what kind of illness begrudge their omen upon her. 

Cancer… 

I did not even understand what that meant but I knew she was sick and hurting all the time. She hid her pain from me despite how bloodshot her eyes got and how she looked even fragile that a breeze could hit her and she easily fell from it. Her clothing hung loosely on her already small figure, the clothes covering the bruises that appeared on her skin without reason. She was always sick, but I never would have guessed her sickness got to the point of her laying on the bed looking like a ghost. 

Mama…my mama. 

I finally let out a sob as tears that I held onto this whole time finally fell, staining my cheeks. No matter how much I rub my eyes, these tears won’t stop and I let out a frustrated hiccup at how hopeless I felt.

My grandpa, the only person I have come to know and stayed close to me this whole time, awkwardly rubs my back as he lets me cry my little heart out. Am I going to stay with him or, or is that lady with the gentle tone from the hospital going to take me away? 

I don’t wanna leave. Don’t make me leave, Grandpa. 

The hand on my back stills and I felt how tense my grandpa suddenly is from how his palm firmly presses as he hides me behind his legs. I look up at him, shadow of tear tracks on my cheeks, as my expression turns into confusion when I see the stern look he has on. 

I followed his narrowed gaze and see a tall man standing from afar, a few tombs away. He was just standing there with an umbrella while two other intimidating men in black suits stand behind him, wearing sunglasses and standing cautiously. Regardless of their casual demeanor, I could sense how alert they were; their sharp gazes carefully looking around the area as if something or someone would attack at a moment's notice and their hand perch to their side. 

Despite that, the man standing at the center was the one my senses were screaming to me ‘Danger!’. Something in me told me that I should be wary of him…but I was not sure why I wasn’t. I could not see their face hidden beneath the black umbrella. Everything about this man screams black; from his attire, to the leather gloves and oxford shoes he was wearing to his entire aura. His mouth was moving, speaking to the two men behind him before he walks towards grandpa and me, the sound of crunching wet grass becoming prominent the more he gets near. 

“Iris, stay behind me,” Grandpa’s gruff voice snaps me out of my thoughts as he pushes me behind him, hiding me from the man who is approaching us. I do as told, though I can’t help but take a glimpse of this person due to my curiosity. 

Handsome, I think that word does not describe the entirety of this stranger’s beauty. 

From the blonde of his neatly styled short hair that seems almost white, with the icy blue of his eyes that reminded me of the frozen lake mama took me ice skating, to the imposing figure he effortlessly exudes showing hidden strength hiding behind a well-made tailored suit; this was not a man to be trifle with. He was all sharp angles and control, someone who did not care if he inflicts hurt on others or take something that he wanted. Someone who does not know or care where the end ends.

A deep solitary scar traced a path from the left corner of his mouth to his cheek, the only blemish on his otherwise unmarred face. Even so, I could not deny, even with the gnarly scar…this man is beautiful. Dangerously beautiful. 

Dangerous. A dangerous man that resembles an angel with his strong jaw and sharp, emotionless eyes. An angel in all black.

Compare to the men I have seen in mama’s life who treated her badly, those men were predictable. Pain was often associated with them, sneers and curses accompanying their bellowed shouts. Even when I locked the door of my bedroom and hid under the blanket like mama told me to, I could not avoid hearing shouting and stuff crashing around which then ends with crying…or those disgusting noises I’ve come to hate. My poor mama just wanted to be love, but she always seems to choose the bad ones. As if she was denying herself happiness by being with the wrong man every single time.

But this stranger seems to be one that I can’t get a full clear picture of. He is obviously a bad and dangerous man but there is just something about him that I can’t help but find kinship in. Maybe it's the way his eyes are. While mama’s green eyes always seem to brighten and twinkle like the stars she liked so much despite the hurt and pain she endured, mine are nothing compared to hers. 

“John Reed,” the man speaks, his voice smooth like caramel and deep like the bottom of the lake. He wasn’t American since he had an accent but I couldn’t distinguish from where. It sounded awfully a lot like the few German words mama would say to herself. 

I hide behind grandpa staring at him timidly, wondering how this stranger is able to stand before grandpa with such aloofness when the older male looks like he is itching to get his shotgun and shoot him. 

At the sound of the stranger saying Grandpa’s name, Grandpa scowls at the man, his expression pinch and dubious. 

“Who wants to know?” Grandpa grunts out, steely green eyes darken at the man whose expression hasn’t change one bit. Blank. Nothing. The man really is a stone wall, not feeling threaten at all by Grandpa. Why am I suddenly impress?

The man stares at grandpa, unbothered by his alarming tone as his gaze turns towards mama’s headstone. It was a quick second but I saw how the corner of his lips turn downward and his eyes losing its iciness as sadness graces his vision before snapping back to that cold, impassive expression. 

“Where did you find her?…How did she passed?” The stranger asks, his eyes still on the headstone. 

The corner of grandpa’s eye twitches at how this person seems to disregard grandpa’s previous question but knowing how I was around, he couldn’t actually curse the person away. He lets out a tsk before his gaze focuses back on mama’s headstone. 

“New Jersey. Got a call from the hospital, my number was given as an emergency contact,” Grandpa massages the bridge of his nose, eyes tightly close as if trying to push away the image of mama’s weak, frail body on the hospital bed. “She disappeared for years and next thing I know I get a call saying she’s in the hospital dying. Didn’t know I was going to return with my dead daughter in tow,” he scoffs sarcastically, hiding the hurt behind a blunt remark as Grandpa squeezes my shoulder again, as if trying to remind himself to be strong. If it's not for him then for me. “Damn leukimia,”

The man silently hears out grandpa, his expression unchanged. Stoic as ever, unreadable. He mutters something in a foreign language, the one I now identify as German the more I hear the similarities in those words and sound to mama’s. I silently watch him from behind grandpa’s legs, hoping he doesn’t see me but apparently, I couldn’t hide from those light blue eyes similar to ice.

He looks at me with a narrowed gaze and frowns slightly. I can see his eyes widen a bit looking surprise.

“The girl,”

I quickly hide behind grandpa with a squeak, shaking slightly. Why is he looking at me like that, as if he was surprise to see my face?

“And she is-,”

“None of your damn business,” Grandpa growls at the stranger, tightly grasping my shoulder until I let out a whimper of pain. Hearing the pain from the soft sound I made just now, grandpa lessen the pressure from his hold, grunting softly.

I give him a small smile, knowing that's his nonverbal way of apologizing. Ever since I got to know him, I picked up a few things, his quirks and so on. As I said before, he is a man of few words so picking up these small signs was something to get me off from thinking about mama and in a way, I got to know the grandpa mama never told me about.

I always wonder why she never talked about her family.

“Baby, it's just you and me against the world. Don’t let anyone close to the point they’ll steal your heart. They’ll break it and you’ll never be the same again,”

Mama never failed to remind me. Those words were often said until the next guy comes to sweep her off her feet and she would forget about it like the love-struck person she was...and then get her heart broken all over again.

Mama once said, while she was in one of her drunken stupor, that this was a punishment for her. For leaving the one man who loved her too much to the point it scared her how much she loved him. Mama didn’t want to stay, she couldn’t stay with him because if she stayed, her dreams of being a star would disappear. She wanted to dance and sing and exist like the star she was born and meant to be. That’s why she ran and in the end, she ended up wasting away. Her dreams never stopped but it died with her.

Her one other regret, aside from never being able to obtain her dream,  was never being able to sing and dance again for the man she still loves.

The man keeps watching me, his eyes staring straight into me without blinking. Was it possible to not blink that long? Why is he watching me as if I held every answer to the whole world?

And this is notice by grandpa who scowls at the stranger’s unabashed staring.

“Stop looking at my granddaughter, creep,” Grandpa grunts out, shielding me from those icy gaze. “Listen punk, I don’t know you so stop with the questions. Its one thing you’re here, which Im assuming you knew my daughter but if you keep staring at my granddaughter, we’ll have a problem,” his hand goes to the gun kept in his holster hidden behind the worn-out checkered shirt.

At that action, the two men in sunglasses who are with the stranger too have their hands to their side, ready for any sudden movement that showed grandpa would do what he silently threaten to do, and knowing grandpa, he was serious.

I tug grandpa’s shirt roughly, frighten for him because something me told me to protect grandpa. Something in me told me that grandpa wouldn’t stand a chance.

“Grandpa no,” I shake my head, my voice pleading him not to do anything reckless. “Nein,”

Just from that one single german word, the stranger’s eyes are on me again. He gets a good look at me and lets out a shaky breath. He takes a step towards us, me, and grandpa lets out a curse.

“Back away, punk or I’ll blow your brains out,”

“The girl, let me speak to her,”

“Over my dead body,”

“…that doesn’t sound promising,” Without moving his gaze away from me once, despite grandpa threatening him, the stranger walks to us and kneels to my eye-level, his eyes piercing into my green ones.

“Hallo kindchen. Kannst du Deutsch sprechen?” the cold tone he used on grandpa softens. He’s closed-off expression turns gentler albeit still impassive. The scar on his face isn’t as jarring when the tenseness from seconds ago dissipates as  he faces me.

I can feel grandpa’s firm grip tightening now, reminding me not to speak but I cant help my curiosity from coursing.

“Ein bisschen,” I answered tentatively in a shy manner. Mama sometimes spoke to me in german.

Since my childhood, it was a mix of english and german to the point I could speak in a simple german conversation with her. Mama told me someone taught her and even after that, she self-taught herself. Mama has always been a quick learner and I somehow picked up that attribute from her. There’s a lot more of the language I’m still not sure of the words or sentences to use or say but I could at least understand what he is speaking.   

The man nods. A small smile graces his lips which surprises me though I don’t show it.

“My name is Conrad. Yours little one?”

“…Iris,”

His eyes brightens a bit upon hearing my name. His smile turns a little sad, his gaze on me being a little painful as I hear him slightly choke when I said my name.

“Iris,” the man repeats, his voice trembling. He moves his palm to his face, shaking his head as he lets out a soft, painful chuckle. “Of course she had to name you Iris,” he murmurs to himself before he drags his palm down and gave me a look that spoke a million words.

The stranger removes one of his gloves, holding his hand up to me.

“Its nice to meet you, Iris,”

I look at the hand directed towards me. His hand littered with small scars and a certain roughness that shows he has been through something to cause such a texture to develop over time. His hand is large and strong compare to mine. He could simply crush mine with just slight grip if he wanted to.

I look curiously into his eyes, mine reflected in his. The icy blue eyes looking at me seem to melt reflecting a small amount of warmth into them and I can’t help but be pull into those orbs.

My hand tentatively shakes his and indeed, my hand is engulf into his large one. Despite how rough his hand is, there is a certain gentleness to it as he holds my hand. Warmth creeps into my hand and I could not stop the small smile from my lips.

From this moment, my fate was set.

Unbeknownst to me, I didn’t know that this man would set my life into motion; throwing me into a world of pain and harshness as blood stains the skin of my body as the years pass by and coldness shrouded my heart inch by inch. I would soon learn that danger and pain does not come from the monsters under my bed but the humans lurking in the shadows hiding behind power and pride.

And I was in the middle of the storm.

Would I come to regret taking his hand? Yes.

Would I turn back time if I could? …No.

Forgive me mama, it seems like I am following into your step. It looks like I’ll be breaking my heart soon enough.

And this stranger Conrad, will be the first one.

Chapter Text

The thing about often traveling in and out of the country, is that your body is in constant exhaustion and jet lag has become your best friend. I’ve been taught to sleep in the most uncomfortable positions and places to the point that the ground feels much comfortable and safe compare to a soft, warm bed.

At least I’m more alert to stab someone in the throat if they decide to jump me in my sleep.

Powering through with just three hours of sleep the whole day does something to my brain and I was this close to biting someone’s ear off with the continuous prattling. Today’s negotiation was rubbish.

It doesn’t help that I did some last-minute packing before tossing my luggage into the car as I’m being drove to the hangar to my impending doom. University.

Was I really doing this? God, why did I decide to continue my Masters in another country and not stay in Germany or God forsaking America. At least in New York, Mikael was there and he at least I’m sure have something for me to do aside from studying. And grandpa, I could visit grandpa whenever I wanted if I studied there.

I’m going to be in an uncharted territory and being out of my element is the last thing I want.

God Iris, you’re being a whiny brat.

This was your fucking choice. You had to beg papa with Mikael investigating and vouching the university for you to even be allowed some form of independence without Midas tagging along and breathing down your neck. Small mercies for that.

Still, you wanted freedom, even if it’s for a short amount of time so suck it up bitch.

Yep…good pep talk.

I definitely got my dramatics from mama. Or its just me and my lack of sleep. Talking to myself does not help in this case and at this point, I’m just overthinking and convincing myself to turn back.

I let out a sigh as I look outside the car window. Passing by the buildings I’ve seen a hundred times with people going in and out with their day and watching the view become smaller and smaller as the car exits the city while I reminisce the years I lived here, a hint of nostalgia hits me up and I’m not even out of the country yet. Damn, I’m going to miss Berlin.

“Miss,” the driver addresses me with his thick German accent catching me out from my inner monologue.

I answer him with a hum indicating that i was listening despite my attention more towards the view outside.

“Young Master Midas requests you to deliver a package upon your arrival in England. The package has already been sent to the jet earlier.”

I frown. A package? Why didn’t he tell me earlier before I left and did he really have me doing his job.

“Why couldn’t he do it himself?”

“Young master is currently busy handling a…situation after we drove off. And since the package is to be deliver to England, he said you would not mind. In his words, ‘Doing this little errand for your big brother.”

Damn Midas for using the big bro card on me. He knows I can’t say no when he does that. Coming from a man who loathes asking for help and has an even bigger ego than papa, this package must be of great importance. And yeah, understandable since I am on my way to England but I appreciate it if he told me earlier.

“What’s the package?”

“A code red, miss.”

“…”

I groan in annoyance. Damn Midas.

***

The flight from Berlin to Brighton Island takes about 1 hour and 30 minutes, give or take. During that time, I wanted to sort out some things on the plane and maybe take another nap because the lack of sleep is finally taking a toll on me and I am this close to passing out. I definitely do not have the energy to face a fucking code red when I’m supposed to be a normal young adult who is on her way to getting an education.

Leave it to my brother to leave a body for me to deliver all the way to England. At least this time the package is alive, albeit a little beaten up.

“Fuck…you…” the bruised-up guy whose face looks like it got mashed up by a hammer (which is true) slurs, spitting on my boots.

Correction, I am going to beat this fucker up until he becomes unrecognizable.

I take another swing and slam the guy’s hand hard, his wrists bound with leather around the arms of the chair. His piercing scream sounds dull to my ears as I take a tissue from the metal cart and wipe the spit. Blood and spit, disgusting. Really, I thought breaking his fingers would already dull the rest of the pain in his hand but no, here he is screaming his head off. Jeez.

I drag a metal chair and sit, resting my chin on my hands placed on the top rail as my eyes bore into this man who is now whimpering pathetically. We’ve been going on this for quite some time now and the guy is still tight lip. I’m getting more frustrated.

When I got to the hangar, I was greeted by two of Midas’s men. One reported to me the reason for the delivery, while the other dragged the struggling package with his head covered in a small sag into the plane. I told him to go rough up the package because if I was going to do my brother’s job, the guy better have half the intention to not live.

I tap my nails against the metal chair, watching as the man go in and out of consciousness due to blood lost and pain. The order is simple; send him alive to our middle man who will deliver him to the British mob this guy pissed off years ago.

Apparently, he betrayed his own mob and ran to Germany with his tail behind his back after stealing drug money. He changed his identity and everything and lived a cushy life until he messed up. Really, what did you expect by going to the hospital? Fake ID and facial surgery might be enough to hide yourself but blood, you can’t hide blood.

That’s how the Clan got a ping of his location and Midas, the ever-reliable enforcer of the family stalked into the hospital and simply ‘remove’ the guy. Now he’s in the Clan’s hands and I’m tasked with pulling out every single information from this person, specifically the location of the drug money he stole.

“Peter, I can call you Peter right.” my voice muffles behind the black face mask. Its freaking hot wearing all black inside this tiny, dim lit space with an orange lamp hanging over us like one of those b-rated cop movies I’ve seen. Well, the situation kind of suits the purpose.

The other lesson papa taught me; if you intend to keep your identity a secret, create a persona and damn yourself by sticking with it until you’re convince this person you created fucking exist. So far, it has been doing a good job.

“See Peter, I’m not a bad person.” The hammer I’m holding clanks to the metal chair he is sitting when I purposely hit in between his legs, close to his crotch. He tenses from just the mere sound of the hammer and I swear, if it wasn’t the guards reminding me we need him alive and intact, family jewels and all, I wouldn’t have just stop from breaking his fingers.

“But I’m impatient,” my tone turns sharper, deeper. “It’s starting to get old this back-and-forth thing we have. So why don’t you do us all a favor and tell me where the location of the cache is?”

“I rather…bite…my tongue…and swallow it.” he grunts out stubbornly, glaring at me with those battered, bloody eyes as if he wishes he could shoot acid and melt me from the face of earth. Not the first and not the last, sweet cheeks.

“Yeah, at this point I rather you do just that and end this little charade. But Peter, I can’t allow you to do that. You piss off a few people who very much like to gun you down until you’re nothing but a blob of meat. You think they forgotten about you?” I show him a picture of his wanted poster.

When you’re deep in the underworld, things like this show up in the dark criminal network and a hit or two pops out. His has been up for years and our clan’s techy makes sure to keep everything up to date. Every hit has a price and Peter here has a huge one just for stealing drug money. My guess, he might have made this personal for someone up top in the mob.

His eyes bulge wide when he sees his old face on the wanted poster and maybe also due the amount of money he’s been put out for. It’s quite a lot to be honest.

“I need that location, Peter. You don’t want to test me just because you’re wanted alive.”

“Eat shit, German scum.”

Sigh…can’t they just make it easy for me?

I put my palm out to one of Midas’ guards who were ordered to oversee the delivery of the package. Since the guards were ordered to oversee the delivery until the end, they followed along like the dutiful guards of the Nachtnebel Clan should and I have a feeling that its more to do with Midas keeping an eye on me than the task on hand.

Why does Midas have to be an overbearing bastard at times like this? He becomes even more intolerable the closer the university semester is starting and if it was up to him, he’ll probably be in this flight until he sees me step onto the campus grounds. I have a feeling papa gave him that ‘situation’ to handle just so I can have space to breathe from him. Papa and his observant nature, thank god for that.

A small case similar to a cigarette holder is place onto my palm; the cool surface of the silver metal with an engraving of an iris flower with German lettering at the other side of the case.

Möge die göttliche Gnade Gottes denjenigen Frieden bringen, die uns schlagen, während der Schatten derAngst ihre Herzen umhüllt.

Quite a pacifistic quote for a clan that thrives on inflicting brutality and dread to people. Though the one thing I agree, we do hide in the shadows.

I unclasp the case and bring out a long, thin needle, holding it up to catch the light—a wicked glint of metal. The guy has on a confuse expression upon seeing it.

“You know, I didn’t want to use this. There are a lot of ways to make you fess up without resorting to this but I’m tired and getting fed up with the macho man act, Peter.” My gaze narrows at him in discontent. I ignore the defiance in his gaze, challenging me to proceed with whatever torture I have in store for him. “So I’m going to make you confess to the point you wish you were actually dead and I will have fun while doing it.”

I give a sharp look to the two guards and instantly, one pulls Peter’s back straight with a glove hand to his mouth while the other clamps his arm down on the chair arm, to avoid any sudden movement. For this next step, I need him to be still. Can’t accidentally kill him. Thankfully, for my enjoyment, I left the other hand of his in perfect condition because I planned to do this if he wasn’t cooperating. Which i expected.

The guy was obviously trying to escape from his restrains and from my men holding him still, but really, it was a futile. It could have been easier for him if he had just confess from the start and not be difficult.

“It’ll be just a prick.” I say, a bit of glee escaping from my voice and from how pale Peter’s skin has gotten just from that sentence, aside from all the beating he received, I think he got the message of what I’m about to do.

Oops, can’t sound too eager. Manic doesn’t look good on me. Plus, I’m already on thin ice with papa and these guards tell everything to him even if they are Midas's men.

With deliberate slowness, I place the needle against the tip of the man’s index finger. The first puncture is quick but precise, driving the slender metal under the nail with expert precision I perfected over the years. The man’s breath hitch, a gasp muffle against the glove escaping his lips as the needle slid deeper, the sensitive flesh of his fingertip screaming with pain.

And then, the actual scream starts.

Now, this kind of scream, this I like.

It’s not from the expected pain of a hammer smashing against someone or punches to the body and face. No, this scream comes from intruding the sensitive nerves that are left vulnerable and forgettable because usually, people focus on the external parts of the body, the ones they can see, not the internal parts when you’re trying to strike someone to the core. And the smallest, hidden places or points are usually the ones that hurt the most.

Even with the guard muffling his screams, I can still hear the bellow of agony that bounces off the wall of the room.

Peter was shaking ridiculously, chest heaving heavily as he lets out a whimper after he’s done with his screaming. Bloodshot eyes induced with fear stare at me as I lazily watch how the finger I just pierced with a needle twitches along with the rest. If he moves that finger just by an inch, well, more damage will happen to him.

Not my problem

“Another,” I casually say and again, the struggling begins.

***

Each subsequent needle was a fresh assault, carefully inserted under the nails of Peter’s other fingers. The sensation was unlike any pain a person could ever felt—sharp, searing, as though each fingertip was being set ablaze from within. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and agony. The world narrowed to the pinpoint of each needle’s entry; a universe of torment concentrated in the small, sensitive spaces beneath his nails.

Peter’s chest heaved, a strangled sob escaping as another needle found its mark. The man’s resolve, already fragile, began to crumble under the relentless assault. The needles were more than just instruments of pain; they were methodical stripping away his defenses. A slow, excruciating journey to the breaking point.

Three fingers pierced with needles, that was Peter’s breaking point as ugly sobs make an appearance in front of me. As I was about to put in the fourth one, he starts begging and trashing for mercy. Then he blurts out the location which definitely pleases me because finally, I could end this play session and get some much-needed rest. Preferably with a glass of martini on hand as I drown myself in loud music. As loud as a plane can handle.

He could be lying but when I threaten to continue inserting needles to whatever points of his body I see fitted, he becomes demented and starts blurting everything with a crazed look from the location of the cache to the way of opening it kept inside a heavy-duty vault with a pass code and everything.

Typical. Well, at least I’m done here.

I clasp my needle case close and put it in the back pocket of my pants. The rest of my needles will have to be pull out and sterilize. That’s the guards’ duty.

I took the brown file on the metal trolley, wrote out the location and everything including the vault pass code and proceed to walk out of the stifling room with it. I’m damn boiling in here.

“Clean this up boys. Make sure he looks at least presentable when we land.” I left the room and let out a sigh upon the cooling air hitting my skin after closing the door. Good old air conditioner.

Walking to the center of the plane, I stripped off the canvas jacket and remove my boots before flopping into the comfortable chair that sinks me into a warm, comfy hug. With my legs propped up, I wiggle my toes moaning softly to the freedom of having my feet breath from being cramped into those boots. I love my boots but I love having my twinkles out more. I lay my head back, looking at the cream color walls and clean interior of the plane that gives a different picture to the act I just did a few minutes ago in the back room.

I remove the face mask, and finally, finally, I can breathe. I stare at nothing and just let my body sink into the type of solace I know after a rough torture session. Or any torture session.

It doesn’t get any easier. It never gets easier.

One minute I’m enjoying the shrieks that come out from them, enjoying the intricate ways I can make them confess their biggest, dirtiest, well-kept sins and next, I start feeling like the scummiest, piece of shit on earth that deserves to be chase with pitchforks and burn like those witches back in medieval times.

It’ll get better…

I’m fine. This is fine. I need to be fucking fine.

I need to separate myself and breathe. I need to push Hel out of the way and make Iris claw back to the surface.

So what if I can never have a good sleep; constantly bombarded with blood-curling screams and the sight of inky, nauseating blood that haunts me in my dreams.

The greedy hands just a breath away from touching, the wicked slimy smiles, the distorted faces mocking me and voicing salacious words…

My dreams aren’t kind, they aren’t fill with stars and songs and damn rainbows. They are the hard-ass truths that reminds me how I am not a good person despite how much I act and want to be.

Stop dreaming Iris.

With both my body and mind exhausted, I opt for a well-needed rest. But first, my martini.

As if reading my mind, the stewardess serves me a martini and hands me over a fresh pair of clothes. I take them and give a silent nod of appreciation in which the woman addresses me with a professional smile, unbothered by the blood splattered on me and the odor I must be emitting from being cramped into that room back there. She actually gave me a wet towel and picked up my dirty canvas jacket before disappearing to the front most area of the plane.

I’m not worried, much.

The employees of the Nachtnebel Clan are all screened and went through long, intense interviews to ensure no one actually enters with malicious intent and to gauge their capability in handling overwhelming stress and unconventional situations. If a squealer is caught…well, the problem will be dealt swiftly with little to no trace of them ever existing. A few rats were caught in the years and they were made an example.

I still remember how papa demonstrated on the subordinate he trusted…

I sip on my martini; the taste of vodka and vermouth coats my tongue. Sweetness envelopes my taste buds and gives me the kind of blissful feeling I need to rest these weary bones and take my mind off of things. I need a good drink before I can sleep. That’s the only way I can get some shut-eye.

I am safe here…I can sleep without worrying being held down.

I am safe.

…Why don’t I feel that way?

***

This island is surprisingly peaceful.

The sun sets in the horizon, slowly covering the view of my world in warm orange with a slight pinkish glow to it. The view of the sea as it darkens into nothing and the sounds of the waves crashing is calming, making me forget about everything even if its temporary. I need to remind myself that I’ll be Iris Helena Reed starting today, not Nachtnebel.

The day after tomorrow, I’ll be entering into Royal Elite University a.k.a REU. It’s surprising how I was able to pass the admission for this university when I heard how difficult it was to secure a spot. Thankfully, I did. Small mercies.

If we push aside the absurd fee, the educational system of REU is nothing to sneeze about. They provide the best of the best from professors and councilors that know their damn worth when it comes to their knowledge and skill and not skimping on the resources and assets provided for the betterment of the students that are guaranteed to be accepted in the workforce. Extracurricular and part-time work are encourage to improve your credentials but they aren’t a necessary. It more towards the students’ character build but it does help when you put it on your resume. All in all, REU is a start to greatness.

Actually, REU share its ground with another university in Brighton Island.

The King’s U.

Honestly speaking, TKU was supposed to be where I initially chose, jokingly, but I received intense twin glares from both papa and Mikael to the delight laughter of Midas who decided to spray water on my face due to me announcing this during dinner. Disgusting jerk.

But really, I can understand why. We hidden this far under the shadow; do we really have to reveal ourselves more than we should.

My family or more specifically the Nachtnebel Clan is a bit unorthodox compare to the usual criminal organizations, or maybe it's just me who rarely interact with the rest of the international underworld.

If it was up to papa and my brothers, I would be kept lock up in a gilded cage surrounded by pastel and blankets, doe-eye and naive. But no, I stubbornly bulldoze my way and got the equal treatment like the rest of my brothers and we can’t blame no one but ourselves to be the way we are. Raise and cultivated to be the Boogeyman of Deutsches Reich.

Yippie fucking yeah.

Speaking of my family, we supposedly come from a long lineage of aristocrats dating from years back and the wealth and prestige the family accumulated stands until now. In paper, the Nachtnebel Family holds many business investments ranging from fund hedging to food industry, the art of war to literally art.

The Nachtnebel Family are legal businessmen and my oldest brother Mikael, the heir, is now the leading front who is temporarily residing in New York as he slowly plants his roots in the urban jungle with our brand on it. Papa had his worries at first but Mikael, the ever-charming and silver-tongue person that he is was able to persuade papa (manipulate actually but papa noticed) to branch out to America, specifically starting with New York. From the expression on Papa’s, this wasn’t a good idea but Mikael had been making good points and now, my brother is doing quite well over there. According to him, business is booming.

The one thing Papa told him is to not get his ambitious nature too close to home, which means no fucking around with the criminal organizations there especially the Bratva. It’s kind of an unspoken rule among us and Papa; never fuck around with groups our clan has no business of knowing. I think that’s kind of the universal rule in every criminal organization; just don’t fuck with them and you don’t fuck with us.

So, yes, legally we are businessmen with legitimate companies and ventures. But behind all that, we’re actually part of the European criminal organization in Germany.

The Nachnebel Clan or Schleier.

Who would have thought the man, that appeared in the cemetery was the person my mama had a romantic relationship with and my biological father, is also the head one of Germany’s criminal clans.

So yes, they know about TKU; a university full of underworld kids and future mafia members in the making. One of them includes the children of the Bratva. That’s why Papa and Mikael strongly rejected the idea of me going to TKU. Exposing myself is not advisable. Midas…that hedonistic second brother of mine lives for the chaos.

But I was curious. Of course, it always starts off with curiosity when it comes to me.

Maybe it’s just me being interested in something out of the tiny bubble of mine. Or maybe I’m just bored and this is something to entertain me before I have to return to the clan.

I’ve always wanted more than I can get. It’s just watching, no harm done. I’ll just disappear in the background and live a peaceful academic life. A student, a normal student. No confrontation, just a bit of watching here and there.

That’s why I chose REU. REU and TKU are obviously neighbors. Plus, REU is one of the best. Why not, yeah. Killing two birds with one stone.

It took a lot of convincing and now I’m here in Brighton Island, watching the sunset from the balcony of my hotel.

My phone vibrates on the small table of the balcony. I picked it up and the corner of my lips quirk in a small smile. I answer the group video call.

“Schwesterherz.” “Baby girl!”

The image of my brothers appears on the screen, their dashing faces warming the deepest part of my heart.

“How was your flight, schwesterherz?” Mikael addresses me warmly, his usual cold expression lessens upon his eyes on me. His light blond hair similar to Papa’s shines from the sun through the large window behind him, giving the image of an ethereal being. Some would compare his looks to be of the archangel Michael and isn’t that something to boost his ego, having a name similar to a messenger and soldier of God. Which he takes delight in reminding us.

Of all of papa’s children, he is a carbon copy of him except he at least throws out a smile or two every other day compare to papa whose face often stays impassive.

“It was good…except I had to do someone’s job.” I narrowed my gaze at Midas who has that smirk on his face, half his face cover with his shaggy dark blond hair. His background is of the city lights and night sky. A beer bottle in hand with his bared chest expose, showing off the numerous tattoos he inked onto himself.

“Oh, come on baby girl, you were on your way there. It was a small delivery.” Midas boisterous laughter fills the calmness around me, silencing the sound of crashing waves.

I can’t help but feel fond.

Still, doesn’t mean I can’t feel annoyed by a last-minute task.

“You could have told me before I left the house.”

Midas simply shrugs his shoulder.

“It slipped out of my mind and father had me handle a situation so really, I couldn’t be in two places at one time could I,” he takes a swig of his beer, that devilish smirk still on his lips.

If Mikael is the archangel, Midas is Lucifer’s incarnate.

His blond hair is much darker than both Papa and Mikael’s and his body, a hulking figure that dwarfs me when we stand beside each other. Both my brothers are almost of equal height and with muscular figures thought Mikael is in the leaner side, but Midas really takes the cake when it comes to his physique which suits him as an enforcer. In the family photos, when he was just an itsy-bitsy little thing, Midas looked quite cherubic. But now…urgh, the difference is startling.

“Still, you could have sent me a message or something.”

“I did. Andras gave you my message.”

I roll my eyes. Not the same thing, jerk.

“Well thanks anyway baby girl. They already wired me the reward money and extra for giving them the location. I’ll send a few grands into your account.” Midas sends me a sharp, genial grin as he clicks his beer bottle to the screen of his phone.

“I did you a huge favor. The London mob owes us now, don’t forget to inform papa. Another thing, don’t you dare give me chump money. Your package spit on my boots. That will cost extra.”

“Really…,” Midas's expression turns into that blank scary one he does whenever someone or something makes him furious. That’s when people know to stir off from him. “Pity. I would have love to skin him alive for dirtying my lil sis.”

“You asked Iris to deliver a package?” Midas’s voice interrupts our squabbling, his icy tone breaking the easy-going conversation between Midas and me. Oh shit.

If there is one thing Mikael has a strong disagreement about when it comes to me, is that he does not want me getting involve in the family business. Too late for that.

“Midas, how many times do I have to remind you. Don’t get Iris involve with your work.”

“Why not? She’s a big girl, she can handle it.”

“I don’t give a shit if she can handle it,” Mikael growls, the corner of his lips twitching in repress anger. “You don’t let our sister alone with a package without supervision.”

“Am I that unreliable? I left my men to oversee and deliver the package directly to the middle man!”

“I don’t care. She’s not suppose to be doing this alone without either of us there. Really, she’s not even suppose to get involve,”

“Oh, fick dich, Mikael. Iris ain’t fragile. She’s made out of stronger stuff,” Midas grunts out, reaching over a cigarette. He, irritated with getting berated by our older brother, starts huffing and puffing filling the screen with white smoke. I can almost smell his favorite cigarette from beyond the screen.

I clear my throat, cutting into the argument between the two.

“You two know I’m still on the line right,”

My brothers stop their arguing when they hear the displeasure in my voice. While Mikael looks at least apologetic, Midas doesn’t really show his remorse when it comes to fighting with our older brother. He most likely would prod him more to get a reaction out of him if I wasn’t around to act as the mediator.

“Mika,” and there’s the softness I see in Mikael when I use that childhood nickname on him. It’s a bit of a cheat whenever I want to calm him down or want something that I know he won’t give in easily. Like me studying somewhere where our family can’t monitor me 24/7. “You really don’t need to worry about me. I’m used to this.” But even with me reassuring him, he doesn’t seem please.

“You’re not suppose to be use to it, Iris.”

“Stop fucking coddling her.” Midas interjects but is promptly ignore by Mikael.

“We’re suppose to protect you, not get you involve in the clan’s business. If I had been firmer, if I was stronger, then mother wouldn’t-,”

“Mikael, stop. We are not having this discussion again.” Because we end up regretting the things we say and then that’s another can of worms I’m not willing to open.

Mikael breathes out a sigh and lets his fingers run through his hair.

“I don’t want you to get hurt, schwesterherz,”

Mikael has always been my knight in shining armor. Since I was brought into the family, my brothers have always stick by my side even if there was tension between my brothers and me in the earlier years. Bringing a bastard child of the head of the clan has always been an issue to the rest of the clan members but papa was adamant to make me part of the Nachtnebel Clan. Now, I’m mostly tolerated…

Rounding back to Mikael, aside from papa, he was the first to actually accept me. He protects me to the best he can and has always puts my needs above the rest if that is even possible for one person to do. Even when I was learning the ways of the clan and training with them, Mikael has always been the person I run to when the going gets tough. Though, he should tone down the over protectiveness.

“Mika…,”

“God Mikael, fucking trust her will you,” Midas groans at the worrying our brother is doing. “Also, be happy now Iris won’t be doing those things while she’s there ‘studying’.” My second brother playfully says in that mocking tones of his that makes me want to bite him if he was in front of me right now.

“Just because you abhor academics doesn’t mean the rest of us agrees with you. Don’t try so hard to mix with us intellectual people. You’ll hurt yourself and your brain.” I retort back, fluttering my eyelashes giving faux innocence.

“Hey! I have a damn PhD in business, brat!”

“I wonder who papa had to bribe to let them graduate you?”

“You little bitch!”

The two of us go back and forth for quite some time before Mikael decides to be the older brother and move the trajectory of the conversation to a more pleasant topic.

We talk for about an hour before Mikael has to end the call due to a business dinner with potential clients and he needs to get ready.

“Well, don’t get yourself into trouble there and if there’s anything you need, trouble or not, the two of us are just a call away, schwesterherz.” Mikael reminds me, already standing. Apparently, he was in his office.

“Yeah. Call us for anything, baby girl. And if one of those mafia scums get close to you and cause a problem, you call me.” Midas chimes in, the playful tone with a hint of seriousness to his promise. That sharp grin ain’t fooling anyone, at least to me.

Mikael scoffs at that. “She is not going to get involve with them…right?”

At the narrowed gaze directed at me, of course I wasn’t going to admit to him I would be snooping around. So I give him my sweetest smile, the one that always seems to put his guard down and cross my fingers behind my back.

“Of course I’m not.” Well, not too obvious that is.

I know Mikael is doubting me, his face says it all and Midas, well my second brother is grinning like a fool, knowing I will get into trouble sooner or later. These two really can’t be on the same wavelength when it comes to me except when I get hurt…or someone hurts me. When that happens…well, scary isn’t the word I would describe them.

It’s worse.

I can’t tell them. I promise myself to not worry papa and my brothers. I did those things for them. I…I know it's the right thing to do.

I know.

Don’t show any weakness, Iris.

Don’t make them think there’s something wrong with you.

“I’ll be fine Mikael, Midas. When have I never been.”

The thing is, with these two despite their bickering, they share a language that I haven’t been able to master. The way they speak with their eyes, noticing the quick glimpse of discomfort on my expression is a sign that tells me they know something is wrong. But I know they won’t push for more, they know I won’t share it if I’m not ready. So they don’t pry for more. I appreciate it.

I’m just sorry that they’ll have to wait forever. I will never ever confess to them about it.

“Well, you two, I have to go. Midas, take care of father and mother, report to me if something comes up within the clan and please, for the love of God, don’t get yourself kill.”

Midas rolls his eyes in annoyance at the reminder, especially the getting himself kill part.

“You have little faith in me, bruder.”Mikael boisterous laugh fills the space and ease the tension. “Well, I guess me too. I have a pretty someone, or two, waiting for me in bed.” He gives us a knowing wink and I groan at how my brother can be such a perv.

“Too much information, jerk.” I show him a disgusting look with my tongue out. Midas returns back with his tongue out taunting me.

Mikael shakes his head, tired with his siblings’ childish behavior.

“And Iris, don’t forget to call father. Also, no going out late, no partying, no excessive drinking, no dat-,”

“Yes, yes, yes. I remember. You already said all of this beforehand.”

“You need a reminder.”

“And you’re too much of a worrywart. Auf Wiedersehen, Mika. You too Midas, Auf Wiedersehen.”

Both of my brother return my smile with smiles of their own. Mikael, with his small barely there smile gives me a slight nod and Midas, a grin and two-finger salute.

“Auf Wiedersehen, schwesterherz.” “Later, lil sis.”

The video call ends and I’m left alone with the sound of crashing waves accompanying me. I lean back against the balcony seat, my head facing up.

I’m tired. Exhausted.

…I need a drink.

Time to explore a bit.

Chapter Text

I find myself in a quiet, quaint pub with a glass of rum and coke in hand and a bowl of fries, chips they call it, in front of me. Popping a fry into my mouth, I observe the surrounding of the pub, my expression hopefully close-off as I keep myself invisible in the booth.  

The downtown pub I decided on was a short walk from the hotel and I kept myself in the light when I walked down the road, avoiding places where there were less people. Maybe it's the wariness in me but blending in the crowd and not making myself a target was, at this point, a habit. Plus, it's always good to be cautious. 

Aside from the chatter of the locals and the sound of music permeating in the air, it's a peaceful sort of night for a late drink. Anything to make the voices in my head disappear even if its temporary. 

No one has really come up to me and disturb my night so far, which I appreciate because I’m not really in a mood to play nice or talk. Maybe it’s because I give the ‘Fuck off’ vibe wearing an oversize black hoody with the hood on and dark gray cargo pants. I look like a hoodlum. Though, the bartender of the pub seem use to it. Of course, with the number of uni kids in the area with every new semester, the man must be immune. Especially with the TKU students running around. Not to say REU students are angels but well, from what I know so far, they cover their tracks better. But that’s just my assumptions.  

I tap my fingers on the table, my thoughts occupied with the information I have which is…quite pitiful. I’m not that tech savvy so I didn’t get a lot out but I at least got the basic of my target that's been occupying my mind since I found them out.  

The New York Bratva. 

Despite what people may think, I’m quite sheltered.  

Germany is my playground, the only place I have any freedom in what I do and get away without the sirens blaring down on me. My tracks are covered and the law enforcement along with the authorities in our hand. Basically, we’re invincible or at least I would like to think because with the shit Mikael and Midas do, which is worser than the small tasks I’m given, they would have been given life imprisonment or maybe a few death threats. But dead threats are kind of the norm in our lives.  

But that's just in Germany and a few European countries we have some reach in. The west, America, the clan does not even think to want to challenge them. Not for the lack of trying because our predecessors did but fail. Papa says its pride that became their downfall and greed obviously. It's good to be prideful and greedy, keeps a person true nature intact but respect, the lack of respect directed towards the people of the territory you’re encroaching was what had the previous heads running back. We have rules and protocols for a reason.  

Pride wounded and the hunger of greed lost.  

Marks left and scattered like ashes. 

Just because you are powerful, never look down on someone when you are in their turf, their playground, their kingdom. 

Mikael is the first after a long time who dares to even make a name for himself in New York after years of the clan avoiding it like the plague. It's not that we don’t have any business there, we do, but Mikael is thinking of branching out and I hope he doesn’t bite more than he can chew. I was hesitant at first but I support Mikael and just want him to do his best and Midas, well he’s all for Mikael chasing after a death wish and figuring out ways to save his ass when something happens. Thus, Midas got his ass kicked on the training mat.  

Ok fine, my curiosity started with Mikael and maybe I just so happened to read the organization chart of the New York Bratva and found out their kids are studying here. Volkov and Sokolov, both heirs are on this island.  

Curiosity kills the cat but I can’t stop myself from knowing more and more about something when it’s constantly running in my head. Something to push away the shadows in my mind. 

The thing is, before I could even find out more, Mikael took the folder and my access to the network was suddenly restricted. He knew, he just knew I would try to gain access and snoop around. Damn is he right. 

I just got what I manage to find without pictures or anything. But it will do, I worked with less before. 

Heirs to the Bratva.  

Two imposing young men who have made a name for themselves ever since they started studying in TKU. TKU is their playground and de facto territory. I assume their parents or organization are the major financers to the university since nothing of their illegal activities have come out or have been reported. It does help that most of the students who go to TKU, their parents are involve with the Bratva. But I think there’s more to it. A leader conducting the ins and outs, observing everything and anything within the control and mitigating the risks of exposure within the virtual chess board. 

Jeremy Volkov. 

He is definitely the brains among the future members of the Bratva. From what I was able to read in the file, from what little info the clan got from the Volkov Family, if he inherited his father’s mind and calculating nature, plus train by the man personally, then Jeremy Volkov is the one my shadows are itching to have their curiosity sate. I know it. 

Why Jeremy Volkov? 

Sigh. 

I have an unhealthy obsession.  

An unhealthy obsession of things that I want but can’t have. Especially things or in this case, someone who I find interesting.  

At this point, no point of denying it. What is it with my obsession to things that suddenly pique my interest? Dancing and ice-skating obviously from mama, knifes because of Midas, puzzles from Mikael and hunting with papa. These things become something I hold close and obsess about to the point sometimes I wonder if I have a mind of my own. If they were choices I made and not choices other people made for me. 

Yvonne molded me into something pliable and despite me being able to escape her clutches as much as I can, I’m still the little girl who just wanted to please everyone around me. Who follows the voices demanding me to be obedient and submit as my mind closes off from the world leaving me battered and bruised. 

Look where that got me.  

A broken doll with a fuck up mind.  

It made me have an unhealthy obsession over things. Wanting something that isn’t mine since I can never have them become totally mine. Since those choices were made for me. Aside from books, getting lost into pages and dreaming of ‘what ifs’, I pick up long boarding because it was what I chose for myself and it was my way to clear my head and just...exist. Just be me. No pain, no bruises, no tears.  

Me and myself. 

Now, my current obsession, a Bratva heir who I have no idea what they look like except for a name. Maybe I should have check Instagram? Why didn’t I think about that earlier? I’m usually not this careless. Maybe it’s me being reckless.  

Maybe it's just me afraid of being disappointed on what more I can I find. 

Maybe it's not just Mikael searching for an early death. 

I’ve been saying maybe a lot. Is maybe my favorite word now, is maybe becoming another unhealthy obsession of mine? 

I’m sure of one thing though.  

I seem to be seeking the end more and more these days.  

“Hello there, beautiful.” 

Upon hearing the sleazy voice beside me, my expression instantly turns expressionless.  

Seems like it's one of those nights. Here I thought I would be left alone.  

I turn towards a group of boys around my age slipping into my booth uninvited; two in front of me and one beside me, trying to get into my space. Despite the disinterest in my gaze and demeanor, their efforts don’t falter. They seem to take it more as a challenge and their intention, the way their slimy gazes look at me up and down despite the bagginess of my clothes, is clear. I’m their target for the night. 

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing here alone?” The one beside me, American judging from his voice, steals my drink. He gives me a salacious look and places my glass back in front of me but not before his pierced tongue licks the rim of the glass where his lips touch. The urge to shiver in disgust is strong but I held it in.  

His friends seem to think it's funny, snickering among themselves as I kept silent.  

I tap my fingers on the wooden surface. Annoyed. 

I roll my eyes and give a sarcastic smile to him, the leader among the three. 

“If I wanted company, I wouldn’t be here alone, now would I?”  

That seem to pierce the guy’s ego, his smile faltering while his friends kept snickering but one glare from him shut them up fast. He turns back to me, confidence return as he directs a condescending smirk.  

“Now, that’s not very nice. Here I am being nice and you haven’t given me a chance.” The guy knocks our shoulders together, placing his hand on my thigh as he gives me a squeeze. “We Americans need to stick together hmm. You seem new. Let us show you the ropes.” He whispers to my ear with a sickly-sweet voice that grates on my nerves. It doesn’t help that I can smell the alcohol from his breath hitting my ear. Effing disgusting.  

“No thank you,” I eat a fry, nonchalant at the unwanted attention. “I don’t talk with misogynistic pigs, especially a creep with no game.” 

His face flush red at the sentence. Spluttering at such blatant rejection. 

“Pig?! Listen here bitch-,” 

“Wow, we’re back to cursing. Just goes to show chivalry is dead.”  

I don’t take too kindly being call a bitch by some twiggy creep with ugly tattoos who thinks he can take advantage on me. The difference between Midas and the rest is that bitch to Midas is an affectionate term for me like how I call my brother jerk. Blame it on Supernatural. Me and Midas consume that tv series like a stranded man in need of water. Jensen Ackles that perfection of a man. Heart eyes.  

“Careful bitch, you don’t know who you’re messing with,” The guy growls and the sleeve of his jacket hitches up. I see a snake tattoo wrap around his wrist with the fang biting into the pulse point.  

I take hold of the half glass coke and rum. My fingers gripping it tightly. 

“Should I?” I don’t even give him the attention, focusing on my salty fries as I pop them one after the other. “You don’t seem much. I’m guessing you’re a lackey whose ego got boosted because you join a ‘fun’ club. How’s that working for you? Did you receive the recognition you expected?” 

My taunting does something to him as his hand quickly flashes to take hold of me, aiming for my neck. I swiftly lean back and with my hand holding the glass, splashing the alcohol to his face as a distraction. My action surprises the three of them.  

“What the fuck-,” 

But before he can even utter another word, I use the empty glass to knock his head causing him to smack face down on the table. I smush the glass to his cheek, the guy groaning in both confusion and pain from the added pressure and the sudden retaliation. A line of blood appears from his temple, staining the table and the bottom of my glass. 

His two friends sat there in silence, stun with the scene they witness as they stare at me giving a piece of my mind to their leader with their mouths open and eyes wide. Thankfully, the booth I chose is at the end corner of the pub where I had a view of the front door and it was next to the back exit. Also, the rest of the patrons seem to be minding their business so far, not having realize the scene that just occurred as I took a quick glance. I let out an internal sigh of relief that everyone was doing their own thing; guffawing over drinks and chatting over the sound of billiards. Small mercies.  

“Shit man…,” one of the guys sitting in front muttered under his breath, unsure with himself what to do.  

I don’t particularly care. 

“Hey,” I whisper lowly, a sharp warning to the guy at the bottom of my glass who lets out a pitiful wheeze as I add more pressure. “Don’t you dare touch your dirty hands on me punk,” I do not want to be touch by someone who is not of my choice anymore. “Or I’ll make you bleed more than this.” 

With that said, using the chance of the guy’s dazedness and his friends’ shock-monkey look, I make my escape. Jumping over the guy and giving a half salute to the bartender who has been silently watching us from behind the counter (probably to intervene if the matter got worse) as I place a couple of 10-pound bills as payment and extra for the trouble, I leave the bar through the back exit.  

A few seconds standing outside the back alley, I take a deep exhale and inhale. Making up my mind, I make a run for it. 

*** 

All humans predetermined from years before civilization and society were form share a set of basic instincts common to all species. These instincts are hardwired into our biology and even if we don’t realize it, it's a necessity for survival. 

Example, the Fight or Flight Response.  

Like now. 

I dash through the street, avoiding hitting the crowd as it would just slow down the momentum of my speed. I don’t stop despite the complains or hurls of insults I receive behind me. There is no point in stopping despite the burning of my muscles screaming for me to halt my movements because currently, I’m being chase by three hooligans who I just so happen to bruise the ego of one of them. Getting beat up by a girl might have been the thing that done it.  

“You get back here!” “When I get my hands on you bitch-,”  

Their curses towards me grow farther then closer then back again, shuffling back and forth. I'm sweating from all the running and the heat under this hoody. It's only a matter of time before I give out and make a mistake. I need to think of something. Something to get them off my leash and if I’m going to do this, I need it to be away from the crowd.  

Fuck...my hands been twitching since those three approach me.  

Can I really let loose here? 

Whatever it is, I need to do something. 

I turn into the corner ending myself running into another dark, narrow alley. It's fine, keep running, keep fucking running until you lose sight of the light... 

A high wall greets me at the end with the light of a dim, flickering streetlight at the entrance barely pierces the darkness, casting long, distorted shadows that dance ominously against the walls. The air is thick with the stench of stale garbage, the remnants of discarded lives strewn across the cracked pavement. The walls are scattered with layers of peeling posters and faded vibrant colors of graffiti. Dirty puddles, trash cans, broken wood among the trash 

I stare up at the wall, breathing heavily as I let the heat and sweat soak into my body.  

I give a quick glance to my surroundings; dirty puddles, garbage cans, the scurrying of unseen rats, hanging wires above me. No fire escape ladder. Fuck. 

My fingers twitches, my hands itch to ball into fists. Holding metal. Grasping a blade. 

The footsteps behind me grow closer, stopping seconds later as rough breathing bounces off the brick walls 

“We got you, pretty girl~.”  

I slowly turn back, looking at them with tired impassiveness. I pull down my hood, letting the cold breeze hit my skin to cool down as my legs scream at me. I wipe away the sweat from my forehead, pushing my hair back afterwards to avoid covering my sight.  My eyes focusing on them despite the lack of them. 

“Huh...two-toned hair. You think you’re all pretty and mysterious, bitch? After the three of us teach you a lesson and get our cocks inside your holes, you’ll think better than to disrespect me. You think I’m a fucking lackey, I’m going to be your worst nightmare!”  

The three of them stalk closer to me, their cackling sounding alarm bells in my head. Like hyenas drooling after prey, they’re starving and looking to sate their hunger. The reward after a chase is to feast and they caught a helpless prey.  

The sense of being trap tightens like a noose, the walls seeming to close in with every breath especially as the three men step closer with those twisted expressions, leaving no room to escape.  

They block my exit, their faces twisted in cruel intent. 

Well shit...I’m screwed. 

*** 

“Iris, compare to your brothers, you are not strong. Physically.”  

Papa stands tall before me with his arms cross as he grips a hunting knife in between his fist. His figure, a hulking titan compare to my tiny self. His detach expression makes me nervous, staring down at me, his 10-year-old daughter covered with mud and dirt from head to toe. I look down with a pout, staring at my muddy boots with my own small hunting knife, my hands behind my back.   

“But I’m still small.” I whine, pointing out my small stature as a 10-year-old. Of course I wasn’t strong, I still need to grow up! One day, I’ll be as tall as papa and as strong as him too.  

Papa nods his head, agreeing, but I know that isn’t the core issue. It's not my age, body size or my lack of training.   

“True, but that's not it. Everyone has limitations and not everyone can break through that limitation.”  

“But papa, you’re training me.”  

“Yes, so you can protect yourself and excel in what you learn. It's your effort and hard work that will prove if you can break through that limit.”  

My lips purse, still not understanding the layer hidden behind papa’s words.   

“What does that have to do with me not being strong like my brothers even with all the training we do?” I kick the dirt under my boot. So unfair.   

He quietly looks at me and steps closely. Papa crouches in front of me, his icy blue eyes meeting my green ones. He takes my hand; rough palms littered with small scars engulfing mine as his thumb brushes the back of my hand. The comforting gesture never fails to make me happy.   

I always love papa’s hands. They’re big and warm and make me feel safe. Protected.   

“Iris, my sweet blümchen, sometimes life can be unfair. You know this right?”  

Of course I know this. Life is unfair for taking mama away from me and papa, life is unfair because I rarely am able to visit grandpa, life is unfair when the people around me speak behind my back calling me a bastard child. Tainted blood.   

“As proud as I am that you have showed great improvement during training and finding your talents, sometimes it is not enough. As you grow older, taller and bigger, your strength and stamina will defer greatly to your brothers.”  

“Just say that girls are weak. You don’t need to sugar coat it.” Even I had to flinch at the bitter tone from my voice. I turn my gaze back to the ground, not wanting to see papa’s disappointed look since I raise my voice at him.   

Papa lifts my chin up to look back at him. There was no anger in them, no blankness like those times when he would attend meetings with his associates. No muted blues when he looks at me, always with those lovely blues, like ice glimmering in the morning light.   

"Blümchen, I will not lie to you. I’ve met many strong women, some even stronger and dangerous than men. Yet, we cannot always be confident and rely in just sheer strength. As a girl, you have a disadvantage when it comes to those attributes. Maybe you will be faster or maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll be stronger than others, maybe not. Maybe you’ll be a better climber than Midas.” He pokes my nose playfully causing a giggle to escape from me. The corner of papa’s lips lift. His tone then turns serious. “But that just means you need to make up for those disadvantages.” Tapping his pointed finger to his temple. “Your brain is a powerful tool, Blümchen. If you cannot take down someone with brawns, then use your brain to your advantage. You might be small but you have your agility and speed to your advantage. Use those skills and your brain to overcome your opponent.”  

I stare into papa’s eyes, taking in his words and engraving it into my mind. Taking in every single word he utters as if it was the guide book for life.   

I need to be a good girl. I need to be useful. I need to make papa proud.   

I give papa a mischievous smile. “Even if I have to play dirty?”  

He looks at me with amusement. A small smirk makes an appearance.  

“Especially when you have to play dirty.”   

***  

“...Why the fuck are you smiling?” 

I break out from my dazed state upon hearing the screeching from the guy, blinking my eyes several times.  

“What’s with the creepy smile? You think this is funny!” 

I touch my lips...the corner lifts slightly. 

Come on Hel. A little bit of patience never hurts. 

“I’m talking to you, bitch! Why the fuck are you smiling?” 

“Does it matter if I smile or not?” I back away from them, turning my body towards the trashcans. “You’re just gonna do whatever you want to me.” 

“I rather have you crying while I fuck your cunt until it bleeds. Bet you make a pretty crier.” He directs me a nasty sneer, barring his teeth attempting to scare me as the three slowly approach.  

Breath in, breath out. Breath in, breath out.  

Don’t close your eyes, don’t look away. 

Don’t make a damn mistake Hel. 

One thing they teach you is to not poke a sleeping bear especially one whose ego is already bruised and currently agitated, seeing red. That’s just asking for a beating.  

Well…I’ve never been known to keep my mouth shut. 

“I don’t think your pint-size dick will do any damage.” My eyes can’t help but give him a quick look at his groin. Yeah…not doing much there dude. “It probably shrivels up the moment you’re trying to insert that tiny thing into a girl. I bet girls had to fake their orgasms just to stroke your ego and make you come quick.” Damn, I can’t help it. My lips curve into a smirk and my eyes lit up with a mischievous twinkle that I know will make Midas damn proud. “Tell me, does it take you 30 seconds to blow your load, two pump chump?” 

With an animalistic wail, the leader comes lunging at me, his movements clumsy and fury clouding his judgement. I swiftly sidestepped with my foot out causing him to fall directly into the trash cans. He lets out a confuse garble of words from that position but I ignore him since I still have two more coming towards me. I see a broken piece of wood among the garbage and take hold of it.  

I’m not a strong fighter. I wasn’t able to bulk up and grow those muscles I wish I could when I was younger. I don’t have Midas’s titan-like strength, Mikael’s magnetism or papa’s cruel force of nature. I can’t keep up with them and that’s fine. Because like papa said before, I have something I’m good at.  

I’m nimble on my feet. 

Again, I avoid the second out of three charging at me, the broken wood swinging upwards. It connected with his jaw, a sickening crack echoing in the dark alley as he staggered back, clutching his face as blood spurted between his fingers.   

I’m elusive and agile. 

The other guy hesitated, but only for a moment as he focuses back on me after taking a quick look at his bleeding friend. He was larger, bulkier, thinking he could overpower me with sheer strength as he steps forward. One step, two steps, three steps back as he tries to grab me with every chance but fail with every move I make, evading his hands from coming near.  

“Stop fucking moving!” 

Frustrated, he charges, aiming to tackle me to the ground. But I was quicker, darting to the side and bringing the wood down hard on the back of his knee. He crumples with a howl of pain, collapsing to the filthy ground. I bring the wood up and strikes at his head, causing him to knock himself on the pavement. One down. 

I’m not known to play fair. 

Someone grabs me from behind, their hands on my mouth and nose, suffocating me as this person tries to drag me down. The sharp metallic smell fills the air around me and I panic as the paths of my airway are block. The smell of blood invades me and the rust starts to creep into me, my mind blurring.  

I can’t breathe... 

Those ghosts...reaching out... 

A palm tightly pressed against my mouth as I try to shout for anyone or anything to stop it. Shadows of cruel smiles whispering poisonous praises. Dirty lingering touches. Pain pain pain.  

It doesn’t stop. No matter how much I want it to stop, it never stops. 

It's always there, their ghosts haunting the back of my mind even when I lock it away. 

Beautiful, sweet Iris. Shhh.  

Breathe!!! 

I force myself back against the guy until the impact causes the one holding me from behind to flatten against the wall, knocking his body against the brick wall. He lets out a shout of pain when I gave a hard bite, biting into the meaty palm and the hold to my face loosens. Without hesitation, I roughly reverse headbutt the bastard’s face causing the back of his head to collide with the wall.  

“Fuck! The hell bi-,” 

Whack! Whack! Whack! 

I didn’t stop... 

Static deafens my surrounding. Haze clouds my gaze. 

I hear static, everlasting static that appears whenever my eyes are clouded by the hazy pasts that come to torment me.  

It never leaves me. Painting a red ugly stain on the white sheet as more colors are added as years pass by. The red glaring at me despite numerous colors making an appearance covering up the red. It's ugly. I fucking hate red.  

An ugly reminder that I can't help but fixate on because no matter how much I run, it won’t fade and erase the everlasting mark that started all my nightmares.  

The static gradually fade into the background as my vision clears. The cloudy haze disappears and I’m standing still with my chest heaving painfully, clutching the broken wood hoping, knowing, I’m going to have fucking splinters stuck to my palms and fingers Which are a bitch to remove. I don’t even register the pain because pain is the last thing I’m worried about.  

My eyes focus on the red at the end of the wood. Blood painting the weathered, dull brown of the wood seeping into the grain.  

How long was i gone this time? 

I look down and see the result of my action laying there still. 

Fuck Hel...do you not have any sense of control?! 

God...those bruises are going to be a bitch to heal. I almost can’t make out the face. Almost. 

Please be alive. Broken bones and a concussion are better than being dead. I can’t cause trouble on my first day away from my family damnit!  

I lean down, sighing at the cleanup I'm going to do if this goes south. His face was bleeding; cuts, bruises and all. I can’t determine where the large damage is with blood covering most of his face but from what I can, jeez...I really did a number on him. He is slump against the wall, limp and unmoving.  

His face is a swollen mess of pinks and reds, one eye nearly swollen shut. A deep, angry bruise stretched across his cheek; the skin mottled with blood vessels that have burst under the impact. His lips split and there’s a jagged cut above his brow where the wood struck. A slow trickle of blood still seeps from his nose.  

The moment I see his close, bruise eyelids twitch, I let out a soft sigh of relief. Conscious, at least for now. I place my fingers underneath his nose and yep, breathing. Small mercies.  

I shouldn’t linger here long. Anyone could stumble into this alley and see the scene. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what happened and getting question by the police is a definite no. Shit, but then these assholes would report me and they’ve seen my face…urgh, fuck it. Future me will deal with that.  

I stand and turn, about to walk away but I hit something as I take a step forward.  

“Ow.” I softly groan, my face smothering against  something like a brick wall. Well not exactly a brick wall, its more firmer and…muscular?  

I blink my eyes several times, soon realizing the wall I hit is actually a person and the bricks are a man’s chest.  

...Oh shit.  

*** 

You know, usually people who get caught beating someone half to death would start to panic. Fear clouding their judgement, coming out with all kinds of excuses to get away and the possibilities of what each excuse would result it. That's their first mistake.  

You’re already caught, it's not the time to get sloppy.  

But really, that's normal. People would panic and start to get anxious. It's normal human reaction. 

I should be panicking but I can’t even summon the energy to do so. Too much effort after all the energy I use from running and keeping those guys from getting up.  

Now, how should I- 

“You’re not running.”  

 I instantly go still.  

I froze and turn cold taking in the muffled voice, rough yet in control as he accentuated those words. Just three words and the tone, I know that the one my face is planted on their chest is of a different breed compare to the assholes who have been chasing me the whole night. 

Keen observation and sharp hearing are skills that you are either luckily born with or learnt and hone to a certain frightening degree. Combine it with your instinct, it can be a frightening mix that makes someone a lethal weapon or what I like to say, a hyperaware nervous-wreck. And right now, Hel, the persona of a bitch I crafted and trusted with to get me through every shitty, fuck up situation is clawing and screaming to me to do one thing.  

Run. 

I’m shaking, not enough to be noticeable but it would make papa frown. His disappointed frown appearing in my mind and I internally tell myself to get a grip on it. Just from his voice alone I’m like this. I haven’t even seen his face and that scares me more to see the person who is making me feel like death has just come to greet me.  

Taking a deep breath, I calmly look up to see the face of this stranger who has caught me in quite a pickle and what I see is my own pale, exhausted face reflected by the black visor of a motorcycle helmet.  

Tall. 

The first thing that pops in my mind is how impressively tall this stranger is. I had to tilt my head quite a bit just to get a close up of his face, which I still can’t see due to his helmet. The next thing I notice is his massive build; broad shoulders, wide chest and from the feel of my fingers against his stomach, muscular. I can feel the groove of his abs beneath the pads of my fingertips and see the hidden muscles hiding underneath the black leather jacket he is wearing, sculpted and perfected in a way that would be envy by the men who strive for such dedication towards this kind of physique.   

I’ve always been attuned to my senses. It’s a type of safe comfort towards the unknown that sates my curiosity and quench the fear despite the danger entitle to it. Sight, taste, sound, smell, touch…it lets me figure out what kind of beast is hidden beneath the skin of a person especially ones like this.  

I’ve been surrounded by men who strive in the dark and ruthlessness of the world, men who hide beneath a smile as they wear the skin of sheep yet indulge in the carnivorous appetite of weak prey, men who have hidden pain underneath bloodshed and metal guns, men who have the kindest hearts despite the scars laying on them.  

I haven’t made a decision yet what kind of beast I’m facing. But all beast share a common trait.  

Danger. They’re dangerous.  

“I’m surprise you’re not running…,” A gravelly voice speaks above me and it takes every muscle in my body not to be weak in the knees and fall in obedience. Theres something there, the immerse aura hidden beneath that voice that demands order and absolute submission. His hand wraps around my wrist, the black leather glove digging into my skin in a tight vice to the point I think he can feel my pulse beating fast against it. “That’s not very smart. Especially when you’ve beaten someone so brutally.”  

I muster up a weak glare, smoothing down the need to let out a squeak of fright.  

“You saw.” 

“I did.” 

“You saw the whole thing, you saw me getting assaulted and you didn’t do anything but watch.” Sudden anger spikes inside me, the need to snarl and scratch this person is strong and ever so tempting. His silence of my accusation means its true. He saw everything yet he didn’t do anything.  

You either choose to take action or ignore. That’s the world we live in; we either care too much or we don’t since its none of our business. But this guy had the nerve to watch the whole thing and not even do anything. Entertainment, that’s what it is.  

“Did I have to interrupt? You seem to be handling it well.”  

Every word is use with precision, carefully laid out that somehow…pisses me off. So well control, so emotionless. Fuck…I fucking want to scratch him just to get a reaction out of this smartass. 

“Yeah, well, I did!” I huff out and pull my hand but his arm barely moves from me tugging my hand back, his hand still gripping my wrist. “Would have been nice to receive some help.”  

“But you didn’t.” He grips my wrist tighter. I wince. “You didn’t need my help.” His voice is muffled underneath the helmet but I can hear the low growl, warning me not to push.  

He’s watching me. I can feel his eyes on my whole body despite the visor acting as a wall between us. Its…overwhelming. Not the usual looks I get but this one, this guy is looking at me like I’m an interesting caged animal that’s just ready to strike and he’s waiting for my next move. And I would have done it by now but there’s something in me (Fear? Indulgence?) stopping from doing so.  

Maybe cause I’m looking at him with the same gaze. Its reflected from his visor.  

Curiosity is a dangerous thing and I’ve never been one to shy from it.  

“Let me go.” 

“Why should I?” 

“You told me to run so I’m running before I get myself caught.” 

“A little too late for late.”  His leather thumb press against my palm and I let out a hiss because now I definitely know I have splinters. The broken wood I was holding falls to the ground, a thunk sound echoing in the alley. “I caught you.” 

I shiver at those words. The way he says it, the hidden implication in his voice… 

Fuck…why the hell am I anticipating something?  

“Why are you hiding?” His question catches me off guard. Hiding? I’m standing right here, bastard! 

“Are you blind?” I groan, trying yet failing again to escape from his grasp. “Do you need your eyes check?” 

The stranger, helmet guy lets out a harsh, low growl. “Where is that bloodlust? The frenzy manic girl who keeps bashing non-stop, bring her out.” He pulls me higher, getting close and personal that I’m just inches away from his face with my feet barely touching the ground. “I need to see it again.”  

Need... 

Fucking hell, what kind of psycho am I dealing with here? 

And why am I craving for it, this need to satisfy myself from the fear I try so hard to escape. This need to run and be chase and...be hurt. Has my brain been so mess up to the point that I’m finally craving to be maul?! Oh my god...no, no fucking way will I prove a point to those voices. Never. 

“Let me go, you fucking psycho!”  

I bring my lower body up and knee the guy in the groin. Aside from the uncomfortable grunt from the hit, the guy doesn’t let me go instead pulls me closer and his hand reaches out towards me, so quick I couldn’t deflect it if I wanted to.  

Even if I was told to never look away from my foe, the involuntary physiology response to flinch and close my eyes as I accept the hit is unavoidable. I wait for the inevitable pain, a slap or hit that I’ve train myself to accept and dull out...but nothing. I feel nothing. No pain.  

Slowly opening my eyes, I realize I’m being held against the man’s body, my face to the crook of his underarm. The scent of bergamot and leather invades my senses and my head is spinning at the overwhelming need to just...god, I’m pathetic. So pathetic. I'm intoxicated with the scent of a stranger that could easily break me in half like a twig. He could snap my neck with his fingers and I would die smiling, the last thing in my mind his scent. 

Jeez, I’m definitely fuck up in the head.  

“You should know not to have your back to someone with ill intent.” His voice breaks the musing in my head and I soon realize what he meant. 

While his other hand is still holding my wrist, never once letting go, his other gloved hand is wrap tightly around a guy’s neck. It's the leader of the three, the guy that kept talking shit and being all high and mighty. I totally forgotten about him, too focus on his other friends when he fell on top of the garbage cans.  

The leader has his hands on helmet guy’s hand, gasping for air and squirming like a worm as he tries to claw his (helmet man) hand off his neck. The unyielding grip does not dissuade him, it only tightens. The blue on his face gradually makes itself present and he’s basically choking at this point. The guttural sound akin to an animal getting slaughter, an ugly sound that makes my fingers twitch. I should look away but I don’t. And he’s letting me watch as he takes what little life is left in the guy’s eyes. 

“Don’t kill him.” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.  

The grip to the neck loosens but he doesn’t let go.  

“Why? Doesn’t he deserves it.” 

“Just don’t. Don’t...” 

“…Very well.”  

He lets me go, releasing my wrist as I fall to my knees on the ground. I sit there still, like a helpless child looking up at him with wide eyes. Waiting for something, anything. 

“Dare to move and I’ll take back my word.” He orders before dragging the guy to the side, away from me and into the deep corner of the alley that I could barely see their figures in the dark, and suddenly, throwing him to the ground eliciting an involuntary gasp of pain escaping.  

It's a wondrous and monstrous sight watching someone get beaten to the ground. Like a car accident you can’t just turn your eyes away. Each brutal punch produces a solid muffled thud that gradually turns into a more forceful, deeper, almost hollow sound, as the impact reverberates through muscle and bone. Each sound of exhaled breath, murky chokes of begging or grunt from the person being hit is silence with a punch that grows louder and louder into my ears. Almost like a vortex that I can’t escape.  

I hear the slight crunch of bone giving way to the excruciating act being directed towards the guy. It's painful, definitely painful from the sounds he is making. He isn’t struggling anymore and his voice has gone quiet, silence filling the alley except for the sounds of relentless punches.  

I can’t even move. My body doesn’t even try to move. I should run away since I have the chance to do so, he doesn’t even know if I move and disappear while he is pummeling this guy like meat under a mallet tenderizer. I keep watching and I can’t look away from staring into the man’s back, his muscles moving with such power and intensity that its...gorgeous.  

And when the punches stop, the sound of crunching bones cease.  

His chest slowly heaving in a control, steady pace as he walks back to me, blood staining his hands and white shirt, exuding this intense pressure that screams dominance and certainty. There's no fear in him, how absolute sure he is with every action he takes to a frightening degree that it makes me wonder what kind of life this person has gone through to gain such confidence in inflicting brutality towards other and not hesitate.  

The power in his stance, the control in his steps, the intensity in the air surrounding him like a demon who is able to conjure out shadows and enshroud it within my sight until everything around me is black with only his vision clear in my eyes.  

I can’t look away, I don’t want to look away from this demon.  

He crouches in front of me, watching me with such interest as if he is intrigue with my decision to stay. I see my own reflection. How blown out and dark my eyes have gone as I focus on this man.  

I look needy, wanting…excited. 

“You stayed.” His voice lace with curiosity. He sounds…please. 

Oh god… 

My body is trembling. My throat is parch. My palms are sweating. My fingers are twitching. 

He removes his helmet, those hands which had just been use to inflict pain on someone, carefully places it on the ground at his side.  

He pushes his dark hair back, sweat and blood mixing together staining the strong, chiseled face of this person. Sharp, angular features and those cheekbones, those freaking cheekbones that could cut glass.  

But what caught my attention first is his eyes. Those dark gray eyes bordering black, pulling me into its spell, enchanting me as I gaze into them.  

So lifeless, one would think they’re dead and maybe if they were woven with magic, one look would take someone’s breath away and stop their hearts from beating.  

Cause I think I’m not breathing with how painful it is to do so and yet my heart is thumping like a rabbit on crack.  

His gloved hand palms my cheek, staining me with blood. Its warm. 

Leather, bergamot and blood. And his own scent. 

Oh god… 

He is expressionless, no trace of emotion could be detected in that well-crafted mask.  

What am I trying to seek from him? 

“Such obedience. You’re a strange one.” 

He saying the same words as them but I don’t flinch away from his touch. 

His hand then moves, capturing my jaw in a firm grip that’s painful as his thumb press against my lower lip roughly. I can taste the blood and smell the iron.  

My green eyes stare into those dark eyes devoid of life.  

“Good girl.” He purrs, and I think this is the start of my demise. 

I’m face with a gorgeous nightmare and I can’t look away from him. 

Please god, don’t break my heart again.  

Chapter Text

Moments like this, I come to wish for solace of the mind.  

Disgust courses through my body. 

Its as if my body hasn’t catch up with the sordid past my brain has painstakingly blocked. Really, the human body and psyche are interesting. Your mind might be able barricade the dreaded demons and ghastly shadows behind an iron door, heavy chains nailed deep into it for extra security, but the sound of soulless wailing echoes within as a reminder that it will never disappear, even when you wish for it.  

It burns into my mind and left a permanent mark. I doubt I’ll ever be able to run away from it. 

But as papa said, the mind is a powerful weapon and I’ve managed to shield myself from reminiscing back. Its all static now.  

My body though, my body does not seem to get the message.  

You might be able to stop the memories from making an appearance but your body always remembers. And right now, my body definitely remembers. 

I let out a sharp gasp as my body is press hard against the brick wall, which I’m sure a lump will form on the back of my head from this man’s rough treatment. He might not even care if he hurts me because right now all his focus is to have his body etching itself on me. I bite my bottom lip to stop the needy moan from escaping because god damn was this man huge. His entire larger than life frame, hard and perfect, easily covers mine and my breath hitches when his knee presses between my legs, pressing that sensitive area that has been making its appearance known since I first laid eyes on black abyss. I had to remind myself from humping his knee like a bitch in heat.   

“Look at me.” He growls deeply against my ear, his hot breath sending shivers of delight down my spine. God, how wrong this is despite how good he makes me feel in the moment. His strong fingers painfully grip my chin and makes me turn to face him. Again, I’m face with those eyes that call for death, seeking to tear my soul and leave me broken wanting more. “You don’t look away from me. Keep your eyes on me, little manic.” The warning in his voice isn’t a joke, he might just kill me if I even look away just for a bit.  

My eyes stare into his despite the glassiness of my sight, hoping he doesn’t see the fear and excitement shining through them. I should never show my honest feelings in front of a beast; fear fuels them, hot blood bubbling to see more dread and excitement only adds on the trill before they dig their fangs and claws on a captured prey. Feasting on a well-caught meal.  

Well fuck him.  

A prey is only a prey when they give in, even when the light in their eyes are snuff out and a flicker of it is all left in the quiet darkness, you don’t give in.  

I won’t give into this beast.  

“Aww shucks. Did the scent of blood get into your head, stranger? You looking to pummel me into the ground? Might need to give me a head start, since I’m much smaller than yah. Only fair.” I taunt him with a playful grin, applauding myself for not enabling the squeaky voice to make an appearance. Cause that would be embarrassing.  

His glare only sharpens at the insolence in my tone. The other hand gripping my shoulder tightens and I clench my teeth together not giving him the chance to see the pain he inflicted on me.  

What a brute. You are not getting a reaction out of me, beast.  

“That’s a good look on you, but I think you need to redirect that anger to someone else. We got another body that hasn’t been bruised too bad. Maybe start there?” I glance towards the big guy on the floor who I struck on the back of the knee and head. He was less hurt compare to the other two and I think he’s conscious because I saw him stop breathing for a long second when I mentioned it before his back shows the sign of breathing. Up and down, up and down. Almost therapeutic.  

My chin is tilted harshly to face him, gaining back my attention due to my wandering gaze. Those dark eyes seem even darker if it was possible.  

What a set of gorgeous nightmare-fueled eyes.  

“Don’t. Look. Away.”  

“Give me a reason not to look away.” 

Suddenly I felt the the disappearance of his grip from my chin swiftly strike to my throat, his hand clamping around me hard taking my breath away. With the space between his thumb and index finger pressing against my neck, I was finding it difficult to breathe even with the quick, short breaths I manage to take in. My fingers shakily claw his hand, a fruitless attempt to loosen his hold due to my nails sharply biting into leather. All I could do was give him a scathing glare as I try my best to push his hand from adding more pressure to my throat 

He leans his face closer to mine, deeply inhaling before I hear that deep throaty growl. That sound should be illegal.  

I can feel his chest moving accompanying his breathing, his heartbeat a strong, steady rhythm that echoes into my ear and vibrates throughout my body. It’s an innocent yet sensual kind of sensation that causes my body to involuntarily react in a way that makes me hate myself.  

He is way too sexy this demonic brute. 

Just from his dark eyes my heart embarrassingly beats hard and loud. Just from his voice, rough and cold yet smooth like whiskey neat I tremble in place. Just from his subtle yet commanding scent of muscularity fills my mind with a sense of need and want of devious things I would do for him. 

Just from the harshness and unforgivingness of his touch, my core clenched with needy emptiness.   

Fucking hell Hel. You are one mess up doll. 

It’s a battle between two opposing wills, fighting for a sense of control to triumph over the other and I’m in a losing battle because my body decides that it’s attracted to the beast who is choking me to death and making me lose my breath. And not in a cute way.  

“Ease up on the grip. Humans need to breathe.” My tongue peeks out, nervously licking my lips and I see his eyes tracking the movement. His calculative gaze narrowing by the second and fingers adding more pressure. I let out a slight choking noise from that, my throat burning. “Ease up!” 

“You talk too much. I preferred when you stayed obedient like before.” The guy says, almost sounding bored and his eyes lack the twinkle in the sea of darkness I saw moments ago after he brutally massacred someone with his fists. But his grip did lessen and I could breathe normally. Small mercies.    

“If you’re looking for obedience, I’m not your girl.” And I will never be that girl again if I have any say in it. I won’t.  

“Now that’s a lie.” He whispers lowly, his voice darkens in a way that should remind me of nightmares, instead, I’m craving for it, trembling in temptation to what that voice can do for me, to me. “I told you to stay and you stayed. One word from me and you’ll be my good girl.” His knee starts slowly rubbing my center and his thumb gently rubs the pulse point of my neck. I softly gasp as my body shakes, reacting towards his touch so willingly despite my brain telling me to stop. It doesn’t help that I can feel his hardness pressing against my pants and good god, was he carrying a weapon because boy was packing and ain’t afraid to show it. “I’ll make you submit, little manic and when you do, you’ll be begging to have me fucking you to the wall.” He clamps his teeth into my neck, biting into my tender skin as a jolt of pleasure send shockwaves into my body. I let out a scream but even my voice wasn’t letting out a sound.  

Oh shit. 

My body had an instinctive reaction to his presence, a primal response that I couldn’t control. A need I haven’t let myself fully allow to indulge because lack of control was not something I was willing to let go. After years of letting someone else control my life, you think I let some pretentious brute get the best of me? Hell no. But like I said, my body has a mind of its own and the natural response to being grope albeit with a bit of roughness and a tinge of dangerous in the mix, I was gushing like a fountain.  

Once a slut, always a slut. You’ll never be able to escape me, sweet Iris.   

…Fucking voices. You don’t need to tell me how fuck up I am. I know.  

None of that because I think my assailant is getting a bit too angsty. Again, I felt his fingers giving a warning press to my throat. His teeth release the side of my neck, lips lingering at the place where I knew a teeth mark would be making an appearance. “Where’s that little head of yours gone to, little manic?” He rasped, anger fueled in that controlled voice of his. “Your attention should be on me.” 

As his gaze locks on mine, a wicked glint in those dark beautiful eyes, my nipples hardened beneath my clothing, electric charges flickering across my skin. My core softened, the damn traitor aching with a need that pulses with every beat of my heart. I could feel the wetness that started as arousal from being treated harshly becoming too much to ignore as its staining my thighs and it’s just getting started, leaving me with an unbidden response to the raw attraction he exuded.  

I was caught in his dark spell, a wave of lust and need that left me breathless and craving for more. 

He could hurt me…and I would gladly let him if it meant his mark stained the dirty white sheet of my life. 

This…is a mistake. 

The stranger lets out a grunt when he felt something at his side. I don’t look away from him as his gaze turns downward, seeing a mini switchblade implanted into his waist. His white shirt was starting  to show red and it wasn’t the one coming from the guy he punched. He slowly looks back at me, disbelieve clouding his gaze at the sudden action as I impishly grin at him. 

“Did you just-,” 

Before he could utter another word, I knock his head with mine. The collide to our skulls made it possible for me to escape his grasp but both ending us with equally dizzy spells.  

I took a few steps away from him, far enough that I can take a few seconds to myself to tend with the headache. “Fuck. That hurts…” I grumble, my palm pressing against my forehead where I headbutted the guy. Though, despite my dizziness, I kept my gaze on the beast who stood there looking at me. This time that expressionless face was exchange with one of shock…and pleasure. 

This is the thing with natural predators. They have the looks, charm and presence that makes it difficult to stay away. How they could blend in, how they were often attractive and agreeable, luring you in until it was too late. With these kinds of people, you have to unravel them skin by skin until you can see the beast hiding behind the mask.   

This predator though, this nightmare of a beast…he’s an open book shrouded in darkness and immerse himself in it. A self-control beast who doesn’t cower in his savageness and stalks their prey with an intense need to make them submit and beg. The one kind of beast who knows their limits, manipulating their surrounding with a calculative mind. A control beast knows when to stop and wait before striking… 

I’m almost afraid what happens when he lets himself go. 

“You stab me. You actually stab me.” The corner of his lips quirk upwards, a smile threatening to make an appearance. “Now you’re making this quite interesting.” He steps forward, his intense gaze showing me how he was brimming with energy for a chase. Following my every movement, calculating my next action. He was a hulking figure but the quiet steps towards me and the way he carries himself…fuck me, he’s a natural at this.  

A bonafide natural predator.  

“You gonna run, little manic? Any more knives you have on you? Because you can keep stabbing me but I’ll get my hands on you and when I do, you’re not leaving with one teeth mark. I’ll cover you with all the bites until your skin is left nothing with my marks and have you fill with my cum if I have my way.” He taunts me with that rough, deep voice of his, undeterred with the switchblade sticking to his side. Man has no pain and boy, do I find that hot. “So be a good girl and let me gobble you up to the bones.” 

My face burns hotly.  

“Stop talking like that! And, and stop calling me that.” 

“Ah, my mistake. Would you prefer ‘the little bitch who tried to stab me?” He snaps. 

“Correction. I did stab you, fucker.” And why isn’t he in pain? He just got stab and he doesn’t look effected at all! 

“Stab? This.” He waves his hand at the switchblade. “This is but a love tap. And I’m guessing you have a bigger knife on you that can make more damage than this small thing.” He glances at the pocket of my cargo pants. Well shit, the boy has a hound’s nose. “Why don’t we go another round and see how much damage you can make before I show you how much damage I can make.” He smiles wickedly at me and when he said damage, I don’t think he meant his fist or any sort of weapon in his disposal. I shouldn’t even be tolerating this kind of disrespect. Why can’t I even muster up a scathing retort when he’s saying the exact crude words others have said before?!  

Geez body, favoritism much. Of all times, now you decide to act like a thirsty hoe?! 

My cheeks are heating up and I think the guy can see how his words are affecting me. I can’t really hide how red I’ve gotten and fuck, why does he have to smile like that?! 

“Not interested asshole.” I spit before running off.  

I turn around and start running because if I stay there much longer I’ll be caught in his spell, ruin by him. I hope the guy doesn’t chase me because deep in my heart, a voice is pleading me to be chase and if he does decide to…I can only pray that I haven’t lost myself in the thrill and this sick need to be shattered and bruised.  

To be claim.  

I don’t hear his footsteps. Thankful, though my disturbed self is a bit disappointed he isn’t chasing. None of that, all I need to do is keep running. 

That’s what I’m good at. Running away. 

Then, from the dark alley, I hear his voice. 

“Run, little manic. Run until your lungs break because I’ll catch you.” 

My breathing turns ragged as I get out of the alley, passing by a bike, a freaking Ducati Panigale. I know its that beast’s and I can’t help but remember the bike and the plates. Just to be careful if he somehow finds me and decides to make word of his threat.   

Before I turn into the corner, disappearing like a ghost into the night, I heart his last words to me. Those words that will haunt me even in my nightmares.  

“And when I catch you, I’ll have you and you’ll never be the same.”  

Never. 

“Run.” 

*** 

The first thing I did when I enter my hotel room is lock the door.  

I lean against the door and keep breathing and breathing because that was the only thing running through my mind. Breathe.  

I know he wasn’t chasing after me. 

 The beast with no name. The demon with nightmarish eyes. The absolute devil. 

 He left me with a warning, a promise that he would chase me and send me to ruins.  

A chill snuck up to me. A chill that was equal to what I had endured before but this time, this time I wasn’t so sure if it was fear or anticipation of the chase that crawl into my bones. I wasn’t so sure if it was the attractiveness that he exudes, his roguish behavior or soulless demeanor that attracted me to that man. I shouldn’t even be attracted to men like him. Men who know pain; both receiving and giving.  

I close my eyes, deeply breathing.  

And I see his.  

Dark voids that invite me into the abyss.  

Its scary that the dark that I try so hard to run away seems to be inviting me and my feet can’t help but stop as I look at them. Dark gray borderline black.  

I’m tempted to walk into the darkness just because of those eyes.  

Shadows that crawl under my skin their fog-like tendrils whispering cold air does nothing to make me move as I watch those eyes watching me, staring into my soul.  

I tell myself to breathe, reminding myself I was safe. That no one could get to me and this was just my mind conjuring up repressions of the past. Always shadows, always voices, always the dark.  

The shadowy silhouette with those nightmarish eyes was a new addition.  

I didn’t want to put a face on it. Its enough that I feel attracted towards a psycho. I’m not going to make him one of my obsessions. That’s just asking for trouble.  

Opening my eyes, I soon realize I was in the bathroom with my clothes off leaving me in my undergarments. I stare into the bathroom mirror, just looking at myself. Looking at the person that I am.  

Blood smears across my face, the red looking like a beacon that should have me put into a  cell for questioning. I know my clothes on the floor were also  stained with blood. Hopefully no one saw the blood on me while I ran from the alley like a madman. Behind the blood on my neck, the bruised marks shape like fingers act like a collar. Blue bruises blooming and I touch them with a shaky breath. My fingers carefully touch the teeth mark at the left side of my neck and I hiss upon a gentle touch to it.  

I look like I’ve been maul by a damn dog.  

Fuck, did the guy break skin? I don’t think so but it was so obvious that one look would make people question my sanity to having such a mark expose so brazenly. Turtlenecks and hoodies then until these bruises heal. Damn brute. He should control his strength. Even my shoulder has a slight bluish tint to it from his harsh grip.  

Ok. Deep breaths Iris. Take your time, one thing at a time. First, lets handle the face. 

I take a wet wash cloth and slowly wipe the blood out of my face until all that’s left on my reflection is my clean, sickly pale skin, horrible eye-bags and a wiped-out expression that is in need of much needed sleep. I don’t even want to talk about my body. Ugly.  

I look like shit. Its especially more prominent with the bruises on me.  

I look at myself, checking for anything amiss besides the one I can see and thankfully, there’s really a lack of injuries aside from the bruises. Well, except for the splinters on my palm. I need to see to that.  

My finger twirls the strand of my hair, the black mixing with the smoky gray at the ends. I’ll need to re-dye it. The color is fading.  

I stare into the mirror, taking it all in. The imperfections on me. Yvonne expected perfection, no one could be perfect. She moulded me to be perfect.  

I look nothing like perfect. Not as perfect as mama.  

Its almost laughable how much I resemble my mama, gaining all her features from the color of her eyes to the shape of her face yet still unable to achieve her brightness and spirit . As much as I love having a piece of her with me by just looking at myself in the mirror, sometimes I wonder if papa just took me in as a reminder of the woman he lost and is trying to make up for the guilt.  

Not for the sake of wanting me, but for mama.  

I can’t blame him. Mama was a woman difficult to forget. 

I let out a tired, long sigh.  

Great first day away from the family. And here I was thinking I wouldn’t be caught in any trouble.  

There’s a possibility those guys will come after me if they seek revenge. I did cause a bit of damage to one of them. If I happen to come across those hooligans again, well, I’ll just have to deal with them like I usual would. Maybe with no blood dirtying the floor if possible. Hopefully with less screaming. I have enough blood shrill screaming in my head. 

I close my eyes, again taking in a deep breath.  

My head…its quiet.  

For once, ever since the nightmares began, those mocking voices didn’t make their presence known. Except one.  

Run.  

The one that keeps repeating in my head is his. 

*** 

“Well…this place is impressive.” 

The Royal Elite University took a huge chunk north of Brighton. The campus spanning far and wide with academic buildings for each universities along with their perspective majors and a large field where I assume sports and outside curriculums take place. Wait, are those stables? They have horses?! I’m definitely taking one for a ride when I get the chance. 

The architecture and atmosphere of the campus reeks English aristocracy, welcoming and intimidating you in with the metal gate designed in a way that I would re-imagined as the gate of Olympus; bold and opulent yet gilded with tales of secrets and mysteries just waiting to be unravel. There is even a golden lion holding a key sitting on top under which is the name ‘Royal Elite University’ in sophisticated writing.  

I should take a picture of the lion and send it to my brothers and papa. And grandpa. Grandpa would definitely call it fancy in that sarcastic grunt of his.  

It’s a luxurious campus alright, suitable for the wealthy and posh children from affluent families.  

And sharing the same space as REU is TKU with the high wall between them acting as a barrier to distinguish the invisible line between both campuses. A tall brick wall that stretches along the perimeter to prevent the students from breaking in. 

One that can’t be climbed or jumped over.  

But none of that. I’m stuck in a predicament of sort.  

Standing in front of the first building I encountered when entering the campus, I huff in annoyance as I look at the timetable emailed to me along with a map of the vicinity. I’ve been walking in circles for quite some time now, tugging my luggage around while taking care that my bag pack doesn’t slide off from my shoulders since I also strapped my long board on it.  

I’m lost. I’ve been walking in circles for a good solid 30 minutes give or take and I then soon realized I ended up back at the first place I was. How is it that I can get lost when I literally have a map of the campus?   

I have been aimlessly navigating the campus and despite the help of the useful signs stating the directions and  names of the building, I am still unable to locate my dorm building. This really isn’t my day is it. Someone give me a miracle.  

I felt someone tap on my shoulder. A bit startled by the touch, I glance back warily but soften my expression when I see a young girl looking at me with a nervous smile. She looks to be a teen just out of high school with the way she carries herself and with her large, pretty blue eyes looking at me, its like I’m looking at a fawn. There’s even a little bit of gray mix with the blue. 

The girl is beautiful. She has an elegance to her from the way she stands with her back straight and shoulders back. Her petite stature, a few inches shorter than me and her delicate, small features amidst her big blue eyes and pouty lips honestly reminds me of a doll. Specifically, those fragile porcelain dolls. It doesn’t help she looks like a princess with her purple dress with lace and and silk. The opposite of what I’m wearing with my loose ripped jeans and black tube top with an oversized flannel shirt on top. Of course, can’t forget my trusty boots.  

“Hi.” Her soft voice ended my musing and I relax myself, not sensing any hostility from her. 

Can’t help myself from being hyperaware of my surroundings and people. It’s a habit at this point, a bad one.  

“Hi.” I greet back. “You new too?” I look at her luggages; a pink backpack with a matching suitcase. A fluffy kitten keychain hangs from her bagpack. Cute. 

She nods with a bright smile, her long brown hair bouncing with her movement. Gosh, its like looking at the sun. I wanna put her in my pocket and just carry her everywhere. 

“I didn’t know where to go but then I saw you standing here and thought why not ask. It seems likes you’re new too.”  

Oh, an American girl. But there’s a slight accent to her that’s difficult for me to distinguish with how easily she covers it up. Maybe she doesn’t even realize she has an accent. Well, that makes it two of us. I’m used to covering up my German accent, makes it easy for people not to dig deeper into my life.  

“I am. Getting my Masters here in Accounting and Finance. And maybe dallying a bit in ballet if I can make time. Nothing serious, just don’t want my dancing skills to rust while I’m hitting the books.” I jest, directing her a small smile since she seems a bit hesitant when greeting me. It seems to help since she is relaxing a bit at my attempt of breaking the awkwardness and also, her eyes brighten a bit from my words. 

“You’re also taking ballet? Me too! Wait, are you from the States?”  

Technically, I’m not lying when I say I’m American because I am, half that is and I visit grandpa back and forth in Louisiana. Theres also the fact that I’m technically still an American citizen. Makes it easier for me. Changing citizenship in Germany is a pain plus it helps in covering up my identity.  

“Louisiana. And you?” 

“New York.” 

“Ah. We best stick together then as fellow Americans and also, ballet dancers.” I chuckle and yep, finally she lets her guard down when she softly snorts. “Iris Reed.” 

“Annika Volkov. You can call me Anni or Anne, not Nika. I’m taking ballet in the School of Art but I’m also going to try and do the college thing while I’m at it. Still looking for something I’m interested in.” The girl, now known to me as Annika, sheepishly conveys.  

Volkov…Annika Volkov. Could it be? Its not to say that Volkov is a common name but what are the odds of me meeting a member of the Volkov Family. Is she related to Jeremy Volkov? Speaking of the man who has piqued my curiosity, I still don’t know what he looks like. I’ve been so preoccupied with getting a few things done and information of the island before the first day of my new semester that I’ve overlooked that simple task. But back to the issue on hand, is Annika really from THAT family?  

“-ris, Iris. Hey, you still with me?” A hand waves itself in front of my face, breaking me out from my reverie. Jeez, not the time to be lost in thoughts.  

“Sorry, that was rude of me.” I direct her an apologetic smile in which Annika shakes her head.  

“No, it's ok. You didn’t mean to. I know not to judge when someone gets lost in their head.” Her expression is kind, almost pitying as if she seen this before. Ah, there’s a story to this that makes me curious to know more, but none of that. I’m already acting rude. I usually don’t like when someone look at me like that, makes me feel that I’m weak for showing a glimpse of vulnerability to them that I seem to unconsciously do without realizing. The girl doesn’t mean anything from it. Despite me hating those voices in my head, I can’t help but spend most of my time in there getting lost. Sometimes I wake up not knowing where I end up. “I thought you got bored hearing me talk,” Annika murmurs, seeming like she stepped into a line she shouldn’t. Gosh, she sweet.  

“No, just thinking of something. And you can’t bore me that easily kid. Something tells me you have a bundle of stories to tell and I’m all ears for that.” I impishly grin to her slight annoyance, huffing at my teasing words. “Anyway~ I’m looking for my dorm and I assume you too?”  

She nods. “Maybe we can ask around.” Annika looks around and instantly brightens when she sees a group of girls and boys huddling at the ‘Olympus’ gate. She instantly hooks her arm around mine, dragging me towards them while I nearly stumble to my feet from her surprising grip. Geez, kid sure has strength in that tiny body.  

“Excuse me?” Her voice interrupts the conversation between the group as five pair of eyes look at us curiously. I was a bit overwhelm from all the looks we were receiving, not used to impromptu actions but kept myself calm, smiling and letting Annika take the lead.  

A girl with piercing green eyes hiding behind black-framed glasses is the first to address Annika and me among the five. Her mesmerizing long, silver hair akin to the main female protagonist in the fantasy novels I read caught my attention. Plus, her black shirt that says How About No tells me all I need to know of her humor.  

“Yes, how can we help you?” 

“The both of us are actually looking for the dorms and we’re kind of lost. I’m specifically searching for the School of Arts.” Annika glances at me, gently tugging my arm urging me to speak. Ah this girl. Fine, only because you’re cute.  

“Same, but I’m in the School of Business. If it isn’t a bother, could you guys help us?” 

“Are you two perhaps in the wrong university? Sometimes we get students who halfway realise they’re in a different campus. King’s U is that way.” A blonde bombshell points a manicured finger towards the other gate that heads to their rival university. She has her hair tied up in a ponytail with a few well place strands framing her flawless face. Her blue eyes, similar to the clear sky above, scrutinizes us up and down. She looks please with Annika, appreciating her attire since the girl is wearing something similar her. The princess vibes from her oozes, the perfect pair to petite, doll-like Annika.  

While me…well, at least she isn’t commenting anything aside from her pursed lips. I probably looked like a peasant standing beside Annika who proceeds to explain our predicament. Afterwards, promptly introducing herself. A natural social butterfly this one. 

“I’m Annika Volkov, by the way. You can call me Anni or Anne. Just not Nika. I’m taking ballet while also doing college at the side. Its nice to meet you all. I’m sure we’ll get along.” She brightly exclaims like the sunshine she is.  

Which I also do the same from Annika silently insisting me to mingle. She has sharp elbows. 

“Iris Reed, I’m taking my Masters in Accounting and Finance. Hope to get along with you guys.” I say which Annika finds my lack of enthusiasm unacceptable. 

“Sorry about Iris. She’s grumpy and not use to people.” Annika quips, poking my cheek urging me to smile. This brat. We just met and you’re already being quite friendly.  

Annika’s bubbly and cheerful nature seems to have won them over as the group in return introduces themselves to us.  

The silver hair girl who looks like she would be perfect as a fantasy heroine and is the ‘mother’ of the group is Cecily Knight, a psychology major. The blond goddess with a sassy attitude, Ava Nash who is a cellist, studying classical music. The last girl in the group who so far has been the quietest among the three girls is Glyndon King.  

Her blonde hair flowing down her shoulders reminds me of sweet honey  and those deep green eyes enchanting like the lush forest after rain. She’s a petite one, a few inches shorter than Annika and she gives off the vibe of a nervous rabbit from the way she keeps looking behind her shoulders as if she’s trying to sense someone out and the slight twitchiness she’s hiding from her friends. She’s nervous, keeps rubbing her palm to her shorts. A nervous habit…well it takes one to know one.  

“You seem nervous.” I quietly say to Glyndon.  

Annika has already been stolen away by Ava who is closely admiring her dress and chatting about the current fashion and trends with Cecily watching over them. Those two are probably going to be new besties in a couple of minutes from the way they’re interacting. 

Glyndon had been spacing out the whole time, answering only when the conversation is directed to her. She breaks out from her stupor when I address her suddenly, surprise that I taken notice of her.  

“Umm, first day jitters.” She says lamely, again wiping her palm to her shorts. Seems like she’s hiding something. Though, it could be the lack of sleep, assuming from the dark eyebags she covered with concealer, is making her jittery and lost in her own mind. I’m not gonna push her to share. We just met and she wouldn’t be sharing her secrets to a total stranger she just met. Any sane person would do so.  

I pull out something from the pocket of my flannel. 

“Palm up.” Confusion can be seen from Glyndon’s eyes, puzzle by my words but she obediently does as told, having her palm up in front of me. I place something on her palm. 

The dumfounded expression on her is the second highlight of my day besides meeting Annika. 

Three Hershey’s Kisses.  

She quirks a brow at me, the nervous demeanor she carried fading into bewilderment at the candies given to her. “Chocolates?” 

A smile easily makes its way on my lips. “Sweets help in calming the nerves.” With that said, I pull out my own comfort candy in the form of lemon drops, unwrapping the plastic and popping one into my mouth. Mmm, just nice.  

We look at each other, muted green against dark green. She looks at the candies, confounded with the innocent gesture, silently complementing if there is a hidden agenda behind the treats before looking back at me. 

“I do like chocolates...,” She mutters under her breath, unsure what she should do with them. I crack the lemon drop between my teeth, the cracks turning into little shards in my mouth and the sharp sound bringing her out of her musing.  

After a long second, she takes one chocolate kisses and eats it, letting the sweetness of the chocolate melt on her tongue. And I think that help because the jitteriness she had the whole time seem to dissipate the moment she lets herself settle with the taste of chocolate.  

“Thanks. I...needed that.” I got a smile from her and internally pat myself on the back for doing a good deed. 

“No problem, Glyndon. I always have something sweet on me, for someone sweet.” I teasingly wink at her which causes her to blink her eyes, surprise with my flirtation before softly chuckling, looking amuse.  

The awkwardness between us breaks like that and she stands beside me, silently watching her friends (mostly Ava) bully Annika into answering questions after questions of herself and Annika is chatting away, happily in tune with her extrovert self. Sorry Anni, I wasn’t much of a talker.  

The comforting silence between me and Glyndon was just the thing I needed to keep myself grounded and aware of my surroundings as we quietly chatted between ourselves, with her telling me the major she’s taking, studio art, and more about the campus. I take note of the important buildings I’ll probably frequent during my semester here, listening to her voice with a nod and hum. And because of me being hyper-focus, I could sense the sharp glare burning a hole on my back just wishing for my demise. The constant illusive stabbing motion intensify when I ‘accidentally’ brush my arm against Glyndon.  

I glance behind my shoulder, causal yet sharp eyes observing for anything amiss and the ominous gaze thats been on us for the last couple of minutes disappears.  

Huh…interesting. 

I should properly look out for Glyndon from time to time. 

“My, my, my, what do we have here?” A playful voice penetrates the space between Glyndon and me, snaking their arms around our shoulders. I tense upon the sudden action. “Sharing sweets you two without offering my lordship a morsel of the treats? Shame upon you!” Remington Astor expresses in faux hurt, making a show by placing his palm to his chest before directing me a charming smile. “Now mon petit gâteau , feed me a kiss.” He shamelessly expresses, uncaring of the word personal space. I’m almost, almost tempted to just flick his forehead for that cringy sentence. Well...it's kind of hypocritical for me to do so since I did say something similar to Glyndon. 

Remington Astor or lovingly called Remi whose charming demeanor and easy smile effortlessly attract others to him. He is quite tall, but not as tall as the demon with soulless eyes a few days back. His mischievous brown eyes looks at me, waiting for something or maybe looking for my acknowledgment to his presence, or both. Could be both.  

I place a Hershey’s Kiss to his lips which he takes in with a pout despite rolling the candy inside his mouth.   

“I would have preferred a kiss but this will do.” He sighs dramatically, eliciting a quick, short laugh out of me which greatly pleases Remi judging from how his expression brightens. “She laughs!” 

Glyndon rolls her eyes at Remi. “She’s not a robot, of course Iris is gonna laugh at your foolishness.” 

“Well you can’t blame me. I thought we were getting another spawn 2.0!” 

Said person stands in front of us ignoring the shrill of being called a spawn. His boredom is evident from the way he ‘doesn’t give two fucks’ when Remi begins spouting complains at the other in regards to him messing with his lordship’s phone. I got lost during their conversation after I took a glimpsed of the phone and see an album filled with pornographic pictures. I couldn’t agree more when Glyndon called him a pig.  

During all that, Creighton King’s piercing blue eyes never left mine, or more specifically, the pocket of my flannel shirt which hides the sweets I carry on me. Being this close, I observe his sharp features which definitely gives off the brooding look that seems to be etch into his face and from what Glyndon told me during our chat, Creighton is related her. Cousins. Cool. 

Creighton has a bulky body and I notice the muscles hiding behind the heavy hoodie he is wearing. There are small scars on the back of his hands, especially on his knuckles. A sign that he used his hands frequently in something that causes it. His long, messy hair covers his blue eyes and I thought he purposely does it to ignore looking at peoples’ eyes but his gaze actually doesn’t stray away, staring into mine. The boy is kind of...intense.  

Pull out another batch of candies, this time three mini Mars chocolate bars. His eyes quickly look down my hand, gaze zeroing on the sweets.  

“...You want them?” 

A single nod.  

I gingerly give him the chocolate bars and he instantly devour them. Gosh, boy got an appetite.  

“Your hands...did you hurt yourself?” He emotionlessly asks while chewing, looking at my bandaged hands and my neck. I covered the bruises on my neck with concealer and as for the bite mark, I stamped a square size sticky bandage on because the mark was still glaring and people would just ask questions. 

“Oh this,” wiggle my fingers, wrap with white bandages. “Got myself splinters.” And wasn’t that a bitch. My stubborn ass didn’t want to go to the clinic, forcing me to do the job myself while I cursed in the hotel bathroom pulling out those tiny fuckers. By the end of it, my hands were trembling. Its already healed I guess, so I’ll probably inspect it again to see if bandaging it again is needed or not. 

He gives them another look and nods as if knowing what I got myself into, no further questioning.  

“We’re keeping her.” He exclaims suddenly in that quiet, methodical way to the surprise of Glyndon and especially Remi who is clucking like a chicken. 

“Whatttt???? You cheeky bastard, throwing away my lordship’s companionship in exchange for mere treats! Traitors, I’m surrounded by traitors!”  

“She’s feeding me.” Unbothered eyes purposely looking at Remi while he takes another large bite of the chocolate bar. Remi balks. 

“You’re even defending her. Wait...you’re talking, more than the usual required words per sentence! Ungrateful spawn! My lordship has adopted you into his fold and this is what I get in return. I’m disowning you!” 

“Don’t care.” 

Another shriek from Remi.  

“What are you shouting about now?” Ava huffily intervenes as she comes up to the two with Annika and Cecily following behind. Another spout of bickering starts, this time joined by Ava and Cecily who begin to poke fun at Remi and the group livens up as we walk around  campus, the group deciding to show us around.  

And all I’m thinking about is what did I get myself into. 

*** 

After unpacking my luggage and organizing my stuff, I was finally able to sit on the bed and take a good look at the place. It was a one-bedroom apartment with my own personal bathroom and a decently size kitchen suitable for a uni student who knows their way in the kitchen. Honestly speaking, it's quite a big space for just me temporarily living here and cost a pretty penny but its mine. For now, its empty aside for the furniture that came with the apartment and I’m just jumping to get start in personalizing this place to my heart’s content.  

Finally, I can decorate it to what I want. Maybe I can finally put a few potted plants, just to give some life into this place.  

My phone pings, indicating incoming new messages. I look at my phone, the messages coming from the group chat that I’ve been included courtesy of Remi. Apparently since I’m in the same business major as him and Creighton and have stolen Creighton’s stomach with his declaration of ‘keeping’ me (is sweets really enough to be accepted just like that?), the man has unceremoniously without me realizing put me under his wings. I’m still deciding whether I like it or not.  

Reading the messages, the group has agreed to go out for a night in town celebrating the new semester. This included Annika and me. Everyone will be gathered at the girls’ (Ava, Cecily and Glyndon) apartment for pre-game before heading out. Surprisingly, we all stayed at the same dorm building, with the girls’ apartment being on the very top and mine a few floors down. Annika’s dorm is in another building close to ours but judging from the way she was, I’m sure she’ll be visiting our dorm frequently. I won’t be surprise if she decides to move into our building. She and Ava really clicked from that first interaction. I guess Glyndon and me too.  

I’m still not use to this, you know, making friends. Friends were a rarity in my world, acquaintances were plenty. The children whose parents are part of the clan know one another and as the daughter of the head of the clan, they wanted to cozy up to me.  

Connections are everything, especially befriending the children of the leader of the Nachtnebel Clan. Thus, trust is scarce and betrayal is inevitable to gain an upper hand in obtaining a place in the clan. Ass kissing, fake compliments and sly remarks sugarcoated with half-hearted praises were the things my brothers and I were used to dealings with and due to that, we don’t let anyone closer than needs to be. 

Yet, its unavoidable to ignore them completely. You still need people to follow your lead to ensure the strength and power of the clan does not die down. The place as head of the clan has always been and will always be prized upon and as the head’s children, we are to take papa’s place especially with Mikael next in line, to the displeasure of many. I’m not kidding when I said we literally get death threats in a daily basis from people older than us, intimidating us to hand over the ‘throne’, acting like children in the playground fighting over a shiny toy. Power blinds you, it consumes you in the long run. 

And sometimes, those death threats come to life. 

And people wonder why we’re fucked up in the head with the things we’ve been through.  

Thus, playing niceties is a must and gaining their loyalty to ensure we have supporters when it was time to take over the responsibilities of the clan’s well-being is required. Every person has their role to play and as Mikael likes to say, sacrifices are expected.  

Midas and Mikael have those that have pledged their loyalty to them, the people that would take a bullet for them and a few close friends they like to call blood companions. I’ve met them before the few times I followed my brothers. I like them, they were nice.  

As for me, despite my status as the head of the clan’s only daughter, I was still a child born out of wed-lock. A bastard child belonging to my father’s mistress. It was difficult to make friends when I was a kid when the other children would taunt me about my status and I was a hell child who wouldn’t stand being mock and push around. Scuffles would have happen and yes, I was never able to make friends without being sure they didn’t have any alternative motive. 

Plus, those kids were only trying to cozy up to me to get close to my brothers.  

A fact that I would have never gotten the chance to even step foot on that so called throne those oldies yearn so much. And I didn’t want to.  

Like I was told before by one of them; women are ornaments, we are to be seen and appreciated, not to be heard and opinionated.  

Fuckers. 

Well, back on topic, I didn’t have friends due to the lack of trust I have in people and isn’t that effing sad. Urgh, stop whining Iris, it's your own fault for not letting people in. 

And why should you sweet iris, aren’t we enough?   

Fucking voices. 

No. This time I need to change. I can’t get stuck in my own ways and if I want to make my experience here worth it, I gotta interact, mingle, make friends damnit! And this is the first step, accepting the invitation given from the people you just met a few hours ago.  

I replied to the group chat, stating I’ll be there at the time everyone agreed on. Am I nervous? Why am I nervous now? It's just drinks and talking, yeah, just that... 

Fuck...I am a mess.  

A message appears on my phone, this time directly from Annika. Hmm, I thought she was settling into her place? 

Annika : You’re in your apartment, right? Please tell me you are. 

Iris : Yep, what’s wrong kid? 

Annika : First, don’t call me a kid. 😠 Just because you’re much older doesn’t make me any less of an adult. Hmph! Lastly, please, please you have to help. I think you can convince him to let me hang out with everyone. He so controlling! 😭😩 

Sorry Anni, you have invoked the big sister instinct in me to call you kid. Also, who is she talking about? A ‘He’? 

Iris : How am I supposed to help? And who are we talking about here? 🤨 

Annika : Scare him! 

I pout. This kid, the nerve of calling me scary. Just because I have a resting bitch face doesn’t make me scary...as long as my knives and needles aren’t within my vicinity.  

Annika : Don’t have time to explain! Heading to you as we speak, ETA in a few seconds.  

I frown at her reply and mutter to myself what she meant until I heard knocking on my door. Must be Annika. I walk to the door and open it, instantly greeted with a tackle and face full of brown hair. I nearly fell back but hold Annika before the both of us fall to the floor. 

“A bit of warning kid.” I grumble. 

“Iris, tell my brother I’m hanging out with you and everyone!” She exclaims with a pout, looking at me with those big blue-gray eyes. Urgh, she looks like a puppy. 

“What do you mean your brot-” 

“Anoushka, stop acting childish. Come here.” 

My body froze and nearly when weak in the knees when I heard that voice, that voice...that damn fucking voice that has been appearing in my dreams.  

Run, little manic. Run until your lungs break because I’ll catch you.  

Haunting me with that rough, cool collected voice that promises of sin.  

And when I catch you, I’ll have you and you’ll never be the same.  

Making my body tremble and heated just from the anticipation of what is to come.  

Run.  

A single command that had me gasping for air and every inch of my skin flushed as I shamelessly touch myself that night and came from just remembering his words, from choking my own neck, from my fingers touching the tender bite mark to my neck.   

Him. 

I shakily look up and nearly let out a squeak when confronted with the devil who has haunted my nightmares since I’ve met him.  

Soulless eyes meet mine and there was a twinkle in them that guaranteed retribution. The corner of his lips quirk into a smirk and only because I was holding Annika in my arms did I withhold the moan threatening to escape my throat.  

“We meet again, little manic.” 

I knew it was too good to be true.  

There it is, the fuckening.  

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 4 : JEREMY 

I found myself entangle of sorts with a stubborn, snippy little manic. 

Well, in this case, she’s a stabby one.  

My fingers caress the handle of the small switchblade, the sharp end pointed on the surface of the table as I spin it between my fingers. The metal gleaming from the light of the packed arena where students are crowding around the ring, cheering and shouting for the upcoming fight. Bets have been made, beer bottles have been passed out and the atmosphere heighten with adrenaline of the human nature to watch chaos befalling a poor, unfortunate soul. In this case, the most anticipated fight between Nikolai, the unhinged tank whose blood constantly boils and that boy who looks like he sleeps with the corpses of his foes, Creighton King.  

Nikolai is excited, has been since this morning with him talking my ears off while we were sweating it off in the gym. He’s cagey. I can sense the blood lust emitting from him since he hasn’t had something to beat into a bloody pulp ever since we landed on Brighton Island except for a few unfortunate souls who were measly grunts that didn’t make him pull out the big guns. So this fight is a good distraction for him.  

With Creighton King, it's easy to predict his thoughts as I observe from afar, the boy getting a massage and pep talk from Remington Astor. His expression as bored as usual despite the excitement of the crowd, yet his eyes held a fire that demands something to crumble beneath his fists. He too in a way is similar to Nikolai.  

While Nikolai expresses his tendency for brutality in the most expressive kind of way, open and without boundaries, Creighton was the opposite. He kept it in and unleashed it when the timing was right. Both are a force to be reckon with but in this, I would always choose Nikolai. He at least is honest with his tendency for chaos. 

The crowd is especially feral for the incoming match, acting like a wild pack of dogs barking towards a dangling bone.  

The noise...fuck, why do I come to these places? 

“Everything alright, Jeremy?” Gareth’s voice penetrates the noise surrounding us, my gaze focusing on him as I push away all the noises. "You seem preoccupied.”  

“Shouldn’t I be asking you?” I glance at the phone on Gareth’s hand, his attention despite his question to me was on his phone. He has been preoccupied with the thing, checking on it every minute and glancing at it with every ping of incoming messages or calls, frowning when it isn’t the one he is waiting for.  

It started a few days back. I wonder if it has to do with him coming back to the mansion early in the morning before the sun rose with hickeys on his neck. My insomnia kicked in thus I stumbled across him the moment he closed the front door.  I have never seen the calm, collected Gareth stutter so hard to make up an excuse. Maybe it’s the way his eyes trying to stare straight in a drunken-daze and the way he staggers in clumsy-like, a clear sign of drunkenness that causes Gareth’s inhibition to decrease. His friend was talking his ass off.  

I was tempted to let him continue but gave up on the idea because really, it wasn't my place to question my friends’ whereabout and demanding Gareth to explain his late-night tryst was juvenile at best. If it wasn’t a matter that involve the Heathens, the Bratva or the safety of my family and friends, yes these dumbasses somehow have become my friends, I wasn’t going to question.  

Gareth frowns at the device for the up-tenth time before finally putting it back into his pocket. With his arms cross, he had that put-off expression he usually has when he finds something…intolerable.   

“It's nothing.” Gareth says to Jeremy which really doesn’t help his case when he’s pouting, yes the ever so well-rounded person of the Heathens pouting. I don’t point it out, opting to drink my beer.  

“How's the wound?” Gareth’s gaze turns at the right side of my waist where the stab wound is healing. “You know, I wasn’t expecting you to come back to the mansion with a knife sticking out of you, Jeremy. You scared Nikolai.” 

“I wasn’t scared shitless.” Nikolai appears flopping down to Jeremy’s side of the sofa, half naked as usual with his knuckles still not wrapped and a towel around his shoulders. “I was infuriated because my bro isn’t fucking telling us who the fuck would mess with him.” He grunts out as he bites into the white bandage hard and pull, tightening them. “Fucking tell us already so I can kill them.” He mutters, the words spoken muffled by the cloth.  

“You know, they say people who often curse lack intelligence to back up an expansive vocabulary.” Killian enters the booth with that smirk of his accompanied with sharp blues eyes, fill with mirth on Nikolai. He sits beside Gareth whose gaze narrows, ignoring Killian who I know is itching to push his older brother’s buttons.  

These two have unresolved issues that span since childhood and no amount of therapy would resolve the unbridled animosity between them. One of these days they are going to trade blows to release all that pent up tension and hatred and it’ll probably be good for them because I think a good old fist fight is the thing they need to direct the unspoken words between them. But maybe I shouldn’t push my luck. If it was up to Killian, Gareth would be lying in his own pool of blood. 

For now, taking care of the Heathens is my priority, including controlling the men in my circle. 

“Oh, is that so? Well, I’d rather drop a few f-bombs than spend five minutes trying to think of a fancy way to say ‘I’m mad.’ Efficiency over verbosity, Satan’s Heir.” Nikolai barks out, annoyed with his cousin’s taunting. 

“I don’t know if its efficiency or just creative laziness.”  

“Hey, sometimes a well-placed swear says more than a thesaurus ever could!” 

“Both of you, stop arguing.” I close my eyes in annoyance, massaging the bridge of my nose thinking what did I do wrong to have them in my life. “I have a headache just from hearing your voices.”  

Nikolai has his arm around Jeremy’s shoulders, pulling him close with a dangerous grin on his lips. “Come on Jer, have a little fun will yah. Maybe if you tell us who the hell stab you, we could go and teach them a lesson. Show the fucker how we have ‘fun’ around these parts.” The threat hangs low, his airy tone hiding the fury hiding deep within since the few days he found me returning to the mansion with a switch blade to my side blood still leaking out. It might have been a small stab, but apparently little manic knew where to stab to give the most impact.  

Even after our trusted doctor checked on me and sewed me up a bit, those three did not stop fretting over like mother hens. Even Killian who seem unbothered by me getting stabbed was secretly trying to make me confess who did it and I’m guessing he and Nikolai had plans lined of what to do with my assailant. Those two plot way too much. 

The only reason my parents didn’t find out from the guards is from me ordering them not to speak of it. I even had to hide it from Annika because as much as I love my younger sister, she would have blab at our parents.  

“It's nothing you three need to bother about.” I take another swing of my beer, reminiscing the look of surprise of the little manic who seems to have occupied a portion of my mind and unfortunately, had acquaintance herself to Annika.  

The look on her face when Annika introduced me to her, the man who had brand her with a teeth mark into that soft, supple neck, as her brother was nothing but pleasing to look at. My little manic was shock, enchanting when her face scrunches up into that expression. It was quick, a flash of realization that brighten those dull eyes before it went mute. Seeing that close-off look on her face…somehow I wanted to grab her by the neck and choke her again just to see the fear so her green eyes would light up like back in the alley.  

Playing pretend doesn’t suit my prey. I wouldn’t want her to let herself think I was letting her go that easily.  

She can pretend to be normal all she wants, the girl in the background who listens and says what needed to be said, but that night, I knew there was nothing normal about the girl shrouded in moonlight.  

No normal girl would smile while beating someone up, no normal girl would stand there calmly as blood stains her skin, no normal girl would look at me like I was their messiah while I choke the life out of her.  

“You keep playing with that trinket.” Killian comments, looking at the switch blade between my fingers. It was a small thing, well-loved judging from the shine and care and also well-used from how the sharpness is maintained despite how worn the handle is. I had the blade on me since the doctor pulled it out. “Seems to me you’re interested in the owner of it, Jeremy.” 

This catches the attention of the other two who turn their direction towards the spinning blade in my hand. Damn Killian for being nosey. Gareth, always one to put the puzzles together, catching on fast to what Killian meant. 

“So, you do know who stabbed you.” The disapproval in Gareth’s tone is clear and I know I deserve it.  

I’m supposed to be the one with the plan, the one with a clear mind to make the hard and tough decisions with no hesitation pertaining me from passing judgement or punishment to others who cross my path. But right now, I can’t even convince them to leave this matter alone. 

We don’t take too kindly to people who ambush us out of the blue. We have ways to teach those who try and those results aren’t pretty for our adversaries. We give back ten times what they give to us and if they hurt the ones we consider ours, may God save their souls because the demons stop playing to drag them back to hell.  

They mess with one person, they get five monsters seeking blood. 

Being part of the Heathens, especially us as founders and also being part of the Bratva especially with me and Nikolai being heirs and Gareth and Killian being Rai Sokolov’s nephews, all eyes were on us. We have enemies trying to catch us off-guard and make us our parents’ downfall. Their kids aren’t any better, especially those damn Serpents thinking they could stand over our corpses and take our place, my place in the mafia. Bastards have no idea the self-control I have to not fucking kill them where they stand.  

Yet, I simply can’t do that.  

Killing mindlessly shows lack of control and discipline, shows a person unable to resolve situations without the use of violence. My family and I might be involve in an organisation where brutality prevails and revered but there were more ways to inflict fear in people without killing them in the process. You don’t gain loyalty from the people under your wing by mindless cruelty, you show them a reminder why you are not someone to mess with, that fear and admiration were one of the same.  

According to our usual modus operandi, we would ‘give back’ to the person who attack one of us, in this case me, and I would gladly let these doofus plan out and join them in the fun while mitigating the casualties and hiding our tracks. And I would have let them and enjoyed letting the beast out to sate its inner lust for blood. 

But I couldn’t…not her. 

It all came crashing down that night. 

That little manic just had to bring out the beast in me when I saw her.  

I saw her running from those men, knowing them to be from the Serpents when one of them wore a jacket of their emblem. Mindlessly riding my bike whenever the mood struck was something I do whenever the need to escape appeared and I see this girl passing by me, her mismatched hair flowing in the wind caught my attention, like a shooting star making a sudden and life changing experience in my vision, before she pulled it up and ran like hell had caught up to her.  

And maybe it did. 

Because those Serpents might be the underworld’s hounds but I was the Overlord governing over it. 

So I followed and watched secretly from afar, contemplating when I should interfere as I watch those men cornered her like a rat. Entertain by cats trying to feast on a squeaking little thing. 

But she wasn’t a rat was she.  

My little manic had a mouth on her. Those red, sinful lips that have been haunting my dreams and my mind taunt them, purposely seeking danger of all things despite being at a disadvantage. 

One VS Three.  

The little girl had balls I’d admit but even I know that was stupidity in the making when she chose that option. But she wouldn’t stop and that irked me somehow, how she kept the words going on and on towards those men. I wanted to shut her up; either with my hand to her breakable neck or my mouth on her kissable lips.  

Her words, her voice, her full fuckable lips shouldn’t be bestowed to them. Or anyone. 

I wanted them to be directed at me. 

And she went and gone done the opposite of what I thought. Rather than submit and scream for mercy, she picked up a weapon and strike while the coal was hot.  

She was dancing. Her movements were one of grace as she fluidly evaded and carefully gauge her aggressors’ movements. A bit shaky perhaps in the end since she decided to beat one of them to a bloody pulp.  

And how captivating she was in doing so. 

Flecks of blood stained her face, bringing color to pale almost sickly skin. Her grip to the wood bites into her palms, uncaring of the splinters of wood digging into her flesh and causing pain that seems to be non-existence. How her dull, muted eyes seem to brighten and lit in a fiery green flame as she stares directly at the man below her feet. How her lips curve into a wide grin, her teeth gleams like fangs about to be stained by red. Shrouded in moonlight like a ghost. 

She invoked the beast in me, calling to her, howling to join in the fun.  

The little manic enveloped in black with the silver light on her, scarlet decorating her skin. 

What beautiful sight. 

I could still feel her pulse beating beneath my fingers, the smell of her hair scenting my skin, the way she trembled against my body, how her voice ghosted into my ears.  

How her eyes looked into my very soul and how that night I stained my hands for another. 

I was supposed to be in control yet her very existence made me question what little control I had in me. She made the blood in me boil, my hands curve into painful fists and my cock harder than any women who had come and go. I wanted to rip off her clothing just to see what was hiding beneath all that mouthy attitude and make her cry out in fear and desire as I fuck into her cunt that night.  

She wanted me, at least in a fuck up way her body responded to my aggression. And I was determined to see where it goes.  

“You know the scum and you’re not doing anything?!” Nikolai hisses, this time fury clouded his expression as he bared his teeth close to my face. The urge to roll my eyes was strong but I held it in not wanting a punch to my face. Aggravating Nikolai before his fight was unadvisable. I rather he inflicts it to the kid on the ring.  

“I’m handling it.” 

“So you haven’t handled it.” Gareth interjects, a thoughtful look graces his face. “That’s not like you. Usually, you don’t take too kindly towards people who…attempted murder on you. And that’s putting it lightly.” Because murder wasn’t that farfetched for us. There are much more worse things than murder. 

“Come on Jeremy, just say the word, one little peep and I’ll go hunt them for you.” Nikolai says with too much glee in his voice and at the mention of ‘hunt’, the fur of my inner beast bristles. 

If anyone is doing any hunting, it's me.  

“I’m handling it.” I repeat myself, my voice growing an octave lower as I glare at them and the three finally figure out that I’m not messing around.  

They finally stop with the interrogation but I can see Gareth secretly judging my decision and Nikolai giving me the stink-eye. And Killian, well anything that doesn’t bore him is a plus including trying to get a rise out of me. He gives me a wicked grin, looking like the cat got the cream and if I wasn’t so used to his antics, I’ll be calling his mum to prepare his funeral. The headaches he and Nikolai give me. Though, recently he has been toning down, rarely bringing his fuck buddies to the mansion, finding them a bore and uninteresting. Something has been occupying his attention and I’m not sure if it’s a good thing or not. A bored Killian is predictable, at least somewhat. A preoccupied and obsessive Killian, that’s troubling. 

“So~ I heard our princess has a new savior.” Killian chimes in, pacifying the awkward tension yet adding more fuel to the fire. “Seems like someone isn’t bowing to you easily.”  

And how the fuck would he know that. 

I groan when Nikolai elbows me at the side a bit too excited for this tid bit. I’m just thankful it isn’t at the area I got stab.  

“Wait, someone talked down to Jeremy and live to see the day?”  

“She didn’t talk down to me.” I grumble as I push Nikolai away since he was leaning against me, weighting like a damn boulder.   

“A girl!” Nikolai guffaws, making me want to stab him just to give him a taste. The audacity of this bastard to laugh at me.  

Really, what are the odds that my younger sister would lead me to the little manic. Chasing after Annika due to an argument about her living situation and safety when I insisted she stayed at the mansion, I didn’t think her ‘savior’ would be the little manic who has been occupying my mind like a damn virus. 

She was an elusive little thing. It was a futile search when I looked around for her in the area where I first and last saw her. Even tracing back to the pub she encountered those Serpents. Nothing, nadda. The pub master confirmed my suspicion though, she was new to Brighton Island. That was at least useful. 

I assumed she was a student but I had no name to place upon the girl who looked like she was born out of moonlight. Even going through the entries of the new students for the new semester in the TKU database didn’t get me much. That left me going through REU’s which really isn’t a challenge since I hacked and linked the campus’s database to the mansion’s main computer when the guys and I intruded the main room of their security system the beginning of establishing the Heathens. 

Nikolai called me an overly, paranoid bitch, I’m just being cautious and thinking three steps ahead. Especially if I wanted to observe the Elites and the Serpents. 

It all paid off in the end. I found my little manic.  

Iris Helena Reed.  

American, 21 years of age, taking her Masters in Accounting and Finance. Her mother passed when she was young and her guardianship was taken over by her grandfather, John Reed. Her father’s name was not stated in the university database which I assumed when she filled out the application form for the intake her father was non-existence in her life. Her grades from previous educations were exceptional which surprised me because from the way she was acting, I thought she was the typical rebellious girl with a penchant for getting herself into trouble and the impending danger. Well, I’m not one to judge. 

 Underestimating your opponent is a rookie mistake, one I know better not to disregard. 

Just like I underestimated this damn girl.  

The moment she opened the door to greet my younger sister’s dramatics was the moment I knew this girl had cursed me. One glimpse of her face in real life after a few days of staring into her picture from the database had calmed the stabs of anxiety making havoc in my gut. That need to have her right in front of me and finally have the need quenched when she again appeared like a damn shooting star. I felt alive.  

It was instant recognition from both our parts; her eyes going wide when she realized who before quickly avoiding my gaze as she held Annika in her arms, patting her head like a coddled child as she reassured that “The mean man won’t touch a strand of hair on your pretty head, kid” and me, glaring holes at her with the intensity of a burning sun deciding whether I wanted to wrangle her neck for such insolence or continue marking her up from that night and finally have a taste of her.  

At that moment, I have never felt this intense need to rip my sister away from her and pushed Annika out of that apartment as I have my way with this green eye manic. Looking all vulnerable and relax, that lazy posture of hers hiding underneath all those baggy clothes except that glimpse of skin showing her stomach (I wanted to snarl at her to cover up) and those sleepy eyes looking at me as if I was one of those strangers she passed down the street and not the man who she fucking stabbed that night. 

Iris Helena Reed pissed me off to a point that I couldn’t explain why and I wasn’t sure what made her very being pissed me off so much to make her catch my attention.  

And that mouth, for fuck sake she was a lippy, little bitch.  

*** 

“We’re having drinks. I’ll look out for her.”   

Iris Reed, that’s the name of the girl Annika introduced me to.   

The girl who she befriended on the first day who so happens to be the girl with a knife. Said knife has cause a scar to permanently make residence on my body along with the other few scars I have on me.   

I quirk a brow at her nonchalant as she stands at the entrance, her shorter form blocking to not let me in. Annika was already inside, as per this girl’s request, watching from the door of Iris’s bedroom. The brat couldn’t hear our conversation from where she was peeking but she was watching us, making sure I wasn’t going to ‘attack’ her new friend. Thankfully for me, Annika’s view from where she stood was obscured due to Iris guarding the front door. She couldn’t see clearly what or hear clearly what we said. Good for me.  

“You don’t give me orders.”  I lean close to Iris’s face to the point I know she can feel me breathing down her skin, her blank, almost bored expression grating my nerves. Being this close to the little manic I could smell her scent, something I’ve been obsessing over ever since I got a whiff of it. I held the growl threatening to escape, this close to losing it and this just from smelling her. Fucking pathetic.  

The floral scent coming from her mix with subtle sweet, nutty smell from her hair are tantalising and the misplace strand of hair covering her face especially her left eye was annoying. My hand itch to brush her hair to the side…or mess it up when I get those full lips, that looked like they’ve been sucking on a lolly, wrap around my cock.  

 For fucks sake, what is she doing to me?!  

I bite down the need to make a fool out of myself.   

“She is my sister and as an outsider, you don’t tell me what I can or cannot decide for her. This doesn’t involve you, so do not dare order me around.”   

“It kind of does when she comes running to me for help.” She sighs and brings the loose braid of her hair behinds her shoulders, the black mix with grey disappearing from my view. Again, that unsettling feeling appears...   

“It's just drinks. Oh, but she’s still underage. I guess that is a problem.” Iris’s face scrunches up, contemplating. The way her gaze lowered, hidden beneath dark thick lashes has me convulsing in place. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t drink but give her a breather, you know. Hounding Anni isn’t going to help her in making friends.”  

“I rather she keeps to herself than make friends with the likes of you.”   

Iris’s dull eyes on me narrowed.  

“What is that supposed to mean?”  

“You know what it means, little manic.” I whisper to her, low and alarming as I got right in her face. Compare to that day, I can now see her face clearer. The small moles on her face, beauty marks; one at the corner of her right eyes, below her lips, at her right cheek and one on the side of her neck, close to her ear. I wonder where else I could find more on her body. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about that night. You think you can stab me and get away with it. You’re wrong.” I place my hand on her cheek, my fingers graze the curve of her ear. “You owe me a debt for saving your life, and I expect payment.” My fingers move to grasp her hair, taking the soft long strands and pulling her head closer to mine that my lips touch her ear. This close to her scent has me in a frenzy. The things I would do to hear her scream. “A continuation of that night.”   

Her eyes widen, the greens in them flickering like god damn stars as they come alive. Pale skin reddens slowly into a flush bringing some sense of life into her. Her breathing turns shaky and her heart I bet is beating hard and fast similar to back then. I know she’s reminiscing that night, with the tip of her pink tongue slightly poking out to lick her lower lip, a nervous gesture of being caved into admitting the pleasure of what could have been. My eyes darting straight at the shine of them.  

Maybe it’s the sense of superiority of knowing this girl would allow me a repeat of that encounter and be putty in my hands as I act on my instinct of tearing her apart. That night showed me that she wasn’t a sweet, scared girl. She was more than that. Hiding beneath an innocent guise of vulnerability with a mouth that never stop talking back. Always wanting to have the last say, always wanting to be heard.   

A brat that needed to be shown her place. Preferably on her knees with her eyes glaring up at me. Like now, except she’s not on her knees.   

“Safe me? You didn’t save me, asshole.” Lips form into a sneer as her glare tightens. “You assaulted me.”  

“After I saved you from getting hit from behind.”  

“Doesn’t change the fact you put your hands on me!” She hisses, baring her teeth to me. How obnoxiously…cute. “Don’t pretend to act all chivalrous when you would have done the same thing as them.”  

“Schematics.” I tug her hair, eliciting a hiss of pain from those lips. “Doesn’t change the fact that I saved you. Also, you forgot the fact that you left a permanent mark on me, little manic. I wonder what Anouska would think when she finds out you stabbed her brother. She’ll be devastated.” I didn’t tell Annika anything and I strictly ordered the guards not to. My sister is clueless about that night, from me arriving to the mansion with a knife through my side to me getting stitches. Iris doesn’t need to know that, makes the alarm expression on her face sweeter.   

Gullible girl.   

“You wouldn’t dare…”  

“Oh, I would.” And I meant it.  

Iris feels threaten. The fact I would taint the image my sister has of her frightens Iris that her voice wobbles into a plea, or what her stubbornness allows her to voice out in a weak bleat. Even now with the notion that I could make her entire world crumble in regards to the fresh, blossoming friendship between Annika and her makes me growl in delight, knowing I was in control of her fate.   

She may act all aloof and unbothered, but from the way I seen her defend Annika and standing up for the brat (Iris literally is standing in front of the door not letting me in despite the height and build I had on her), she didn’t want my sister to see her in a bad light and perhaps cherish this early bond between them.   

Somehow…relief sets in.  

Knowing Annika was in safe hands under her care and something in me trusted Iris when it came to my younger sister. I didn’t trust her fully, of course. I’m still going to hound Annika like a damn shadow behind her even if it means having her on house arrest when needed and put guards on her. To trust someone I barely know especially when it comes to my sister is the dumbest thing I could possibly do. Someone who isn’t part of our world, someone who has no idea of the dark lurking in the background of their everyday normal. Iris wasn’t part of that world but perhaps from what I seen that night, she had been through a tough childhood to have a knife on her person.   

Also, I think she is a dumbass for not using it the first place. She had a blade on her and she didn’t even use it. I knew she had another knife, a bigger one perhaps compare to the one she used on me and she didn’t even use it. Dumbass...  

Hurting her hands like that...fucking reckless.   

What I’m trying to say is I could put my trust on Iris, albeit giving her a bit of leeway.   

Was it because I knew she would protect Annika even from me or was it the fact I knew if needed she would carefully plot against me and do some damage similar to how she inflicted on those men?   

Both sounded troublesome to think about. I knew Iris would be someone troublesome, a pain in my ass to get involve with, whose expression was blank or too little to show but her eyes were the real show stopper, more stories than her face could ever tell me.   

Iris was an enigma and I didn’t have time to piece together the puzzle of her life.    

Yet, I couldn’t help but be drawn to this girl that could protect my sister and was prone to burst into episodes of manic. One doesn’t forget such an expression. Her face that night burned into my mind.  

Iris, the name of a fragile flower. There was nothing fragile about this girl. She might looked the part albeit the unbothered, tough bitch act made me grind my teeth but again, she wasn’t fragile. Breakable sure but not a fragile flower.   

Her hand, sly and quick, moves to grip the side where the wound was, digging her fingers in tightly like a vice. I hissed at the sudden grab.  

“You little-,”  

“You choose; either shut up or I make you bleed again, this time, with my fingers.”  

Her tone of voice caught me off guard.   

Cold, unfeeling, as if this was another day for her to get through. Her eyes that came to life just minutes ago were now empty. A blank sheet of green. She was looking at me, but she wasn’t looking at me. I was just another person to her. Another obstacle.   

To have her looking at me like I was like all the random people that passed by in her life…it fucking pissed me off.  

“You don’t know who you’re dealing with, little girl. Don’t start something you can’t finish.” I growled my displeasure, not from the pain of her fingers breaking the stitches. Oh no, at this point pissing me off with that indifference was foreplay between us.  

Her eyes locked on mine with a dangerous glint. “Oh, I know exactly who I’m dealing with,” she replied, her voice steady, defiant. “And trust me, I always finish what I start.”  

I raised an eyebrow, clearly not expecting her to stand her ground. My lips twisted into a smirk, but there was something darker flickering behind my eyes—something unsettled. “Bold words for someone who’s in way over her head.”  

“Bold? Maybe,” she shot back. “But scared? Not even close.”  

For a second, the tension between us was electric, like a storm about to break. My gaze flickered down to her lips, just for a second, but long enough for her to notice.   

(Iris’s heart skipped, but she masked it with a smirk of her own.)  

“Careful,” she said softly. “Keep staring like that, and I might think you’re interested in something more.”  

My jaw clenched, smirk faltering. The ego on this woman. “Don’t flatter yourself.”  

“Too late.” She lets go of me, her fingers releasing the grip she had on my injured side. She looks at her hand I follow her gaze and see blood on the pads of her fingers. The stitches broke then. Without looking, I covered the area with my leather jacket, knowing my blood is staining the shirt I’m wearing. Annika shouldn’t see this.   

“Red…,” Iris whispers, her eyes looking at the pads of her bloody fingers. Enchanted by the color of my blood. She would look good covered in my blood. She looked good with that Serpent’s blood on her…  

Another involuntarily growl escapes my throat.  

I should have used my blood to color her that night.  

Her green eyes turn upwards to look at me, fluttering those lashes like fragile butterfly wings charming me closer to touch before trapping me into an endless void. There is no shroud of innocence in this woman, I know better than to be allure by such deception.   

But then I see it again, that glint of manic in her eyes as she swipes down a straight trail of red at the side of my neck just behind the collar of my jacket making it hidden from plain sight to those who do not look closely.   

“Red looks good on you, Volkov.” Her fingers tap my pulse.   

My breath hitched—barely noticeable, but it was enough. Enough for her to know she had rattled me, maybe more than I was willing to admit.  

And she couldn’t help but smile.  

“Cute.”  

***  

That. Damn. Fucking. Smile. 

How is she both infuriating and bewitching?! 

I wanted to crack that mask.  

Make her crack and shout and scream and show me how out of control she could get. 

Just a glimpse. Just the tip of the iceberg. There was more that she wasn’t letting show.  

One thing I know. She had caught my attention, becoming an anomaly that would disrupt the normalcy of my life. 

And I wanted her to pay for catching my attention because catching my attention was the last thing she should hope so. The itch becoming more and more uncontrollable by the day. I needed a fix, something to get the edge off. And this little manic was the one. 

Iris Reed was unpredictable.  

That night showed me how she was both in control and not in control of herself. Something I seen in our line of work. Being raised in the mafia, I saw things a child shouldn’t. I was taught to observe; watch and wait for signs and decide on the course of action that is most suitable while minimizing the damage.  

Being Adrian Volkov’s son and heir, high expectations were expected from me. Filling his shoes, upholding his legacy and being a better version of him...I wasn’t my father, I could never be my father.  

I was Jeremy Volkov and I would guide his empire to be better, bigger, a legacy he would be proud of. That was my role and future and I would proudly take on the challenges that come from being part of the underworld.  

A singular road stained with blood and bullet holes oozing with it. 

As I said, I have seen things. And I know when someone suddenly snaps and lose sense of reality. They get lost inside their mind and built up a defense mechanism that becomes both a safe haven and cursed prison to them. 

At least I have something hanging on top of her head... 

I could easily subdue her but I have a feeling Iris was a calculative and sly sort of creature. She wouldn’t give in that easily. 

“Then~” Nikolai drawls in that lazy manner of his, his muscles flexing right to my face. For fuck sake, I know the need to be half-naked before a fight but does he have to shove his chest to my face? “Is this girl a looker? You know, big boobs and ass, legs that stretch for miles kind of gal. Kolya has been itching for some action.” He grinned wide, pearly teeth flashing as he grabbed his crotch like it was some kind of trophy. After many years of dealing with Nikolai, his shamelessness was the less of my worries. 

I push him back with a growl, both annoyed with the intrusion of space and for him to speak of Iris like some common slut. In the first place, why am I bothered by this? I shouldn’t even care if Nikolai wants to fuck some girl I barely know, even if that girl had grabbed my attention.  

I don’t care for people, especially girls who gathered around me looking for a fuck or two and I shouldn’t care for Iris Reed. I don’t usually even entertain the idea of sharing my bed with a woman these days. It gets boring after the usual repetitive cycle of girls who are high either from alcohol or drugs or both and seek a fun time with men who fill their head with fairytales of taming the dangerous men. Messy, I didn’t need mess and I sure don’t need a woman trapping me with a baby.  

Yet, Iris Reed made the blood in my veins boil and my cock rock hard just from remembering her presence in my mind. I wanted to fuck her mouth until that smirk on her face is wipe off leaving her in a teary mess and bruised throat.  

She was just some toy I find interesting for the moment. When I finally get her to succumb to me, I’m sure this fascination will disappear. I’m absolutely fucking sure. 

For now, let's control myself from punching the living shit out of Nikolai.   

"Kolya is about to be itching for more than action if he keeps chasing girls like that." Killian chimes, always one to taunt Nikolai if the chance ever comes up. 

"What’s that supposed to mean?" 

"Chlamydia, dear cousin. Ever heard of it?" 

The grin faltered for a second. "You’re joking, right? I wrapped my shit, Kill.” 

"Take my advice, ‘accidents’ happen. Only thing I’m not joking about is the trip to the clinic you'll need. Better make friends with some antibiotics." The youngest of us is enjoying scaring the heck out of Nikolai. 

"Kolya doesn’t need antibiotics. Kolya needs a night to remember." 

"Yeah, and a month of awkward calls to your doctor after. Enjoy that!" 

Killian begins his rendition of ‘The Dangers of Sexual Transmision Diseases’ with Nikolai’s face paling with every word spouted out. The good thing of having a future doctor in our mix, he can help us with stuff like this in the future, supply us meds and being our back-alley doctor, though he would be legal doctor when he graduates and goes through residency. Plus, signing off death certs is a perk. The bad thing of having a future doctor, especially Killian Carson being a doctor is that he has the possibility of diverting towards being a serial killer and using that knowledge to hide his trail. I trust Killian, even if Gareth doesn’t due to their past, I do. If needed, I would be his judge and punisher if worse comes to worse.  

For now, I trust Killian. I know Killian is doing his best, holding on to those killing instinct in him. Like how the instinct of my beast seeks to be free and roam with no chains to limit its actions, it's the same for Killian with his mind working differently than the rest of us. It's natural for him. What is normal for him is not for us. He can’t help from being different and apathetic. And I accept him and his instinct, even if I don’t say it.  

“So, you let Annika go and hang out with her new friends?” Gareth asks, ignoring his younger brother and cousin arguing.  

I grunt out reluctantly, indicating a yes which surprises Gareth from the way his eyes widen slightly but his expression doesn’t change much. He now had a cigarette between his forefinger and middle, deeply inhaling the cancer stick as he tilts his chin up slightly, slowly exhales white smoke between his lips like the posh guy he is. Gareth was more of the gentleman of the Heathens compare to us as he often reminded us.  

“She must be a good persuader.” The corner of his lips quirk. “You don’t usually listen to people.” Because its true; for me people were useless, tasteless and shouldn’t pollute the air with their breaths.  

Always changing their damn minds not making a certain absolute choice, making mistakes and having no clue what they're doing most of the time. Fickle, annoying creatures  

“She was annoying.”  

“Must have bleed your ears off trying to convince you.” Gareth chuckles softly.  

The truth, when she called me cute after that stunt, my mind turned off.  

Next thing I know Iris said something to Annika which the brat cheered and glomped onto me while thanking incessantly. I wasn’t even aware when Iris had the nerve to give me a two-finger salute with that damn cheeky smirk on her before closing the door to my face. Giggles from two voices emitted from inside and I wanted to wretch the hinges off.  

Brats. Count their lucky stars I didn’t do that.  

“Annoying high-pitched banshee.” Lie. She had this soft and calm tone of voice as if fondly speaking to a scared small animal. Like Annika. And when with me, her tone is playful and defiant, almost joking. Sounded fake and I hated it... 

She pisses me off. 

Nikolai with a boisterous laugh after finally pinning down a disgruntled Killian on the sofa took his leave from the booth to get ready for his match with Creighton King, pumping his fist to the air with confidence of a Spartan holding their shield. I smirk at that, telling him to go do some damage. I wasn’t going to make my men do things in half. Let them have their fun. 

I still have the switchblade in my hand, never once leaving it from my sight despite Gareth’s curious gaze on me. Let him think what he wants to think.  

“My, my, my. I think we have an unexpected visitor in the den, a lost mafia princess. Didn’t think you let her come here, Jeremy.” Killian voices out with interest, his hands under his chin focusing on a certain area of the fighting club. Confuse in what he meant, I turn my gaze towards where he is looking at and let out a deep growl when I see who. 

Why the hell is Annika here?! 

“You’ve got this, Cray Cray!” The blond beside her screams and makes Annika cheer with her too before the girl shares an intense stare-off with Eli King. But that's beside the point. Why is my sister here? This little- 

Suddenly, a familiar black hair mix with gray appears in my peripheral vision.  

My eyes instantly searches and lands on Iris ‘Little Manic’ Reed, looking aloof yet interested in the environment surrounding them while standing behind Annika and beside another blond girl who looks like she rather be anywhere than here. Again, she is wearing those oversized clothes and not boots, but casual Nike dunks tonight, but this time pairing off with that damn hoody (I’m thinking this girl has nothing but hoodies in her closet) are short shorts, showing off creamy pale skin and the curve of that ass. My eyes widen thinking at first, she was naked underneath until I saw the black short shorts when she waves both hands up to Creighton King and Remington Astor.  

My growl gets more intense when I see what she's wearing. She is basically telling people to look and stare! It doesn’t help when a guy passes by their group and his eyes linger longer that a second at that ass that's just begging to be grab. Fucking hell, this shameless woman.  

I push the blade in my hand into the table, angrily digging into the wood until small cracks can be seen and a decent dent stabs into it.  

I can't help but remember the bastard’s face because I fucking promise if he gets close to me, I'm punching a man tonight or fucking stab a man because how fucking dare he looks at what's mine! 

And then, and then she does the one thing that makes me fucking stand and snarl like an animal.  

"Creigh, good luck!” Iris gives him a playful flying kiss and a cheeky wink. 

A. Damn. Wink!

Creighton King, as far as I known, does not respond to female advances but this time, this time he returns it, not with a wave or a wink. But a small, barely there smile. And for Creighton King, that’s the most a girl could get from him and Iris made him smile.  

The thing that made the anger in me wanting to rupture like an explosive volcano, is her laugh. She is laughing, a smile on her lips just because of King’s damn smile! Even if there is distance between us and the noises are hindering the laughter from being heard, I can imagine what she sounds like.  

A soft barely more than a breath kind of laughter. Light and airy, like the chime of delicate glass. And her ever so tired expression lightens, a bit of redness to her face livening her paleness. It wasn’t loud or showy, but to me, it was the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.  

Delicate...Iris Reed wasn’t a delicate flower.  

But at this moment, in my eyes, she was the fragile iris blooming solely among grass as the wind breezes pass.  

No more. Take her. NOW!  

The beast roars and I couldn’t agree more on what it demanded. No more playing around, it's time to lay out the cards and start the chase.  

It's time for the wolf to chase after a distant, unfazed moonlight.  

Iris Reed was a girl who unfortunately caught my attention. 

She disrupted my mind with her damn smile, words and gaze, slowly cracking the chains I surround myself to handle my impulses to have her screaming in my arms as I ruin her. Throwing all my self-control out of the window just to have her look at me.  

Chaos was Iris Reed. 

Unfortunately for her, I was a beast chasing after such chaos.  

Chapter Text

What I thought would be a night in relaxing after a week of classes turned to be a night out after my apartment was invaded by an excited A va with a nervous Annika in tow c ommanding me to get ready for an outing. Said outing turned out to be an underground illegal fight club frequented by REU and TKU students and participated by them.   

I shouldn’t be surprise at this point.   

With the things I found out in a mere week from Glyndon and Remi being my sources of information and a chatterbox yet informative Annika who seems to have some idea on how the social structure works for TKU (which I’m not surprise after I found out why), I’ve been quite invested in this minuscular version of mafia in Brighton Island.  

From what I gathered, there are three notorious clubs that are famous among REU and TKU.  

The Elites, the Heathens and the Serpents.  

The Elites established their club in REU grounds. A selective bunch of aristocrats, overachievers and privileged young adults who are the face of the university and said to be future successful members of the society in their chosen path. According to Remi, the selection process to become a candidate for the club is grueling with their current members going through background checks, academic achievements, interviews and such before choosing a few to go into trial and then only a pinch of that few will get selected to be a part of the Elites.   

Sometimes one or two, sometimes none.  

I asked Remi once why he and Creighton don’t join the club since they live in the Elite Mansion, with their cousins and sibling being a member of the club. Creighton because, as usual, doesn’t find interest in joining. With Remi, well, in his own words .  

“Forcing my lordship to participate in a cult-like environment? The audacity! This body will not be chained with responsibilities and boredom of the mundane! I need stimulation, not stifling traditions. Plus, I do not need a club to attract women with a face like mine. My lordship is a beacon of charm—one smile, and they come flocking. Why waste time in such drudgery when my lordship has far more interesting pursuits to entertain?”.  

I slapped the back of his head. Him and women. Urgh.  

Glyndon has a pair of older identical twin brothers and one of them is currently the leader of the Elites. Landon King, a sculptor in the Art Department who is in the rising to becoming someone famous in the art world, following the same footsteps as Glyndon’s mother. The same goes for his other half. I’ve met Brandon King, the other half of the twin. Also an artist, specializing in landscapes. He’s awfully nice and friendly though a bit distant as if putting up a wall, keeps avoiding looking at people in the eye. But he cares for Glyndon, always there to lend an ear and adores her.   

Its making me miss my idiots.   

Landon King on the other hand, well, Glyndon tells me to steer clear of him. I’ve seen him around campus and he is somehow idolize in the art department. I don’t know much of him except what Glyndon tells me but there is just something off about that man that I can’t make my mind up despite all the charm oozing out from the man said to own the beauty of a Greek god. All I know is that I have to stay away from him.  

The Heathens are a club that controls TKU alongside their rival, the Serpents. The members of both clubs are mostly children of the mafia and apparently are in war with each other; usurping one another to gain a place within the Bratva in the future by making a name for themselves within the boundaries of Brighton Island. Thus, fights between these two clubs are often and brutal.   

There are no rules with the exception of killing. It's not an unspoken rule but something understood by them because death would mean involvement of parents and with that, well, we really don’t need to get parents involve in kids fighting.   

Kids, pfft. Yeah right.   

The Heathens, a club founded by children of the prominent members of the Bratva. One of them just so happens to be my current obsession.  

I only know him by name and honestly speaking if people knew I’ve b e en chanting the name of a man who I don’t even know the face of, they would call me crazy. I’ve been called worst but crazy sounds about right to be obsessing over a faceless man.  

Until that faceless man has a face and becomes the one plaguing my every nightmare.   

So what I guessed was correct when Annika introduced herself that time. Annika Volkov is connected to the Volkov Family and her older brother is the heir to the Bratva, taking his father’s place in the future.   

Jeremy Volkov; the man whose face I have been imagining for days since before I landed on the Island (on what he looks, his features, how tall he is, does he have a beard), the man who saved and accosted me in the alley that same night and Annika’s older brother. The very same man who had involuntarily stirred something in me and left a mark on my neck like a branded collar of ownership.   

Its healing and the color is fading but I dare not look at it because every time I catch a glimpse of that purplish mark, I’m taken back to that night. Remembering his words, his threats whispering into my very soul.   

The bruising touch, the warning bite, the depth of those soulless eyes, the cruelty of his promises.   

The impending chase.  

Run.    

My body g oes hot whenever I recounted that scene, clenching my legs and trying so hard not to sink my fingers into the wetness slithering down between my thighs. The blazing inferno pooling around my core, making me feel frustrated at the thought of me getting off to the bastard who handled me like a rag doll as I’m left feeling all tingly and shaky after I scream his name into my pillow.    

How the fuck am I so arouse for a man who threatens to fuck me against my will? And the crazy thing is, I don’t even mind it. I want it. So so bad.  

There’s nothing wrong with having a fantasy of being used against your will, fuck up as it is.  

With the things I’ve been through, it shouldn’t been mine but my mind is a fuck up place to be when one of the ways to get me soaking is being force into things I should be abhor of.   

Is it the trill of being chase down, the enjoyment of having someone bigger, stronger, crueler having their ways with my body, forcing me to accept my fate to be defile in the most heinous ways?   

Honestly, I have thoughts like this; wanting and needing to be pleasured in a way that is seen as out of the norm, abnormal. Does it make me a deviant? Maybe, but I’m not hurting anyone and  everything is within my control. I’m the one calling the shots and my partners are specifically chosen for my needs. All consensual.   

Well, that’s what I thought. It seems my body doesn’t listen to me.  

When it comes to the real thing, my mind shuts down and my body goes autopilot, striking to protect itself. I haven’t let a man touch me in a way that I want because my respond it to instantly punch them in the nose or have my knife carve into their flesh.    

Touch…it's not that I hate it. I just feel…unhinged. I have a negative affect when it comes to touch and I can’t get rid of it.   

And when it overwhelms me, I go blank. Hiding inside that dark space surrounded by traitorous voices and ghostly touches. It's like looking out into the window and watching someone going through the motion and I can’t do anything, just watch and crumble while the broken fragments of myself who has hold of my body goes crazy…manic.   

Little manic.  

My body shivers when I remember the way his smooth, dark voice calls me. It's funny how Jeremy Volkov’s touch doesn’t cause me to flinch and retaliate. I should hate it, not like it so much.  

Sweet, sweet Iris. Always hiding in the shadows, always letting yourself be use. Our obedient, sweet Iris.  

It's disgusting. I’m disgusting.  

Right now, with the bodies boxing me in this heat, everything feels disgusting.  

“You’ve got this Cray, Cray!”  

I’m brought back to reality when I hear Ava screaming her head off with Annika joining her as they cheer in Creighton who will be fighting in the ring today. F rom the betting rooster I’ve seen, he is going against Nikolai Sokolov and there is equal money to be won between them, thus it’s a hard call.  

Creighton is strong. Remi keeps telling me how he won ton s of wrestling matches and he is one of the best in the fighting club . I don’t doubt that. From the way Creighton, whose shoulders are getting massaged while deafening his ears to Remi’s enthusiastic gaggling, doesn’t seem scare d and looks excited to start despite the usual lazy expression he is showing. His foot keeps tapping impatiently, wanting to get this started. I can’t help but quirk a smile.   

Maybe the environment is getting to me with the loud music and blinding heat and the bodies packed together like sardines, or maybe I want to put a smile on the kid’s face thats always in a bored state before it gets roughen up because the next thing I know, my arms are up in the air waving at them surprisingly gaining both Creighton’s and Remi’s attention despite the crowd hiding us from sight.  

"Creigh, good luck!” I shouted with a wink, even giving him a flying kiss just for the heck of it. Remi, the dramatic fool, faux hurt as he clasp his shirt where his heart is and says something I can’t decipher since we’re too far from each other for me to hear but I take notice of Creighton’s frowny expression on what Remi says before his gaze turns back to me.   

Creighton King is unsociable. No that’s wrong, he just doesn’t care for much. Apparently his nonchalantness is a big turn on to the girls in campus who fall to their feet to have him glance at them. But the moment Creighton smiles at me, small as it is, I know that a smiling Creighton is much better than that deadpan expression which is a fixture on that face of his.   

Joining Creighton and Remi in the booth, I noticed Landon King preoccupied with his phone, oblivious to his surroundings and Eli King, Creighton’s older brother who kept staring at us, more towards Ava actually, while Ava is convincing Annika to stay and watch the fight. Something about Jeremy and his inability to stop being such a controlling bastard. Which is true because the man was really testing my patience with his assholey nature.  

My hand goes to rub the side of my neck, the place he bit. The involuntarily shudder that escape my lips makes me feel pathetic. To have a strong reaction towards that bastard is not on the list of top priorities I have in my life currently. Yet…it only g ets stronger the moment he appeared in front of my door, his image filling in the faceless man I have been imagining as Jeremy Volkov.  

The man in the alley who looks like the damn reaper is Jeremy Volkov.  

My unhealthy obsession.  

Damn it, my obsessive ass can’t get enough of him especially now when I have a face to put on my unhealthy obsession.  

I hear a sigh from my side and glance to see Glyndon slightly frowning, seeming to want to be anywhere but here.  

Glyndon has been a bit skittish since we entered the club so she stays close to me. Maybe it's the environment overwhelming her or the feeling of being watched since she keeps looking everywhere. In the pass few days, I’ve noticed the way she always kept to herself. A haunted look in her eyes and the way she dazed off, lost in herself unless someone confronts her and she’s back to her shy, quiet smiles and all. I know she isn’t sleeping. Both of us have identical heavy  eye-bags as prove and sometimes , when she visits my place, I have to force chamomile tea on Glyndon just to make her have some shut eye.   

According to Cecily, Glyndon had a friend name Devlin who passed. Suicide they say and Glyndon, the poor girl saw all of this in front of her eyes. It was definitely a traumatic experience for her and I know she often talks with her therapist when it gets too overwhelming inside that head of hers despite Glyndon trying to hide it. I also know she’s going through other issues that she isn’t willing to share with the others. Understandable. Some things aren’t meant to be share but I wish she at least depends on her friends more, especially from her childhood friends. Isn’t that what friends are for?   

“Stop with the frown, you look like Remi being told no when he gets rejected.” I put my arm around her shoulder, pulling her close since she flinches when someone gets close to us in the cramped space fill with over-enthusiastic spectators. Glyndon grumpily mutters something under her breath but doesn’t push me away, a good sign that indicates she at least is comfortable enough with me being touchy. “Not in the mood to cheer for your cousin?”   

“Its not that…” Again she sighs. “I don’t really enjoy people fighting each other and hurting for fun . Its unnecessary entertainment to enjoy the pain of others.”   

“Its like a car crash, you can’t help but watch.” I airily say, looking around and see someone passing around beer bottles. Oooo, booze and ring fights, a deadly combination that I can’t help but enjoy. “Treat it like those wrestling matches on TV. Fun, fake entertainment. Also, your older brother, Landon is fighting. Is he any good?” I have my arm up to call for a bottle.  

Glyndon had the nerve to roll her eyes at me, letting out a soft tsk. “Americans with their wrestling. You would think so, Iris. You don’t seem to have a sense of danger.” She commented with a disapproving gaze as she pulls my hand down, knowing I’m trying to get a drink. Glyndon seems to be aware of my drinking tendency. Really Glyn, my alcoholism isn’t that bad.   

I held back a grin because true, my first week in campus I seem to get myself into trouble. Not my fault okay.  

So what if I corrected a professor’s wrong formula in front of the whole class. It was the wrong formula and I told him nicely in a respectful way, even showed him the correct solution to the question. Its not my fault he got red in the face getting corrected. But with that, I attracted attention. Now, he seems to be targeting me, always catching me off guard with sudden questions that are off topic to the subject and a few times made me stay to hear his long, monotonous ‘guidance’ about earning and receiving respect and etc. I think he likes to hear the sound of his voice and I tuned it out every time before I’m excuse.   

There was also a misunderstanding involving me and a girl in ballet class. The guy I partnered up  was apparently her boyfriend and she saw us conversing silently, being friendly. That rolled into an argument where no amount of explaining was enough to convince her that I  wasn’t interested in bedding the person and I’m now number one on her shit list. From her point of view, she saw a girl flirting with her guy while in my part, I was just chatting and getting some info about REU, especially in regards to the three big rival clubs.   

My dance partner seems to be quite enthusiastic about them, basically spouting off everything he knows and me being the nosey person that I am who has an obsession with one of them, especially in regards to a specific devilish beast, kinda urged him to tell me more. So, yeah, I can’t blame the girl for giving me the stink eye.   

Annika, the sweet girl, defended me but I didn’t want her to get involve in my problem and she really shouldn’t be targeted for standing up for me. She’s too sweet for this. I doubt she has a mean bone in her. With that, I diverted the attention before more words could be said, pushing Annika behind me despite her protest and well, one thing led to another. Let’s just say angering a jealous woman is inadvisable. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Well, you get the idea.  

So yes, I’ve been getting into a bit of trouble as Glyndon had lovingly reminded me.  

“Trouble seems to follow me, sugar. And danger follows along.” Glyndon doesn’t appreciate my cheeky reply even when I give her the innocent look that would have usually lower her guard. She gets like that whenever I try to lighten up the conversation whether with a jest or a quick change of topic, she gives me this begrudging fond look where her green eyes softens a bit. I think she has caught up to my tactic because she’s unimpressed.  

“You can’t keep diverting me with those flirty words Iris and maybe hold off the drinks until the fights start. Anyway, why are you asking me about Landon?”  

“I’m going to the booth to place my bet on Creighton and I might put in for your brother. So, is he any good?”  

Ah, there’s that disappointed yet caring look I was waiting for. Really Glyndon, you give Cecily a run for her money with your mother henning if given the chance.  

“Gambling now, Iris.”  

“Just a little bit of fun, Glyn. I promise, I’m not going overboard.” I grin, pressing our foreheads together despite the heat and closeness. She gives me a look and I don’t turn away, shamelessly grinning, even giving her large Bambi eyes to soften that heart of hers.   

It’s a cheat but it works when Glyndon finally gives in with a sigh.   

“Landon is good but-,”  

“Great! I’ll put my bets on them.” I exclaim to the surprise of Glyndon who lets out a squeak when I accidentally jostle her a bit from my excitement. I give her an apologetic look for the sudden movement. Thankfully, Glyndon does forgive me when she gently bumps our shoulders together.   

Glyndon is really kind. Makes me thankful for her having the level of patience to deal with me.   

Now~ where’s that bookie? I have a good feeling today.  

“Jer will have my neck if he sees me here.” Annika worriedly say, biting her lower lip while looking around as if her brother would pop out any time. I don’t blame her. Jeremy tends to make an appearance when you least expect it.   

 “You’re a big girl,” Cecily says. “He doesn’t tell you what to do.”  

 “That’s right.” Ava has her in a half-hug and cheeks press together, both of them looking like the princesses they are with the pinks and purples clashing together. “We’ve got you, girl. And if your brother decides to say otherwise, we’ll sic Iris on him.”   

I roll my eyes at Ava’s declaration. “What am I, men repellent?”  

“It’s the eyes, you scare off people without trying. If looks can kill, you do it ten times over. Also, it doesn’t help that you constantly have a bitchy face.” Ava simply says with a face of an angelic angel withstanding the fact that she just called me a bitch to my face.   

Ava can smile and sass all she wants but she really does has a thorn to pick with me.   

Ava and me, somehow we can’t get along well. While I’m close to Annika and Glyndon and in friendly terms with Cecily with us sharing quite a few interest (apparently our love for books specifically BL mangas have us in serious discussions for hours. We in fact gossip and giggle like middle school teenagers, to Remi’s utter disgust who proceed to call us cougars. Cecily and me threw books at him just for the heck of it.), with Ava its…difficult.   

Sometimes me and Ava can have a decent conversation without bringing the claws out but other times, well we can’t help but exchange a snide remark here and there. There’s no heart feelings (I’m made of tougher stuff) but I get the feeling that she’s testing me or something.   

I guess part of it has to do with how the both of us see things differently when it comes to life.    

Ava Nash is the epitome of a pretty princess who strives for perfection. Gorgeous and an outgoing, bubbly person who takes time in their style and appearance to improve on their perfection and naturally attracts the attention of people surrounding her like the social butterfly that she is. Sassy, charming and not one to keep her thoughts to herself, she was a force to be reckon with to the disgruntle of  Cecily who keeps worrying about her. Cecily even has a child tracking app on Ava.Thats how worrisome it is.   

Simply put, she is the opposite of me.  

Yvonne would like her.   

“Its resting bitch face, darling.” I cooed at Ava who pouts when she doesn’t receive the reaction she expected from me. “I’ll help as much as I can but no promises that it’ll work. I intend to keep my life. Honestly Anni, your brother scares the bejesus out of me.” Because its true, Jeremy scares me. He’s intimidating and literally the fucking devil. Plus, I still have to remind myself to breathe when he’s around.   

Jeremy Volkov isn’t good for my heart.   

“I thought you didn’t know the meaning of fear.” A haughty expression directed at me as Ava  flips her hair. The sass on this woman.  

"Just because I don't know the meaning of fear doesn't mean I'm an idiot. I know when to pick my battles. Besides, it's not fear, it's called caution." I retort back with a sly smirk. Ava lets out an unsatisfied huff before both of us start to banter our usual spiel.   

Cecily chooses to ignore us both.  

“Simply put, you can trust us to have your back Anni. You have your own life to live and your brother just has to realise that you’re not a child that he can order around anymore.” Cecily stated with that no-nonsense tone of hers that really shows why she’s the mom of the group.   

“Amen to that.” If I had a glass, I would clink to it.   

But I guess Annika needed to hear those words from Cecily because the nervous expression she had on minutes ago disappears into a determined one, the gears turning in her head as if the sudden realisation that she’s a uni student now kicks in. That’s my girl.   

“You…you’re right.” Annika digs her heels in the ground and smiles. “Jer can’t do anything to me.”   

“Sure about that, Anoushka?”  

The second I heard his voice, my body freezes. That voice behind me, the one that I can’t seem to get rid off even in my dreams appear again, haunting me even in my nightmares. My heart is beating like crazy and my palms are clammy. My fingers, they’re twitching like crazy as I pull the hood over my head and hide my hands inside the pockets of my hoody.   

Don’t turn around, don’t turn and face the devil, Iris.   

They’re talking behind me; Annika pleading to stay even if its just for a few minutes and Jeremy, with that low, deep voice of his that makes me want to get on my knees and do everything he tells me to, does not deter from his decision. He wants Annika out of the club, now.   

“You know better than to be in places you’re not suppose to.” Jeremy wasn’t taking anymore excuses from Annika and I could hear how she cowers, all sense of bravado disappearing with Jeremy’s appearance.   

“Jer, can you just give me this one time. I was just-“  

“Leaving.” He finishes for her. “Now.”  

The edge in his voice is deliciously dangerous that I can’t make myself move. Russians with their low, rough voices. Damn it, such a turn on.   

I hear Cecily admonishing Jeremy’s behaviour and girl, I love you for your bravery but really, do you have a death wish?  

I can’t just stand here. I don’t want him to notice me even if the need in me to turn around and make myself known as I look into those dark, soulless eyes and breathe the same air as him is strong. Theres a strong line between disliking a man who threatened to fuck the life out of you knowing he’ll like it and obsessing over the man despite barely knowing anything about him. Its bad enough he is part of the mafia. Our worlds are connected but will never interlace. Its better if I just watch from afar like I planned in the beginning. I don’t want to have anything to do with him aside from being friends with his sister. My family shouldn’t be in ruins just because of Jeremy Volkov.   

Lusting over him is normal. Obsessing is borderline crazy but still fine. Wanting him is not.  

Definitely out of the question.   

Thinking of my escape and wanting to share my thoughts on ways we can kidnap and save Annika from her tyrant of a brother to Glyndon, I notice how tense she’s gotten and the way her breathing turns shaky. She’s ghostly pale, as if she just seen a literal ghost but she hasn’t even turn around and just stands there, froze up like me. Is it Jeremy?  

I’m about to say something until I’m pulled by the hood of my hoodie, letting out a surprise squeak as I crash my face into something firm.   

The familiar scent of wood and leather comes crashing in. Hmm, kinda citrusy too. That’s new.   

“And where are you running off to?” Jeremy’s voice above me whisper-growls  as a warm, large palm covers the back of my neck and gives a warning squeeze. “Not this time, little manic. You’re following me.”  

With a hand to my nape, he steers me off towards the exit where I can see Annika gulping nervously, watching us with wide eyes. Shit.  

She is totally going to question me after this.  

Cecily isn’t impress. She is glaring at Jeremy with the intensity of a thousand suns. I doubt its just because of him reprimanding Annika just now since she’s staring at me, eyes on my neck held like a naughty cat.   

“Are you unable to treat anyone with respect? You don’t get to treat women like they’re a commodity for your own personal use.” Cecily takes a step forward, confronting Jeremy who doesn’t show a hint of emotion as he stares down at angry Cecily, probably contemplating whether to crush her where she stands because the grip to my nape tightens more, almost making me let out a groan. “You don’t get to dictate Anni’s life. She can make her own decision. And let go of Iris, she didn’t even say a word to you to be treated this way.”     

Cecily is about to pull me away but even I know that’s a wrong move because I could feel the rumble from our chests press together as a low barely-there growl escapes between his lips and even Annika is aware of it because she subtly pushes Cecily. Annika knows her brother better than anyone and she knows the signs when he isn’t in the mood to be messed with.   

“Its okay, Cecily. I’m going back.” Annika reassures her with a soft look. “I don’t want you guys to fight. Its not worth it.” She whispers.   

“Walk in front of me, Anoushka.”Jeremy orders, the finality in his tone a final warning.   

And Annika does so, walking towards the exit of the club with me being lead by Jeremy as he again squeezes my neck.   

“Wait Iris-,” Cecily starts but I shook my head, giving her a small smile.  

“I’m fine, Cecily. I’ll look after Anni at the dorm. You take care after Ava and Glyn.” I took a look at Ava whose brow furrows and even Glyndon looks worry for me. But I’m more worried at her because now I noticed that Jeremy had appeared together with another guy when he confronted Annika. This dark haired man with striking cold blue eyes had moved to Glyndon’s side and has his sharp gaze on her but not before narrowing his eyes on me. If looks could kill…  

The guy had his arm secretly wrap around Glyndon’s waist and is whispering something to her ear, obviously too close. Glyndon’s reaction to him is peculiar; she is scare of him but the way she moves to correspond to his. Body language doesn’t lie. There’s interest in there.  

So it isn’t Jeremy that made her all fidgety. Its this one.   

Interesting…  

“Don’t do anything I would do.” With a cheeky grin, I wave them goodbye as I’m getting drag by Jeremy until their figures disappear from my view with the people blocking my view. My cheery expression disappears to one of disgruntled. “I wanted to stay and watch the match.” I murmur under my breathe.   

Jeremy lets out a scoff. “I’m not letting you run away from me.”  

“I thought you wanted me to run.”  

“Under my terms.”  

Fucking control freak.   

I try to slip away but he just grips my neck more in a bruising manner causing me to hiss in both pain and annoyance.   

“Stop treating me like a dog.” My eyes narrowed with his blazing ones.  

“Stop acting like a mangy mutt and behave.” He growls at me. “I’ve had enough of your insolence. Shut that pretty mouth and keep walking or I’ll shut it for you.”  

Just from his threat, his voice, has me in a chokehold. I should not be turn on by the mere thought of having my mouth fill by him and I am salivating over it. It could be anything, his fingers, his tongue, his coc-… God, my mind is utter filth. I can’t think when this bastard is around!   

I shouldn’t anger him anymore but my mouth seems to have a mind of its own, as per usual.   

“Maybe you should collar me.” I mumble sarcastically, unbothered but that lasted just seconds until I let out an eep that even catches Annika’s attention who turns her head to look at me furtively. I give her a casual smile, letting her know I’m A-okay while doing my very best not to slap the shit out of Jeremy. Annika looks at me for a long second before facing forward and continuing to walk.  

The smile disappears instantly when I glance upwards to glare with gritted teeth at the impassive bastard who had just grab my butt and gives one of the cheeks a painful squeeze.   

“What the fuck is wrong with you?! Get your hands off me.” I whisper sharply while trying to wiggle out from his grasp but that instead made him more annoyed. The squeeze turns into a sudden smack to my bum, hard. I let out another shriek which I instantly cover with my hands, shaking in place as my body and face flushes from the action.   

Just from that one single smack has my legs trembling like a baby deer and my core shamelessly throbbing with need. I’m already squirming with need from being this close to him, his strong enticing scent hitting me like a bulldozer to the face. I don’t need to be dripping especially not when I’m wearing freaking shorts! Damn it Anni, I will not let you raid my closet anymore.   

“You absolute bastard!” Jeremy releases my butt, the heat from the smack of his palm lingering, but has his hand discretely around my waist as he forces me to move despite my legs still shaky. I’m practically being dragged around like a rag doll.  

“I told you to shut your mouth. Don’t blame me for being handsy.” The possessive grip to my waist tightens as he pulls me close to his body, giving a warning nip to the curve of my ear that made me let out a shaky gasp. “And I don’t need a collar to tell people you’re owned. My fingers are doing the work just fine.” He definitely bruised my neck again. Fucker.  

His devilish lips travel, leaving a hot trail down my neck as each soft breathe he exhales ghosted my flushed skin until it lands directly on the almost healed bite mark, the yellowish tint glaring.   

“Gonna mark you again.” Jeremy sucks the skin, right at the mark before I felt his hot tongue lapping the small red mark I know will be there when I check. “Who told you to fucking show legs, little manic? You’re just asking to be pin down.” His hand slides down to my hips, grasping the meat with his large hand. “Your ass hanging out. I could easily rip these shorts. Letting other men look at you, being all touchy with that blonde girl. God, you piss me off.” He growls lowly, his voice doing stupid things to my mind. Jeez, all these promises and nothing to show for.   

Fuck Iris, no. Not the time to be a horny bitch.   

I finally push him away, scowling at him despite the blush on my cheeks.  

“Are you purposely trying to be obvious? Annika is in front of us!” I give him a pointed look as we finally exit the club, the fresh air hitting my face relieving me from the cramped heat and strong scent of sweat and perfumes from inside. Honestly, I was sweating in there. Doesn’t help I’m wearing a hoody.  

Thankfully Annika is oblivious to us as one of Jeremy’s men, his guard perhaps, appears out of nowhere and walk beside her, ignoring Jeremy who keeps groping me. I know he saw us. “And you pissed? I’m the one pissed off! I didn’t get to stay and watch Creighton’s match and I haven’t gotten a single alcohol in me for today.”  

“You don’t need a drink and you definitely don’t need to be cheering for King. The winner is clear, Nikolai will win.”  

Nikolai…Must be Nikolai Sokolov.   

Snooping around in Instagram after friending Annika and acting like a stalker as I view all her previous post from years back, I stumble a few with the boys in it. I saved it in my phone; a picture with Annika in the middle surrounded by five men, with Jeremy included in the mix. Along with other tasteful pictures of Jeremy taken by Annika. Gosh Hel, you’re this close to being a damn stalker. All that’s left is rummaging through his trash and following him like a creep. Don’t even try.   

I almost friended Jeremy in Insta, the urge to follow him strong as I try to control my impulses. Fortunately for me, he didn’t made his account private. Unfortunately for me, I have to make do with what little pics he post.   

“Creighton is strong.” I argued.  

“Nikolai is stronger. And if I see you wink at King again, we’re gonna have problems, manic.” Jeremy pushes me into the open door of the back of the car, almost stumbling into Annika’s lap. I move myself to sit properly, tensing when the door slam shut behind me. I blew the strand hanging in front of my face.  

“Your brother is an asshole, kid.”   

Annika gently brushes the hair out of my face, making me look presentable. She gives me a helpless look.   

“I’m sorry about him. But, whats with you two?” Annika eyes us both when Jeremy enter the front passenger’s seat, letting his guard drive the car. She leans closer and whispers. “You two are surprisingly close.”  

I quirk a brow. “Close? If you mean treating me like I’m one of his minions and him expecting me to listen to his order, then sure, we’re close.” I roll my eyes as I lean back against the leather seat. “Its nothing Anni, he just enjoys messing with me. Don’t think too much about it.”  

“Well~” Annika sits closer to me, our shoulders touching. “Jeremy never treats the other girls like this before. He usually just let them hang onto him and ignore them. With you, he’s being…spiky.”   

“Like a damn porcupine…” She nods in agreement. God, this kid is cute. “Don’t worry, he’s not hurting me.” Not in a way she thinks that is. I’m a glutton for pain especially if he inflicts his marks on me.   

“Thank you though, for accompanying me back to the dorm. I know you wanted to be in the club.” Shit. Kid, don’t give me those eyes. You’re making me feel guilty.  

“Yeah but I can watch the fights any other day. I did promise to take care of you Anni. These are the sacrifices I make for you, mafia princess.” I tease Annika who proceeds to huff and starts pouting.  

After I closed the door on Jeremy that first re-encounter, Annika proceeds to nervously tell me who she is.  

The daughter of a man part of the criminal underworld, the only mafia princess of the Volkov.  

Adrian Volkov’s daughter, Annika Volkov.   

Acting surprise was the usual respond but I’m sure Annika wouldn’t appreciate me faking it. She’s actually quite observant, so I just tell her in a casual way “Me too.” in which she thinks I was joking and proceed to sulk. Nothing like the promise of pizza to appease her.   

Sorry kid, I wasn’t lying but I didn’t intend to correct the statement. Better for Annika to think I’m amusing her.  

The both of us are in the same boat but at the same time not.  

 I’m sure despite the environment she was raised in, used to the cruelty that comes from a family who could shoot a gun as easy as breathing air and kill someone without blinking an eye while thinking about what to eat afterwards, she wasn’t raise to act upon those tasks.   

Annika is a sheltered princess, well love and well protected judging from the nightly video calls she has with her parents and how absurdly protective Jeremy is with her. She wears pretty clothes and does her makeup prettily, loves animals of all kind and is the sweetest, caring person I’ve met so far. She makes you want to protect her and I can understand where Jeremy’s protective instinct stems for. Annika is naïve and too trusting. The wrong people could manipulate her without her realising it.   

I’m probably one of the people she shouldn’t trust.   

“Now I can see the resemblance between you and your brother. The frowns are the same.”  

“I do not look like him!”  

“You kinda do.” Squints at her, turn my head downwards to the left. “If I turn this way, you kind of do look like him when he has that murderous scowl going on.”  

“Iris!” Annika giggles and slap my thigh playfully.  

“Ouch! Gentle on the merchandise, kid. My killer thighs are worth gold.”   

A scoff is heard in front and I don’t need to see who made it.   

“Jealous, Volkov? I know you dreamt of my thighs.” I taunt him with a sugary voice that I know annoys him when I see his hand discreetly tightens into a fist.  

“In your dreams, Reed. The only gold you’re worth is the kind I toss to beggars,” Jeremy snaps, glaring at me through the rearview mirror. His voice dripping with venom, though his eyes betray the faintest flicker of something unspoken. “Trust me, your thighs are the last thing on my mind.”  

I smirk, leaning in just enough to make him uncomfortable. “You sure about that, Volkov? You seem awfully tense for someone who doesn’t care.”  

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t take the bait. “Maybe I’m just thinking about how much better the world would be without your voice in it.”  

“Oh please. You love my voice.”  

“I love it better if you’d shut up. Be a good pet and sit the fuck down.” He orders and now its my turn to huff like Annika as I do what he says but I don’t let him get the last say.  

“You’re the pet, you mongrel.” I murmur in displeasure and I think I hear Jeremy cursing under his breath at my antics. Good. I don’t mind being a damn flea if it means pissing him off.   

I hear Annika sighing beside me.  

“This is going to be a long ride.”  

I couldn’t fucking agree more, kid.   

***  

“Tomorrow you’ll be staying at the Heathen’s mansion and no excuses Anoushka. Someone will pick you up tomorrow after your classes end.” Jeremy stated in that tone of voice that demanded him to be heard and with his intimidating presence, I can see why Annika reluctantly agree to his demand. If I was her and I have Jeremy as a brother, I would get fed up too and the only way to make him stop hounding me is by following his orders and saying yes.   

Luckily for me, I’m not Annika.   

“What about tomorrow so important?” I interrupted as I got out of the car, ignoring Jeremy’s stormy gaze on me. I stand beside Annika who wraps her hands around my arm, looking all sad and puppyish.   

“Its nothing. Just the Heathen’s initiation, its tomorrow.” Annika tells me which earns her a dark glare from Jeremy. She purposely hides herself against me, knowing how her brother won’t be able to get her if I was set between them, using me as a shield and grinning mischievously as she peeks over my shoulder, her eyes gleaming with playful defiance. This kid, damn smart when she wants to be.   

The initiation. I guess this was the Heathen’s initiation for gaining potential new members my dance partner was telling me about.   

I look at Jeremy who continues to watch us. Hmm…  

“How does it play out?” I ask, curiosity lace with interest in my voice. Jeremy is about to cut me off but Annika is quicker.  

“It happens, like, twice a year. They did a mockup at the end of the previous semester and the attendance was huge. It’s brutal as hell, let me tell you.”   

“How brutal are we talking about?”  

“Its-,” “It’s none of your business.” Jeremy cuts her off sharply, warning Annika from speaking more about the subject  

“Anoushka, go up. Now.” He says with finality, again commanding Annika like when we were in the fight club.   

Annika sadly frowns but nods. She says goodnight to Jeremy before walking towards the dorm, glancing at me. I give her shoulder a gentle squeeze and a reassuring smile.  

“I’ll be there in the apartment soon.”   

Annika gives me a worry look, looking back and forth between me and Jeremy but seeing how calm I am despite standing in front of her brazen, roguish brother, she reluctantly lets go.   

“I’m sorry.”  

“There is nothing to apologize, kid. Go on, I’ll meet you up.”  

Annika goes inside, leaving me and his brother in front of the dorm building. I narrowed my gaze on him, the atmosphere around us tenses with unbridled animosity and…unquestioned primal hunger.   

“Why do you have to be a condensending bastard to your own sister?” I stalk forward until our chests are touching, that I can feel the intense heat and pressure he is emitting. I ignore the lustful thoughts I have on him “Can’t you just be happy that she’s making friends and enjoying her life, you overbearing nincompoop.”   

“I’m protecting my sister, something you have no idea about.” He growls, grabbing my chin and pulling my face up until out faces are just inches apart. I let out a shaky breath, the close proximity between us as intense as those dark eyes looking into mine. The thumping of our hearts almost in sync as I felt his beating strong and steady, my soft breasts pressing against his firm chest. “You don’t have a clue what I’ve done to protect my family and will continue to do so without question. You and I are different, little manic. I protect my own people, you…you only have yourself to care for.”   

This motherfucker.  

“Your assumption of me is a delight, Volkov.” My fingers take hold of the side of his neck, my nails biting into his skin before scratching it, leaving small red lines on them. I leave my hand hanging on his shoulder. “You think you know everything about me, do you? You’re awfully confident for someone who barely scratched the surface.” I snap, my voice flat and close to dangerous territory.   

This self-centred, cocky asshole had the nerve to accuse me of being selfish when all my life I have dedicated nothing but absolute loyalty to my family and the clan. He has no fucking idea what I sacrificed.  

Sweet Iris. Always playing into someone’s hand. Always the pawn, never the master.  

Well I am now, the master of my own destiny, you damn voices.    

Jeremy groans at the slight pain, gripping my chin hard. His other hand at the side of my waist, rubbing circles with his thumb. I’m shaking at his touch but held myself from showing how much its effecting me.   

“I don’t need to know you to want your body, little manic.” His fingers from my chin slowly lowers, rough fingers curl around my neck. My breath hitches when I felt the slight tightening. I see his eyes darken even more if that’s possible as his lips touch my temple. “God you annoyed the shit out of me but damn if I don’t want to take you right here and now.”   

A soft huff escapes from my lips. “You’re a barbarian, Volkov. And you’re the last guy I intend to  let myself be fucked.”   

“Promises, promises. That smart mouth, always having something to say.” A deep rumble from Jeremy’s chest when his nose brushing against my hair at the side, inhaling my scent like a man’s who been denied oxygen. “I want to fuck you, Луничка .” He shamelessly growls, squeezing me tight, my body moulding into his. Jesus christ, did he just spoke in russian? Fuck. Me. “I want to make you feel my cock thrusting fast and rough into you until your insides take my shape, until you can taste me at the back of your throat. I want you to beg me to ruin you, to scream my name as I make you get lost in that maniacal mind of yours, until you smile like crazy as you claw and bite and chew me into submission. And you’ll cry and beg when I won’t give in because I’m not going to let you. I’m the one fucking you into submission and you’ll love every. Single. Moment. Of it.” Jeremy snarls into my neck as I felt his warm tongue taste my skin, groaning in, dare I say, ecstasy.   

I close my eyes, my lips trembling as I let out a soft exhale.   

God, the things he does to me. Making me crave for something  I’m finding myself hard to deny.   

Don’t Iris. You can’t go further into the rabbit hole that is Jeremy Volkov. You’re already obsess with him, you’re already trying to get under his skin, don’t leave a permanent mark. Don’t you dare hope.   

Everything is temporary.   

This unhealthy obsession with him is TEMPORARY.   

Get it through your fucking head.   

“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you, Volkov? You keep making promises to fuck me ever since the alley. You ever gonna make that come true?” I taunt him, my voice going breathless as he begins to mark me with hickeys and bites. I softly groan with every suck and nip to my neck before letting out a sharp gasp when he pushes me against the side of the car, knocking the back of my head against the metal.   

Damn that hurts and the russian bastard doesn’t even stop to aplogozie. Who am I kidding, this guy doesn’t apologize.   

I try to calm myself from combusting when I felt that part of him press against my hip, deliciously grinding that hard length causing sweet friction between us. If I wasn’t soaking back then, I’m already soaking now. God, I’m practically jelly in his hold and I can’t even be ashamed of being this way. Don’t part your legs girl, don’t you dare.  

“In due time.” He murmurs that dumb sentence against my skin.  

A hand goes under my hoody while the other gropes my ass, relentlessly pushing my lower part against his groin, not hiding his excitement anymore. The shameless sounds I’m making as he feels me up is embarrassing  and I try to close my mouth, not wanting to make these sounds but he doesn’t let me do so, caging me as he continues to attack my neck and grind himself on me. I felt his fingers skim against my bra and I tense up because I’m reminded where we are and who else is inside the car.  

I shakily push him away but he doesn’t budge and continues until I felt one side of my bra pulled down and rough, needy fingers press against my nipple, a thumb rubbing it ungently. I gasps as he suddenly pinches the bud, taking my attention away from scolding him before biting the area between my necks and shoulders. I let out a surprise yelp.  

“Fucking hell! That hurts, you bastard.” I complained but he ignores me and pulls my nipple, biting me harder, making me moan.   

Nonono, I will not have another large bite mark!   

“Let. Go!” I roughly pull the back of his hair making him let out a hiss as dark eyes descended on me, looking as murderous as the first day we met. He gives me a growl of dissatisfaction and I pull his head back more. This mongrel.   

“You-,”  

“You have no fucking shame.” I say before he could speak another word and push him off me. I take a few steps back away from him and the car, my eyes on him as I straighten my clothes and hair, making extra sure to cover my neck with the hoody strings pulled so that Annika doesn’t question me why I look liked I’ve been a dog’s favourite chew toy. “One of your men is in the car and you’re acting like a dog.” I scowl at him as I hide my blush under my hood.   

Jeremy should be ashamed but his lack of expression just goes to show he doesn’t really care if he embarrasses himself or not as he pushes his hair back, that slick back doing stupid things to me.. He even looks smug, the smarmy bastard. God Hel, why did it have to be him.  

“Give me back my knife.” I demanded to his confusion. “The knife, the one I stabbed you with. I want it back.”   

A look of realisation appears and the corner of his lip slightly quirks. Sigh. Fine, I admit, he’s a bastard but he’s good looking bastard.   

“You left it with me little manic, making it mine.”  

“I didn’t leave it with you, I left it in you.” I have my palm up, crooking my fingers in a gimme gesture. “Give it. Its…its important.” Its is, still is.   

Jeremy looks at me, his gaze unreadable. I look away, not wanting to read the signs he’s giving off from those dark, intense gaze because if I do, I’m just falling into the trap I made myself. What did I think was gonna happen chasing after an unhealthy obsession I had no clue of.  Anger mix with desire courses in me, a war going through my mind either to stand tall and proud in front of the devil or submit like he wants me to. It’s a difficult choice despite the right  answer being the obvious one. Its neither both. The right answer is to run and never look back. Get rid of the obsession before it consumes you.  

II want to, very much, but not in a way that makes me want to run away from him.   

No. Its more primal than that, more animalistic.   

I want to run and I want him to give chase.   

Run .  

Again, I can’t forget that word, that damn singular word.   

Jeremy’s gaze bores into mine.   

“Not today.” He simply answers, looking unbothered at how vexed I am currently with him.   

Not only did he brazenly told me he wanted to fuck me and shamelessly grope me in public (I don’t care if its night and theres no one in the area except for his driver, outside is still public!), he has the nerve to keep my switchblade. The audacity of this man to claim something that isn’t his.  

“Why the hell not?”  

“Not the right time.”  

…What?  

Jeremy walks closer to me. His hand coming to my face which I flinched, a natural respond from  sudden slaps when I have my guard down and not seeing it coming, and I take a step back. He slightly frowns from my reaction but is mostly unbothered as he palms my cheek. A surprisingly swipe of his thumb causes me to get flustered at the surprised gentleness he exhibits in this single gesture.   

“The game between us hasn’t started yet. Remember what I told you?”  

“ Run, little manic. Run until your lungs break because I’ll catch you.”  

“ And when I catch you, I’ll have you and you’ll never be the same.”  

“Run.”  

“You…you want a chase.” I whisper as we look into each other, his finger trailing down to my neck, brushing against the old bite mark. I can’t help but gulp nervously. His fingers always leaving a heat trail on my skin.  

“And I want you to run your little heart out, Луничка .”   

The whisper to my ear is like a gentle breeze before the upcoming storm, a sweet promise that intends on ruining me until nothing could be salvage from the wreckage of my heart. Jeremy’s voice is soft, but the weight of his words carries the inevitable destruction, leaving me breathless and wondering if I’ll ever be the same after he is done with me. He’s only leaving me with more questions rather than answers.    

Also, there’s that russian word again.  

“What does-“  

“Boss. You attention is needed at the mansion.”  

A voice with thick russian accent interrupts the moment between us. The driver. Fuck. Almost forgotten about him.   

Jeremy’s expression changes back into that serious, blank look he usually has on and he answers the man back in russian before letting me go. I ignore the disappointment in my heart at the lost of his touch. Ridiculous. I’m already missing him   

“Go. Annika is waiting.” Jeremy leans against the car as he watches me, gaze steady and figure unmoving. There he goes again with the ordering around.   

“I’m not your dog, Volkov.” I growl back at him. He just gives me that annoying, charming smirk of his. Fucker.  

“No, you’re more of a mutt, Reed.”   

“Same thing, asshole.”  

He roll his eyes. “That mouth on you. Go, manic.”   

I glare at him, putting all my fury and dissatisfaction into it before turning back and stomping off into the dorm like a coiled-up wire. Not before leaving with a middle finger in the air for him. Ain’t gonna give you the last say Volkov.  

I heard him let out a short laugh from behind me and that left something warm in my heart. I smile.   

***  

JEREMY  

“Did the men handle the pest?” I lit up my cig, taking in the familiar bitter-sweep scent before blowing out the smoke and watching the wispy puffs dance in the air. The taste was welcoming as the nicotine filled my senses and temporarily calmed the inner turmoil currently making chaos.   

“Yes, boss. They roughen him up outside the club and broke his hand.” My guard answers diligently without question, unbothered that I gave an order to beat the fucker who stared at my little manic’s ass.   

“Did they pop an eye?”   

“No, boss.”  

Fuck. I should have known. If I wanted something done properly, I should have done it myself.   

“At least tell me his face is unrecognizable?”   

“Yes, boss.”  

Good. That at least calmed the beast stirring inside me for the moment. I can’t believe she didn’t let me continue to mark her.   

The stubborn minx.   

Acting all innocent and soft. Being all pliant in my arms while letting out those damn moans. It should be illegal to sound like a sweet, soft girl while responding to me like an experienced slut. The way her body fits into mine so perfectly, the intoxicating scent she gives out in the heated moment, how soft and supple her flesh is in my hands. Her taste on my tongue, delicious.   

I let out another puff of smoke slithered between my lips, looking out of the car window contemplating my current predicament.  

I shouldn’t continue to entertain this girl call Iris Reed. A girl I barely know nothing about except for the damn basics. Ever since she appeared, I’ve been spiralling into a maze that I can’t seem to find an escape out. My lack of self-control when it comes to her is concerning, my beast thrashing uncontrollably to sink its teeth into tender meat and drink the blood of its prey. The chosen prey being Iris Reed.  

I can’t allow myself to be consume by her. She does not control me, I’m the one in control of this game between us. The push and pull, the undeniable attraction that stems from lust and the want of connecting our bodies together that would make a nun blush. I’ll chase after her until our bodies are weary with perspiration, our legs tremble from the strain of our overused muscles, until our hearts burst. Just once, let me have her just one time and I’m sure I’ll be rid of this fucking temptation disguising as a fragile flower.  

An iris shrouded in moonlight.  

My cock twitches in excitement and I rub my temples, groaning for reacting like a hormonal teenager. It's been a while since I fucked someone, due to the lack of interest I have in the women who kept throwing themselves on me. And even if I do entertain their presence, as unbothered as I am having their mouth on me, it's getting tiresome. I don’t care to get my dick wet as often as Nikolai with his partners of choice for the day, better to not get attached knowing I have no interest in stringing along baggage. Not my personal choice to give them hope.  

But the little manic just had to awaken the chained beast in me and I’m salivating to finally have a taste of her.  

Fuck.  

Not yet. I need to prepare the perfect stage for our chase.  

I rub the side of my neck where her scratches now marred my skin. I let out an amuse huff. She’s a feisty one, my little manic. Always leaving something behind to make me think of her. Even now, her scent lingers on my clothes, in the air I breathe, like a challenge and a promise all at once, daring me to chase after her, knowing full well I'll never quite catch up. Disallowing myself to not grab and make her stay.  

Preys are meant to be chase and left after consume. They’re not pretty keepsakes meant to stay.  

Iris Reed is meant to be ruin by me. Deny all she wants; her mouth says something but she her body says otherwise. I’ll hurt and break her until there’s nothing left for the little manic to return, leaving only crumbles of herself and self-doubt of what she’s known about herself.  

And I’ll be there to watch her in her chaos. How she’ll break by my hands.  

Мой Луничка .  

Pity, tomorrow initiation would have been the perfect stage for us.  

Chapter Text

“Your balance is off. Lower the leg a bit and flatten your foot properly.” I pointed out for the third, fourth? time in a row before going back to reading the novel in my hand as I lay on Annika’s comfy purple bed full with fluffy pillows and stuff animals. Last time I counted when I helped her moved into the girls’ (Glyndon, Cecily and Ava) apartment there were six, now there's a new additional three plushies making home at the corner of her bed, against the wall and one of them is my gift to her. A small pink-purple unicorn with a cotton crown on its head and a tutu around its waist which reminded me of this princess practicing ballet in the middle of her room.

And yes, as I predicted from last time, Annika moved into their apartment after the girls invited her to stay with them since they had a spare room. I can just imagine the expression on Jeremy’s face when she decided on that. It only made it sweeter when he couldn’t stop her from doing so when Annika’s gotten approval from her parents, with her mother backing her of course. Jeremy seems to tone down on his aggression and sternness when his mother is around.

A nice lady that mum of theirs. Annika looks exactly like her but while Annika could only be described as an extrovert princess that seems to be made out of sunshine and candies, her mother from the few times I’ve seen her when Annika is video calling her family, was gentle and sweet. She has a quiet demeanor with a certain elegance in her that I can see where Annika inherited from. While Annika would chat away her day, her mother would listen patiently and spoke to her in a soft-spoken way. From what Annika told me before, her mother was once Prima Ballerina and I can see it. The woman oozes with the pride of one even if she’s retired. Some things just don’t go away.

Annika huffs at me before correcting her posture.

“Maybe if you helped me like I asked you to, I wouldn’t be making mistakes every second.” She grumbles before executing a perfect adagio and resuming her dance routine accompanied by music.

Tchaikovsky softly playing in the background while reading a book, great. All that’s left to perfection is a cup of warm tea while wearing comfy pyjamas with the rain falling against the window. Or maybe a glass of scotch. Scotch sounds nice.

“Irisssssss.” Annika whines, again trying to bring my attention back to her and not the book.

I simply flip a page, my eyes on the letters. “I’m reading, kid.”

“You can’t just ignore me. I’m more exciting than a book.”

I chuckle softly at that petulant tone. “You’re saying Tolstoy is a bore?”

The bed dips, bouncing me a bit before I felt a warm body snuggling to my side. I rearrange my arm so that I can pull her in close, my fingers playing with the soft strands of brown hair.

“Its just so…depressing. Also, you get a much more better understanding of the story with the Russian version.” Annika eyes the passage that I’m reading, frowning with every tale written on the pages.

“Anna Karenina is depressing, in a way. Upholding the image and reputation that society has put upon her during that time while also searching for the freedom of choice a.k.a being with her lover while also being a married woman to a senior government officer, to end up spiraling when doubt, jealousy and societal judgement trapped her…and yes, the ending is depressing. Aside from all that, there is the infidelity. Cheating is bad folks, no matter the circumstances and excuse.”  I gently snap the book I borrowed from her collection shut before looking fondly at Annika. “Might I remind you I don’t speak or understand Russian, kid.”

“Are you a philosopher now?” The brat pouts at me before taking the book and putting it on the bedside table, which just so happens to have a dainty lamp that suits the exterior of this purple princess who decides to cuddle me in place. She sure has a grip on her. I attempt to wiggle myself out but Annika’s bear hug is definitely something not to be trifle with.

“A realist.” The audacity of this kid to roll her eyes at me. You’re really lucky you’re cute. “And really, wouldn’t you find similarities with her Anni.”

Blue eyes widen themselves at me. “Are you saying I’m a cheater?” The absolute shock in her voice makes me want to coo. Instead, I giggle which Annika disapproves when I see the wobble to her bottom lip. Ah. Too much teasing.

I ruffle her hair receiving a whine as she pushes my hand away for messing up her hair. “Sorry kid. No Anni, you’re not a cheater. I doubt you have a cheating bone in you with the true love and soulmates drivel you kept spouting at me.” Because this princess is really a romantic at heart despite her worrying acceptance of being married off to another mafia family. And I understand where she is coming from.

It's no secret that one of the ways to establish and strengthen a bond between two underworld families especially ones that have a blood feud marinating for years is by marrying off their children. My grandfather on papa’s side and papa himself wedded to women from other families of crime syndicates in a marriage of convenience. There is even talk that Mikael’s bride has been chosen from one of the allies of the Nachtnebel Clan to mine and Midas’s disgust. Mikael, the ever obedient and devoted son to papa and our clan, seems to have accepted his fate and I can see this reflected on Annika.

Especially in my world, arranged marriages were still a norm in Europe and it doesn’t seem to have any difference for those in the West.

“You’re too much of cynic, Iris. You need someone like me to sprinkle positive vibes. I am doing you a favor.” Annika declares with as much convincing as a hamster with stuffed cheeks.

Absolutely. Cute.

Poke, poke. Again, she smacks my hand away. Gently, as always.

“And what similarities do I have with the protagonist?”

“Well, your names firstly. Anni, Anna, see.” I stated with a cheeky grin and she takes a small pillow and smothers me with it. “Hey!”

“You’re always never serious.”

“I’m always serious.”

“Really?” Anni quirks a brow, her lips purse in that pout that's always fixed on her face. She does that a lot. It’s either smiling, pouting or sulking with this girl. I wonder if Jeremy sulks too. That would be an image I die to see.

“Well, in certain situations.” I quip, taking the pillow off her hands and sitting up properly on her bed, legs cross and eyes lit up with me hugging the pillow as we face each other. “You’re sweet, charming and an intelligent woman foremost and don’t you forget that, missy.” I tap her nose causing that small button nose of hers to twitch like a bunny but at least I got a smile out of her. “And also, the core of it, is your sense of loyalty…and I think that’s whats making you be this accepting towards your ‘fate’, as we call it. Anni, do you really think you’re going to be given away to be married off?”

Her eyes widen for a split second before a small albeit a sad one makes an appearance.

“My marriage is probably already decided and you know, I’m okay with it. I had time to embrace the idea of being married to a stranger if it’s for the betterment of my family.”

“Bullshit.” My voice grows hard and Annika’s eyes widen at the tone. Shit. Calm down, Iris. You are not going to go all haywire like you did with Mikael. Deep breaths. “Sorry. I just…I don’t like how accepting you are towards this. You are more than just a trade, Annika.” And I say that with all my heart.

Despite barely knowing this girl, I know enough that Annika deserves better than whats usually expected from the women of criminal organizations. We are mere pawns in the dark circle that seeks power and controls our every move, manipulating our lives as if we’re disposable pieces in their endless game. Loyalty, betrayal, and blood are the currency, and no one escapes unscathed. Even if women aren’t high in the hierarchy of a male dominated circle, they know to use every asset in their disposal and unfortunately, us girls don’t have much say in the choices made for us. Choices we rarely have control over.

Annika is one of the lucky ones. Her parents and brother from what I’ve seen so far adores and loves her and I doubt they would give her up into a life of uncertainty. They would rather go through war than give her up.

“You don’t know my world, Iris.” Annika lets out a soft sigh, looking all defeated as if she already had this talk in her mind many many times before. She wouldn’t be saying that if she knew I was part of that world. “You wouldn’t understand what's it like in the Bratva and I wouldn’t want anyone to go through that. If I can help dad in any way I can then this would be it. Right now, I’m just focusing in living life before the inevitable.”

Oh, I don’t like that. I do not like that at all.

“Anni that’s fucking depressing.” Ok, in all honesty, I’m shit in giving advices or talking to someone when it comes to those mushy feelings and such. This is Cecily’s specialty and I have a tact of a bull in a china shop. While Cecily is able to navigate the conversation into a more subtle and understanding way with her being a future psychologist and the mom of the group, I’m more brash and don’t filter the word vomit that comes out of my mouth which usually ends up being the reason for most of my troubles. “You are not some item to be exchange like in the olden days and I will not see the kid who keeps blabbering at me about purple clothes, cute animals and barf inducing rom-coms be degraded into a forced bride to some old sleaze-bag with a receding hairline.” Ok, imagining an old fucker touching my kid just makes me boil but it did de-tense Annika when I see her giggling at the description. Good. A smiling Annika is better than a wounded puppy Annika. Better than a sacrificial lamb Annika. “Right now, all you have to think about is getting through uni and living your best life. Go for a joyride, have fun meeting new people, get a boyfriend. No more thoughts of arranged marriages. We’ll cross that bridge when we get there and if you do end up getting through with it, well, I’ll just have to partner up with Ava to kidnap you from your to-be-husband. Flynn Rider style.” I even did the character’s signature smolder and as cringey as it is, that elicited a loud laugh from this precious girl who tumbles into my chest.

“You’re so good to me, Iris.” Her voice muffles against my chest and the cutey had the audacity to be so sweet as she nuzzles into me. What is with these Volkov siblings and their way with easily charming me off? I can understand with Annika but Jeremy, urgh. No amount of looks can excuse that shitty, control-freak attitude of his. Even so, I can’t seem to deny myself when it comes to him. Simply attraction and lust in the mix - nothing more, nothing less.

“Don’t let people dictate your choices, Annika. Nothing worse than letting others make your choices for you. There is a reason why we escape from our designated fate, why we fight for the things we want, even if it means we die trying.” My voice goes hollow as I’m suck back into those fragmented memories, mixing together pieces of the puzzles which don’t fit as echoes of the voices in the past make an appearance.

It's always the same spiel with them. Always belittling me with sweet croons disguising the filthy promises marked on my skin. It was better when I sink deeper into my mind. Detach from reality.

Sinking. Sink deeper until it grows darker and the voices turn into warbling incoherent sounds, like sinking into deep water. Until I'm cocoon into the warm embrace of darkness as I let my body grow cold like a lifeless doll. A damn corpse for the taking.  

I’m only snapped out from the haze when I felt Annika tighten her hold on me and she says something, chattering away oblivious to my half-sunken state. Fuck, I can’t sink in front of her. Sink into oblivion, my mind’s safety nest I call it. The one place I felt safe when left alone.

Growing up, I never had any friends since I have been surrounded by grown-ups and treated as such after my first kill. And with Annika being my first friend, I’m not sure how to navigate this newfound friendship. All I know is that I would treat her with the best care that I can give and if anyone ever hurts this princess, they would have my knife sticking out of their throat.

I think if she knew how similar our lives are we could connect through the similarities of being mafia brats and I doubt she scares easily with how Jeremy turned out to be. She had to have surrounded herself with the things included in being in the mafia no matter how much her parents separated her from it. It's so easy to tell her. It’ll only be a secret between us and friends, they don’t keep secrets.

The thing is, I don’t want to tell her.

I don’t want to scare Annika. I don’t want her to see the monster hiding behind this husk.

I just can’t.

We chatted a bit after the cloud of gloom and dread above our heads disperse, talking about more tame topics like volunteering at the animal shelter with Cecily. Cecily invited us and Annika is all in when it comes to animals especially the cute kittens and puppies promised. Me, I’m more hesitant. Not because I don’t want to volunteer, that would be hypocritical of me when I do charity work in Germany and attend the soup kitchen in Louisiana with my uncle’s wife whenever I was in the States. Heck, the Nachtnebel Clan had an organization set up when it came to these things. Papa even named me one of the directors and I’m dang proud of being useful to him when it came to that. I don’t need to oversee everything since I’m currently in university but I do get reports.

I know how to deal with animals. They follow their instinct and by giving them your unconditional love and trust, you receive theirs.

The only pet I have is our family dog, a Groenendael we named Hugo. I miss him. Leaving Midas to take care of Hugo was the main deciding factor that nearly made me not continue my Masters in REU. I watched Midas for a month caring for our dog properly to trust him enough to leave Hugo in his care. I could have left it to the servants to care for Hugo (in which they do when Midas has jobs that need to be dealt with) but that’s just irresponsible. Papa gave us Hugo so we siblings take care of him, mostly Mikael and me since Midas hates animals. Yeah, the weirdo hates animals. But now that Mikael and me are out of the country, this responsibility is left to Midas who scowls each time he is left with Hugo. I trust Midas not to kill our pet. Hopefully Hug doesn’t piss on his shoes…again. Like the other several times.

I’m still on the fence but from how Annika is determined to pull me into the task, it's only a matter of time before I reluctantly get pull into it. I’ll have to double check my class schedule just in case.

“Urgh, Jeremy such a dummy. I don’t want to stay at the mansion while he and the others go rampaging in the grounds tomorrow.” Annika whines laying the back of her head on my thigh, she squishes the small hippo plushy between her fingers.

I turn my gaze downwards at her pouty expression, my fingers working on the non-existing knots of her soft smooth hair. Her hair is so manageable, mine looks like an owl just made its nest when I wake up. Midas even called me a skunk because my hair got all poof out when I sat on the table for breakfast. Plus, my hair color doesn’t help in proving him wrong. Damn idiot. He has no say on what my hair looks like when his looks like a rat’s nest, claiming women called it fuckable.

Dumbass.

“Ah, the Heathen’s Initiation.” The blasted event that has me curious ever since Annika spilled. “Seems important if he didn’t want me to know about it.”

“It's not really a secret and I doubt you wouldn’t find out soon enough. It's like, the talk of the campus by now.”

“Tell me about it.” My curiosity gets the best of me. Jeremy shouldn’t have told me to mind my own business because the more he denies me, the more I want it. “C’mon Anni, tell me~” I pinch her cheek in which she excitedly does after trying to bite my fingers off. Gossipy little thing.

“Well like I said before, it’s the Heathen’s initiation ceremony and they test potential members that are interested in joining the club. Last year, attendance was huge despite being a mockup. According to one of the guards I asked, the forest was set up with different traps and tons of people got hurt. You can count on one hand how many people got in!”

Traps huh. Hunting for game without getting your hands dirty.

“Only the strong ones got in then.”

“Of course! Otherwise, they’d be wasting their time with weaklings. It’s why most participants are the toughest ones from The King’s U. I heard they’re sending a few invitations to REU students this year, but that’s probably so the Heathens can use them as spies. Not sure.”

“And where does Jeremy fit into all this?”

“Well, since he is the original members including a few others, they would wear these neon purge mask things and terrorize the potential members. Gareth says its to test whether they’re strong enough to withstand them and survive in the club, since you know, most of the students in TKU are related to the Bratva. If you can’t survive this than your chances of surviving in our world is less to none.” Annika’s voice softens, her expression something akin to reluctance acceptance before she quickly covers it up with her usual smile. “Knowing Jeremy, he’ll probably not make it easy for them. He doesn’t accept people easily, especially ones who are weak and prone to disloyalty.”

I quirk a brow, intrigued. “Is there a story to this?”

“Not sure but even if I knew, it's not my story to tell.” Annika gives me a guilty smile and I nod, understanding where she is coming from.

“So, any ideas what the initiation trial this time is?”

She shakes her head. “No idea, but Killian came up with the trial this year and knowing that lunatic, it's probably something crazy and brutal again. He likes to play with peoples’ mind so I doubt its that’s simple.”

Killian, Killian Carson. Skipped grades and is a medical student with a one-way ticket to any hospital or medical practice he chooses. He’s smart, too smart perhaps and both admired and envied by the students in his medical department. From the stories I heard, he’s a charming guy and well like but there’s just something…unhinged with him that I can’t put my finger on. He looks like a serial killer on the prowl.

“Killian…is he the guy with Jeremy in the fight club?”

“Yep. Word of advice Iris, don’t get close to him. Even I have to be cautious when I’m around Killian. The only reason I’m safe is because I’m Jeremy’s sister.”

“I think it also has to do with your father being part of the upper rank in the Bratva.”

“Never stopped Killian before in ruining someone.”

Annika says it so seriously that I have no doubt its true. And apparently, Killian Carson has his eyes on Glyndon. From the way he had his hand around her waist, that similar possessive hold from the people I’ve seen when it comes to their partners and from my own experience, and the heated gaze directed to her, Glyndon had become his target. I guess the murderous glare I received from those dead blue eyes was a warning.

Really sugar, you just had to catch the attention of a psycho.  

“So, just anyone can enter the initiation?”

“Nope. You have to get an invite. They usually send a message or something as an invitation to distinguish the participants. I think it's a QR code this time. Jeremy usually handles the techie stuff.”

Coming from Jeremy, I’m guessing each QR code has their own personal invite to avoid people using the same invitation to get into the initiation. According to Annika, the initiation takes place at their mansion and that place is crawling with guards from the Bratva and I’m guessing surveillance cameras all around the compound.

The people there must have a kick watching kids run around getting brutally hazed.

“Is there any chance you have a spare invite for me?” I playfully say, in a way hoping she does have one but Annika gives me a look of horror that does make me feel guilty.

“Are you crazy?” She lifts herself up from my lap, looking slightly offended. Nope, scratch that. She’s mortified. “You are crazy. I’m not indulging in your danger-fuel addiction, Iris!”

“I just want to see what the hype is.” Okay, pouting doesn’t help but it does smoothen the anger.

“No effing way!” Okay, it doesn’t.

Annika glares at me and I think cracking a joke at her cute angry expression will just result in a pillow and plushie being thrown at my face. And then-

“Do you like making me worry about you? Do you get a trill of getting hurt, Iris? It's not a nice feeling and, and you just...” She lets out a huff and glares at her lap. Her hands in fists on her thighs, trembling in anger and looking very much upset. “Just don’t.” Annika ends it with a firm note, not looking at me in her fury.

I know I can be insensitive and often selfish. A bit self-absorbed perhaps. But I never meant to upset anyone especially Annika. I’m so used to relying on myself that the thought of others aside from my family caring about me is... bizarre.

“Anni...I’m sorry.” I place my hand on top of her fist, giving it a squeeze. “I don’t mean to be selfish. I’m not used to it, people worrying about me and I know it's a weak excuse but trust me when I say I don’t purposely get myself into trouble.”

“Then why?” She squeezes my hand in return, her gentle touch and soft hand reminding me how different we are. She doesn’t ask me the small scars I have on my palms and for that, I’m grateful.   

“Curiosity.” I grin. Annika doesn't seem to appreciate the answer or the amusement I’m showing to her but that's really it. I’m always curious. It’s a curse especially when it includes a mixture of my unhealthy obsession. I want to see what the big hype of this initiation is and I definitely want to see Jeremy in his element.

I want to see the beast in his primal form. Even if I know the bastard will control himself from going too far. The self-restraint he has, it's unbelievable and annoying. So far, from the rumors, Jeremy was akin to the lord that governs the dead. He was deadly in his silence; in the way he presents himself as an intimidating figure that calls for absolute obedience. His presence alone was enough to drain the air from a room, leaving only the weight of his unspoken authority and the chilling promise of what might follow if anyone dared to cross him. He alone demanded respect, fear, and an unspoken understanding that crossing him meant inviting ruin.

Tales of him torturing people, killing them, and throwing the corpses over the sea cliff are plentiful and that is just one of the many stories spread around campus. Not too farfetched of an action coming from one of the heirs of the upper rank of the Bratva but from what I’ve seen, Jeremy was the type of person who didn’t invite trouble if it didn’t benefit him or fit with his plan. He was smart, unbelievably smart despite the muscle-head brute I conjured him up to be and always seem to be three steps ahead.

Jeremy Volkov was the savage devil that made you question yourself despite the fear and reverence he brings. His presence was a warning, a quiet reminder that no one crossed him without paying the ultimate price. Yet, beneath the dark veneer, there was an allure—a magnetic pull that made you question whether the danger was worth stepping closer.

And I’m the crazy bitch who is obsess with him, despite not knowing what he looked like in the first place and just a name to fill the crevices of my mind, my imagination running wild.

Jeremy Volkov was my unhealthy obsession and I was salivating over the promise of the chase he vowed to me.

I can’t stand the wait. Thus, the curiosity I have with the initiation and the thrill of danger that courses through my blood.

I want it.

I want him.

Even if I despise his very being.

“I can’t promise I won’t get involve in danger.” Annika frowns at me, squeezing my hand hard in retaliation to my aloofness but she stays quiet, allowing me to continue. “But I promise you I won’t get hurt.” Too bad that is. “I need a little bit of excitement in my life and a mix of danger in the concoction. But for you, I’ll try to avoid getting hurt. Is that okay?”

Annika lets out a soft huff but her expression softens including the grip to my hands.

“I knew you were a headache the moment I tapped your shoulder and you turn to face me. You are TROUBLE in capitalized letter.”

“The good kind of trouble I hope.” I wink for good measure and she giggles.

“The one I can’t stop getting tangled up with, no matter how much I tell myself I should know better,” she says with a smirk, her tone teasing but her eyes warm with affection.

“Well, you haven’t yet experienced the full Reed Treatment, kid. One day perhaps, don’t want to scare you off too quickly.” I playfully mess up her hair again until we’re a giggling mess on Annika’s bed. We then heard voices outside, Cecily the loudest as she scolds Remington about changing the decor. I can hear the chair scrapping against the floor and yep, the guy is messing with the girls’ furniture.

“Seems like a party out there.” I murmur curiously, not making any movement to check it out.

Annika rolls her eyes and hops out of bed. She pulls be up, begrudgingly following her lead. I prefer laying in her bed but I guess making an appearance is a necessary to improve budding friendship. She’s the pro in this, the extrovert princess and I’m the reluctant maid accompanying her.

We greet the group who were already enjoying the meal brought by the boys. Classic fish and chips, yum.

The scent of delicious food calls my name like a sailor hypnotized by the voice of a siren at sea. I plop myself between Remington and Creighton, grinning at Creighton who grumbles at the minuscule disturbance but still continues scarfing down the food like a starved man who hasn’t eaten for days. I steal a fry from Remington’s plate while he continues to argue with Cecily. I take another and another. And even a bite of the fish without him noticing.

A dramatic gasp is heard. Oops.

“You sneaky wench! Hands off my lordship’s fish and chips.” He grabs his container steering it away from my grabby fingers but not before I successfully steal another fry.

“Sharing is caring, jester.” I quip and that earns me another gasp as an accusing finger is pointed at me, which I swipe away because he poked my nose.

“You dare call my lordship a clown?! The audacity! I take you into my fold and this is the thanks I get? You insult my noble standing and steal my precious provisions?!” he exclaims, clutching the container dramatically to his chest like a prized treasure.

I laugh, popping the stolen fry into my mouth. “Your fold? Please, I’m the one elevating your court with my presence. You should be thanking me, your lordship.”

He narrows his eyes, but there’s a playful glint in them. “Very well, peasant. You’ve earned one more fry for your boldness—but only one!”

“I’m honored, very much so.” I reply, as equally dramatic as him, taking the fry with my mouth in between his fingers, wiggling my brows playfully which both of us end up snickering like the immature children we are which earns a snort from Cecily who then proceeds to eat her own fish and chips with Ava.

“If you like, you can have the rest of mine.” A smooth voice penetrates the small bubble between Remi and me, their British accent pleasant and soft. My eyes lift to stare into blue ocean ones which quickly avoided mine.

Brandon King, Glyndon’s older brother, the other half of Landon King. His handsome features reminisce me of those fairy tale princes, the one you can‘t just help but sigh, captivated by them. Despite him and his twin sharing the same face, Brandon‘s edges were softer and his eyes gentler despite the hidden depth in them. Very much different from Landon King’s sharpness and volatile nature. Not many artists that prioritizes their hands, the ones making their craft would jeopardize them by getting into ring fights. Landon King seems to be the anomaly.

“You sure?” I ask and he nods. He had half of his food unfinished, deciding to sketch with Glyndon sitting beside him with her own meal and an eager Annika admiring his sketches while she asks about his social media handle.

Brandon nods, giving me a small reassuring smile. “I’m sure. I don’t have much of an appetite.”

I take the meal offered to me and thank him.

“I’m Iris, it's nice to meet you.” I return with my own bright smile. We met once but he was in a rush after hugging Glyndon and scampering away to lacrosse practice. “And the kid over there is Annika.” Said kid scowls at me but continues to scroll on her phone admiring Brandon’s art work after finding his IG.

He lets out a soft chuckle. “Brandon. Glyndon has told me a lot about you.”

I eye Glyndon who gives me a shy smile, quietly eating her food.

“Sugar talks about me huh.” I say this as I chew on the fish.

“Sugar? If you meant Glyn, then yes, good things.” Mirth flits in his gaze at the nickname.

I laugh a bit at that. “I doubt that. According to Anni, I’m trouble.”

Glyndon rolls her eyes at me. “And a menace.” I wink at her in return in which she sighs softly yet with a fondness at the edge.  

“You know you love me, King.” I chirp with a flirty tune to her annoyance.

“You wish, Reed.” She says fondly to my delight as I bark out a short laugh, sharing a look between us. It's nice to let loose once in a while.

The corner of Brandon’s lips lifts as he watches, mainly watching Glyndon smiling. He was probably worried about his little sister, due to everything I heard happen in regards to his friend, Devlin, who passed a few weeks ago, and is just relief to see her comfortable and not the jittery bug I saw when we first met.

All of us simply hang out in the living room as we ate and chatted, some of us eating on the sofa and some on the floor. There was the thing with Annika and Creighton where he pinned her to the sofa because she tried to eat from his container but quickly resolved with Annika weirdly staying still as she watches Creighton, ignoring her as he continues to eat.

God, kid is being so obvious. I don’t know why but from the way her eyes glimmer with interest towards Creighton, it seems she set her eyes on him. I don't know whether to be concern with Annika for having a crush on an enigmatic young man who enjoys fighting people for fun or feel pity for Creighton because his space will be invaded by a shooting star of a ballerina since Annika was a force to be reckon with.

Well, I did tell her to live her life. If it helps her from thinking about the arranged marriage shit, then I guess I’ll leave her to it. Not that I won’t watch over her. If she starts crying because of Creighton, well, let's just say asking questions is after I have my knife plunge into his thigh.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” Ava exclaims suddenly catching our attention, her eyes on me half-way with my fork into my mouth. "You won the bet between Creighton and Killian. The money is in my purse, I’ll give it to you after this and I’m taking half since I helped you place the bet.” She declares with a smirk, happy to take half of my winnings. Not that I really mind. Though, I was a bit sheepish when Cecily directed Ava and me her famous ‘I’m disappointed in you’ expression.

“Wait, Creighton fought with Killian? You mean Killian Carson?” I glance at Creighton whose bruised face was covered with those strip bandages to close the cuts. Looking at him this closely, since I couldn’t see his face clearly when he was devouring the food, his face does look worse for wear. “I thought it was Nikolai Sokolov.”

“Me too.” Creighton grumbles in discontent as he chews on a fry. My fingers brush across his bruises and he flinches a bit but stays still for me. I mouthed at him an apology but shrugs, not minding as he allows me to check more of his bruises while he continues eating.

“Nikolai did fight but Killian took his place fighting with Creighton.” Ava chimes in, looking all huffy in her pink robe and loose blonde hair. “The asshole suddenly went all spartan on our Cray-Cray and we thought he was going to lose-“

“I wasn’t losing.” Creighton argues back with a scowl which Ava ignores.

“But then bam! Our Cray-Cray came back winning.” She finishes with her arms up cheering. “I knew Creigh would win.”

If so, why doesn’t Creighton look happy despite winning against Killian?

It was a quick glance, but I saw the questioning look Creighton gave to Glyndon and the way Glyndon avoided looking at him, gingerly biting into her food as she wipes her palm down her shorts.

That nervous habit…

I wasn’t there to see the fight due to Jeremy being a control freak, forcing me to abide to his orders but if this is the really what I think it is, Killian exchanging places with Nikolai might have something to do with Glyndon. It seems the man is interested in Glyndon and Glyndon did seem to know Killian despite them having no connection whatsoever. There’s more to this and I’m betting it's also the reason why Cecily and Ava returned home without her from the fight club.

Did she and Killian…no. Iris, you have to trust your friend, even if there's a niggling feeling that said person is making a bad decision and possibly starting a bad something with a possible serial killer with dead eyes. Not like I haven’t made my own bad choices in life. I’ve dealt with bad cards before but that’s me.

Jesus, is this what having friends happen? Constantly worrying and fretting about them? Annika already has me in mama bear mode, now Glyn? Fuck, I need a drink or I’ll start getting mushy.

“So-” I take a sip from the beer can. “Who had the chance to fight with Sokolov?”

“It was Landon.” Ava answers and I internally curse because that would have been a fun fight to watch. Screw you, Jeremy.

“Don’t tell me-,”

“Yep, he lost and Nikolai won.”

Shit. There goes my money. Well, you win some, you lose some.

“Since when did you have the time to place bets?” Cecily admonishes me.

“Instructed Ava before Volkov took me outside.” At the mention of Jeremy, Cecily frowns. She murmurs something under her breath, a mixture of ‘uncouth caveman’ and ‘savage neanderthal’.

Ouch. Reel in the claws, Cecily. No need to make it obvious how you detest him.

“You didn’t instruct me whatsoever.” Ava harrumphs. “I place the bet on my own accord and yes, I used your money for it. It would be unwise to use my own funds to bet on something that has a 50/50 chance.”

“You didn’t trust Creight to win.” I directed her a smirk in which she goes red and juts out her lower lip.

“I trust Creigh, thank you very much!” Ava waves her shiny manicured nails, soft pastel pink polish obviously, in front of my face. I have the urge to grasp it and place my lips on the bluish veins of her wrist. “Should I remind you Iris that you’re still new to our group’s dynamic?”

“And have I integrated into your clique well?” I flutter my eyelashes at her to the aggrievement of Ava. Purposely pissing people off is unadvisable but Ava just makes it easy and fun for me.

“Unlike Anni, you’re still under observation.” She pokes my chest and I’m oh so tempted to take a digit and suck on it just to mess with her.

“I’ll win you over soon enough, Pinkie Pie.” Ava lets out a gasp of shock, her eyes narrowing into a glare that could pierce steel. 

“Did you just equate me to a cartoon pony?!” she demands, her voice rising an octave.

The smirk on my face widens, entirely unrepentant. “What can I say? You’re colorful, stubborn, and impossible to ignore. It fits.”

Ava’s jaw drops. “Oh, you’re dead meat.”

“Friendship is magic, pinkie.” I cheekily indulge in spirit fingers and I guess that was the last straw because I find myself being tackle by a flash of pink.

***

“Umm, should we do something?” Annika says softly, concern tint in her voice as she watches us along with the others who are unsure if they should cut in and separate Ava and me.

I ended up with more messed up hair that resembles a trash panda and my cheeks being pinched red like tomatoes as she straddles my lap while berating me in the importance of respect and acknowledging my elders. Not that I have the chance to remind her I’m two years older than her with the way my mouth is being stretched more than I like it to be.

I’m also ignoring the click, click noise of the camera phone directed at us capturing this moment.

“Don’t you dare separate them! This is art—pure, raw passion—a masterpiece of two bodies entwined in fury and desire! Two gorgeous chicks—ow! Damn it! What was that for, you savage cougar?” Remi whines, pouting dramatically as he rubs the back of his head where Cecily had smacked him with a rolled-up magazine. Narrowed green eyes land on a pouting Remi as Cecily threatens to hit him again by raising the weapon in her hand.

“For being a shameless idiot,” Cecily shot back, her glare sharp enough to cut steel.

“You can’t stop what has been declared by God!

“I’ll make you see God!”

Another smack and yelp are heard and laughter can be heard all around us. Despite the circumstances befalling me, something in the pit of my stomach warms up and I can’t help but smile. Even Ava, the sassy girl who always has to buttheads with me is giggling.

I guess this is fun.

“Iris, look.” Creighton’s voice catches me off guard as I turn my head towards his voice and see him with his phone on Ava and me. And with that deadpan tone of his, Creighton says “Cheese.”

***

Class today is a drawl. I’m not paying much attention; tapping my pen to my notebook while tuning out the professor’s voice. Something about non-current assets and dividend and shit, things I’ve read ahead before class and remember effortlessly.

Not to brag but numbers come easily for me. With numbers, there is always a clear solution and correct answer. Complicated calculation might take several tries of different formulas to give us the right answer but there is a certainty with numbers. A math problem will always have a solution.

It’s not messy, and it’s not too complicated that there’s no definite answer.

Numbers are safe. Numbers are predictable.

Humans are not.

Well, that's not the only thing plaguing my mind. Two things actually; an initiation I’m still curious about and a certain man that has infiltrated my thoughts before I even landed on Brighton Island. It's only been a day and I’m craving for one look of him. His touch, I can still feel them ghosting on my skin. How the heat he left leaves me gently caressing my skin just to recall back the way he held me, just to have that heat soothing the cold within me. My finger skimming over the bruises and hickeys on my neck, scratching the new bite mark that is close to the old one. Annika saw them but to my surprise and confusion, she doesn’t ask. I wonder if she knows. She might knows something is going on but she is being the normal Annika I kn

You can be obsess with a man you despise. You can hate what you crave.

He is the bitter poison I drink to silence the voices, the monster of my nightmares whose presence swallows every shadow in darkness, leaving only an abyss with him at its center. His eyes are a beacon, pulling me toward something my heart aches for—something primal, clawing desperately within me to claim.

Jeremy Volkov… a mistake I should have never made. Yet she craves the beast, longs for him to descend upon her, to ruin her, to tear her apart until there’s nothing left but the raw truth of her desire.

Helena crawls to have a sip of his blood-soaked fingers while I pull her back into the comfort of silence, surrounded by dark water that drowns me into oblivion.

You can crave what you hate, desire what you know you should never touch. It's the kind of longing that burns, a forbidden fire you can’t extinguish, but you never allow yourself to claim. It’s a torment you choose to endure because surrendering would mean losing the last shred of control you have.

Some temptations are meant to stay out of reach, a torment you carry like a secret scar, never daring to indulge.

For me, Jeremy Volkov was a craving that I will never cross the line to fuel this agonizing addiction. My body may react to him but never my very soul.

A figure stands to my side, his silhouette shadowing me catching me off guard, stopping my musing. I absently glance upwards to see not just anyone but Eli King staring me down with such impassiveness that I almost mistake this beauty of a man as a marble statue fit for the gods.

Unblinking dark gray eyes stare into me and I silently stare back in confusion to his sudden appearance. Almost mistaken his eyes as Jeremy’s. Jeremy’s eyes were much darker and intense.  They look at me with hunger and a promise of destruction, as if he’s deciding whether to Devour me whole or savor every moment of my undoing. This one looks at me as if I was a disgusting bug under his shoes, my guts dirtying his shiny oxfords.

Eli King, a PHD student and a member of the Elites. I caught a quick look at him yesterday in the booth sitting with the other Elite members.

All tall and domineering and with the elegance of a jaguar stalking their prey, all slick and beautiful in their beastly nature. Being this close to him I can’t help but notice the strong features he has, those deep set of eyes with arched brows and the straight sharp nose. He is beautiful.

Though, Jeremy is much more. That beast is gorgeous.

Eli King a.k.a He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, according to her Royal Highness the Pink Princess. Ava specifically warned me under no circumstance should I interact with the man and I haven’t even if we shared a few classes together. There wasn't any reason for me to get close to him and he doesn’t give me the necessary attention aside from the occasional head nod greeting. So, I’m not sure what to do when said person comes to me.

I tilt my head and smile at him, one of those smiles I give out to people who I barely know, the ‘just being nice’ smile. Cause according to Annika I should smile more instead of glaring at them. What the little missy doesn’t know or fails to acknowledge is that that's my neutral bored face and it just so happens that that expression makes me look condescending. Yes Ava, I do acknowledge my resting bitch face.

“King. How can I help you today?” I chirp at him which doesn’t bring out any sort of change to his expression. It doesn’t deter me because if I learnt anything from hanging out with Creigh is that the brooding nature and intimidating stares from the Kings are to be expected, even when it comes to Eli King despite him being the more charming and social incline sibling.

After watching me for a long second, he throws me a grin —the fake one he gives to people he deems beneath him, all sharp edges and practiced charm, designed to mock more than to appease.

“Reed, do you have a partner for this assignment?”

I squint my face, looking hella confuse with his question.

Assignment. What assignment?

I think Eli realizes that I have no idea what he meant because I swear the corner of his eyes twitch in annoyance at my perplexity despite the curve of his lips still with that smile. God, how does no one see the mask he puts on? It's so obvious.

“Professor Thomas just gave all of the students an assignment to do and he expects a short 3 pages report and presentation of it by next Tuesday. The main title being Financial Markets Analysis. He requested two people in a group. So again, do you have a partner?” Eli asks me again, a bit peeve perhaps with my ignorance or lack of concentration. Damn. I must have been daydreaming too hard to be that unfocus today. Now that I’m more aware, I realize everyone is moving around in the lecture hall and partnering up.

“And you want to partner up with me?” I pointed to myself because as far as I know, that’s out of character for him especially since he doesn’t know me. I deducted him to be a creature of habit if what I’ve seen so far and from what Remi and Ava tells me when I asked out of curiosity and just because, you know.  

I’m sure he had previous partners he worked with before so I figured he would be much more incline working with them rather than someone he barely knows.

“Yes.” Eli simply answers.

I wonder what this man is thinking. His eyes are on me but at the same time those gray eyes look absent, as if I wasn’t actually in his sight and this is just a chore for him to check off in his internal list.

“I don’t mind but is there a reason why.”

“Do you ask this many questions?” The look of annoyance is more apparent now and I actually let out a chuckle to his discontent.

“It’s just we never really talked except for the occasional hi’s.”

“Well, let's correct that. Hi. Eli King and I would like you to be my partner for this mundane assignment that will affect my grades and social standing to a professor which I don’t actually care.” He gives a sarcastic introduction, lifting his hand for a shake. I look at his hand, the beautiful tan of his skin bringing out the bulging bluish-green of his veins that look quite intimidating yet sexy in my eyes. Kinda reminds me of Jeremy’s when he choked me. His veins appearing when his muscles tense and I can see them clearly, wanting to trace them with my tongue.

Urgh. I think I’m too far gone with that bastard to even admonish myself on my depravity towards him.

“Hi, I’m Iris Reed and I corrected my finance professor's calculation on the first day of class and somehow became his number one enemy, thus putting a target on me for him wanting to see me fail and rejoice on it.”  I retort back with a cheeky grin which does earn me a snort from him. “And sure, I will accept being your partner if you tell me the reason why. The real reason that is.” I give his hand a firm shake while I kept a steady gaze on Eli.

I felt a prickling feeling on the back of my neck and turn back slightly to see who. No one. Huh...maybe that's just my imagination as I pull back my hand from Eli.

Eli kept his eyes on me and it seem like forever when it's only been seconds, this staring contest between us. After what seems like a long minute of torturous stand-off, Eli huffs and lets his real emotions show, which is the cold, uncaring expression he is directing at me. He sits beside me as I scoot over to the side allowing him more space.

“You have been a bad influence on Ava.” He suddenly announces to my confusion, his tone of voice one of serious and holding in the dark edge I see him held back.

Bad influence? Sure, I can be a misguided, but I’m not that much of a bad influence. Ava is usually the initiator of drinking and dancing in the club. I think both of us have equal amount of bad influence combined if we can stand each other's presence to stay in a room alone if force together.

“I don’t hang out much with her to be that much of a bad influence.”

“In the contrary, she has been acting way out of character than her usual prissy princess self. Yesterday, she was gambling, betting on the fights.”

My brow quirks and I am confounded because yeah, what's the big deal?

“It's not like she hasn’t betted before I came to REU.”

“Oh yes, I know that girl had gamble on the fights before but not to the extend like yesterday. She was cackling with glee when she received a huge amount of money and even had the gall to show it off to me saying she’s going on a shopping spree with the money she won.” Eli looks annoyed when he says this and... it's kind of like seeing a sulking child being denied their favorite toy that has been taken by another.

“And?”

“She said she got the money from you.”

“Because I wasn’t there to place my bets. And I lost money too when your cousin lost yesterday.”

“So you split your money with a girl you hardly know and care about?” He insisted, teeth clamp together in frustration that's just a tad menacing. “You’re not her damn sugar daddy, Reed.”

Oh, he actually does care about this.

Well, even if yesterday I decided to split my winnings, I actually didn’t take the money. I told Ava to keep it all telling her to spend it and she gave me this look that just spells trouble and maybe in awe. But when you have a beautiful blonde looking at you with shiny light blue eyes reminiscing the sky in a sunny day, you kind of act dumb and just let her enjoy herself. I even got a picture of a dress she bought for me saying in the text, “You need a reminder that dressing not like a slob is a requirement to get into my good graces.” before sending me a kissy wink emoji.

Yeah, pinkie is definitely pushy.

“And also, she gave me this...this face.”

“What face?”

Eli proceeds to squint his face into something similar to a face that is similar to someone I’ve seen my whole life...my own. Yeah, that ‘bitchy’ resting face Ava likes to remind me. So she actually did learn something from me. Hah.

I giggle because fuck, that's amusing to see if Ava really did direct that expression to Eli. A tingling of pride evokes in me at Ava’s tinny bit of rebellious nature acted towards Eli. From the way she talks about the man, rare as it may be, in a way that's spiteful and contain a lot of animosity and pain cramped into a small box of fragility, Ava usually doesn’t do much aside from the passive-aggressive conversations she has with Eli King. I don’t know what their deal is to have that much animosity with each other, one-sided perhaps, but clearly these two need to clear the air. You can cut the sexual tension with a knife.

“You think that's funny? She never gave me that dirty look before!” Eli growls and I think if I was just anyone, he would have put his hands on me. Well, he could try. I would knife him back.

“Kind of an improvement to whatever you two have with each other. The back and forth were getting too old.”

“And you think you know everything about my relationship with Ava?” He presses, a warning tone that even my dumb self knows not to cross. I become stupid for Jeremy, not for some hulking dark eye psychopath who seem to have an obsession with the pink princess.

“No, but it's obvious what you two have is unresolved.” I casually answer because it is obvious.

Eli grumbles something under his breath and shoves his phone to my face. “And what's your explanation for this?”

I squint at the image on his phone, a picture and not just any picture. It's a picture of me getting my mouth stretched wide looking by a giggling Ava who tries to look tough but fails to do so. She has me on a hold with her thighs straddle to my lap and I honestly couldn’t move because she had a tight grip on me. Wait, isn’t this the picture Creigh took yesterday fish and chip night? I have the same exact picture on my phone. He sent it to me.

“We were fooling around?”

His face turns red and I think...I think there’s a misunderstanding here.

“Waitwaitwait!” I have my hands up, hoping to calm him down before he goes all John Wick on me. “I’m not interested in pinkie!”

“Pinkie?!” His hackles rise at that intimate nickname. Oh fuck!

“I’m not interested in Ava like that.” I quickly convey because Eli King looks like he is about to burst. “I mean she’s cute and all but I’m not interested in pursuing whatever you’ve concluded in that mind of yours. We’re friends…scratch that. We’re acquaintances who so happen to have the same set of friends.”

Eli scoffs but at least he doesn’t look to put out. He scrutinizes me under those gray eyes of his like I’m a pest he’s trying to decide whether to get rid or ignore.

“Don’t touch her.” He warns me and really, dude, you’re barking up the wrong tree.

“I don’t control her mobility so pull that stick out of your ass and check yourself.” I counter, because its one thing to be angry at me; its another to try and police her decisions like she’s some kind of possession. “Do you feel threaten by me or something?”

Again, he lets out an unamused scoff while still glaring at me.  

“Please, don’t flatter yourself,” he says, his tone dripping with disdain. “You’re not a threat—you’re an inconvenience I’ve yet to deal with.”

“Ooo, scary~” I shouldn’t taunt him, but someone needs to bring his ego down a notch. Eli shoots me a murderous glare but doesn’t bother replying. Ugh, boring. “So what now? Still want to partner up, King?”

He rolls his eyes like the answer should be painfully obvious.

“Of course we’re partnering up,” he snaps. “I need someone with at least half a brain who knows what they’re doing and can pull their weight—not someone who’s just going to dump it all on me.”

“Glad to see you consider me an equal then.”

“You’re not an equal, Reed. I consider you just better than the rest of these simpletons.” He says, his tone sharp and deliberate. “Beside, I also need someone to keep an eye on Ava. That girl attracts trouble like a flame draws moths.” His expression darkens, shadowed by something deeper that I can’t decipher. Or maybe its just me choosing not to.

He’s a rude bastard and from the tales I heard in regards to his interactions with Ava. Both of them dislike each other. Borderline find each other a nuisance and yet can’t seem to stay away, as if the irritation is part of the pull that keeps drawing them back together.

Ava tries to hide it but I see the way she looks at Eli without him or the others noticing. That one look she had in the fight club yesterday says enough. The longing is unquestionable.

Reminds me of papa looking at mama’s picture, the one he keeps in his wallet. How his icy eyes melt just a little and nostalgia crosses his expression, softening him that the large, gristly scar on his face seems to be the less scary thing about him. A picture of my mother Stella in better days before I was born, surrounded by glimmering Christmas lights and gentle fallen snow while brightly smiling like the star she is. My mama.

Eli hides it well but as someone who makes observing people part of their work-line, its clear to me Eli cares deeply for Ava and is protective of her. Its in the way his voice softens when saying her name, just enough for people to hear the annoyance in it to disregard the gentleness hidden.

“I’m not reporting to you about whats shes doing or her whereabout.” I exclaim seriously. “She’s a grown woman. Let her do what she wants.”

“I’m not asking you to watch over her 24/7, that’s my job-,” Ok stalker, you just confess to stalking in front of me. “but you don’t know Ava. She doesn’t do things in moderation if left to her own device and unfortunately, I can’t always be around her.”

“Yeah, well, that’s your problem.” I say because I’m not going to help this man in his stalking tendencies. “She has Cecily for that.”

“And Cecily, bless her soul, doesn’t know how to tick her off like you do. She’s too nice and I don’t need nice when Ava goes chugging shot after shot. You understand what I mean, Reed?”

Of course I do. You’re looking at the poster child for bad decisions and binge drinking. But I don’t bother responding to Eli, keeping my gaze steady on him instead—waiting, calculating, because we both know its more than that.

“You-,” Eli growls in frustration, pushing his hair back with his fingers, messing the strands of his dark locks as he gives me an annoyed look. “What if I gave you something in return for your cooperation?”

Now that— that catches my attention, igniting a spark of curiosity to whatever he’s offering.

“I’m listening,” I say, though the truth is, I would’ve done it without him asking—but it’s always more interesting to see what strings someone’s willing to attach.

“A little birdie told me you’re a curious little thing. Always getting into some type of mess, attracting the wrong kind of problem.” He gives me a sly grin, dangling the temptation in front of me like a cat about to pounce on a canary. “You got a mouth on you that won’t stop yapping and you caught the big bad wolf’s attention. Is Volkov you want, Reed?”

My gaze slightly narrows, the frown on my expression smoothens into one of casual disinterest despite my heart thumping like the beating wings of a hummingbird. Has someone been talking about me, watching my reactions and such?

“Whats it to you?”

“Volkov has a reputation. He doesn’t keep company at his side long, gets bored easily.”

I know. At least I’ve planted the seed of my existence in Jeremy’s mind ever since the alley—though how much, I can’t say. I’m not sure where Eli is going with this.

“So?” I prompt, crossing my arms.

 “You want to make an impression,” he says, leaning closer, his voice dropping like he’s sharing a secret. “Something he cannot ignore. An unforgettable impact that will make him see you, not just notice you—but need you. Something that burns itself into his mind, whether he likes it or not.”

“Got some experience on that, do you.” Poor Ava getting played by this bastard.

Eli gives me that dark, secretive smile, a mix of amusement and warning for me to thread carefully in my next words. Well, at least I know who the bigger threat is when trying to cover Ava.

“Whats your phone number?” He suddenly asks out of the blue.

I frown and he just roll his eyes at me. What? Never hurts to be careful.

“So we can text and call about the assignment and I can give part of my bargain, you dimwit.” Hey! No need for name-calling. But I still gave him my phone number because true, we do need to communicate for the assignment.

Why do I still get the feeling that someone is watching me?

“Well, consider this a peace offering of sort.” Eli says and then I felt my phone silently vibrates. “Since you love to get yourself into trouble, I think this is just up your alley. You get to be closer to Volkov, play his little game and in return, look out for Ava for me when I can’t.” I still feel a bit iffy about this but that is something to consider before making any decision.

I fish out my phone to find a text. And damn it, I can’t stop the smile on my lips because God seems to have been hearing my prayers because one of them has been granted.

Heathens: Congratulations! You are invited to the Heathens’ initiation ceremony. Please show the attached QR code upon arrival to the club’s compound at four p.m. sharp.

***

“I can’t believe you convinced my lordship to do this.” Remi complains for the up-tenth time as his finger taps nervously on the steering wheel. The road heading towards the Heathens’ mansion was dark except for the streetlight giving what dim lighting they can shine on the side of the road with the dark forest caving in at our sides.

There are no other cars in sight except for Remi’s classic Porsche, its obnoxious Guards Red paint job screaming for attention like a neon sign begging for target practice. It’s loud—too loud, both in color and in presence—perfectly matching its owner’s flair for dramatics.

“I was having a grand time, and you just had to drag me into this, this absurd scheme!” he exclaims, his voice rising in a mix of indignation and disbelief, like he can’t decide whether to laugh or throttle someone.

“Its not a scheme Remi my boy, it’s the Heathens’ initiation!” I grin at him excitedly like a giddy schoolgirl on her first date, earning a wry smile that tugs the corner of his lips.

“Which, mind you, the both of us have absolutely nothing to do with,” he sighs, exasperation laced in his tone, as if the sheer stupidity of the situation is sapping the last shred of his sanity. “My lordship was having a great time—drinking beer, smoking weed, working on a threesome with a couple of cuties. One of them had the most perfect double D’s! And then you show up at the house—uninvited, might I add—dragging me into this circus.” Remi shakes his head, finding this completely absurd and just plain crazy from the expression on his face. “How the hell did you even find me?”

“Oh, that’s easy. King told me.”

Another exasperated sigh is heard.

“Should have guess.” He mumbles under his breath. “Which one of my lordship’s cousins was it; the spawn, the twins specifically Psycho 2.0 or the demonic E?”

“You don’t suspect Glyn?”

“Please,” he huffs in amusement. “Glyndon is too nice and our dearest princess isn’t as aware as my illicit proclivities compare to my male cousins.”

“It was Eli.” I told him, snapping my fingerless gloves on (Military grade, difficult to tear and extra grippy. Courtesy of my trainer. Thank you, Bruno~) as I check my reflection on the car mirror, making sure everything is in place. My fingers run through my hair, sprayed completely black leaving no trace of the light grays I dyed. Easily washable. I put my hair into a tight bun before wearing the black beanie. All that’s left is wearing the surgical mask but that’s when we arrive at the compound.

Remi gave me a confuse look when I showed up at this house where, as Eli warned me before, an orgy was being conducted. These british kids are wild I tell you. His lordship was getting his cock mid-suck when I came barging in wearing all black in complete guerrilla gear and the face he made. And then there came the high-pitched scream that didn’t come from the girls he was having his jollies played with. Priceless.

Let’s just say I dragged him out of the fun house barely getting his pants on and now he is driving us to the mansion where the Heathens are having their initiation.

“And now you’re forcing me to join this silly thing. Really Iris, can’t you have fun in a normal way?”

“I do have fun in a normal way,” I pout, crossing my arms. “I ride my longboard for fun.”

At the mention of my longboard, Remi pulls a face, his nose wrinkling in exaggerated disgust.

“That deathtrap on wheels?” he scoffs. “Calling it ‘fun’ is like calling a shark bite a gentle nibble. You are one bad fall away from a full-body cast, and honestly, I am not helping you pick up the pieces when it happens.”

“You’re exaggerating.” I roll my eyes at him. “Just because you had a bad experience on it, doesn’t mean death is upon you.”

“I nearly toppled down the hill riding that horrendous contraption!” True, can’t deny that.

“If you just been patient, I would have help you practice on it. But no~ you just had to not listen and push off without my supervision. Not my fault you did it near the hill. Thank goodness Creigh, Anni and me were there before you fallen into the lake.” In all honesty, it was quite amusing to watch Remi scream bloody murder as my longboard just speeds down the hill.

We were in the park near campus, Annika wanting to have a nice evening walk with Remington tagging along and Creighton there being forced by him. Annika and me were getting ice cream for all four of us and Remington was messing with my longboard which I brought along. According to Remi, there was a dare and bet involve and under Creighton’s taunting, his lordship took that as a challenge. Then I heard the scream. Creighton, thank god for that boy’s genes, ran down to catch Remi before he goes diving into the lake. Remi had been thoroughly traumatized. He has sworn off my longboard and curse my baby when he sees it on me.

“Well, you keep that thing away from my lordship, and I’ll be as happy as a guy who isn’t risking his life dodging a speeding missile with wheels,” Remi retorts, holding up one hand off the wheel as if warding off the mere thought of it. “Seriously, I value my limbs intact, thank you very much.”

I chuckle at that, letting the moment settle into a comfortable silence. The steady hum of the wheels on the road fills the air as we travel toward what I like to call our "doom of fun"—though, judging by Remi's expression, he would describe it more as a full-blown nightmare waiting to happen.

“Thanks Remi,” I softly say, catching his attention when I see him giving me a questioning glance. I cheekily grin at him. “For driving me to the initiation. I know I’m bothering you with this so I really appreciate it. You can drop me off there and drive back to the Elites’ mansion.”

I didn’t want him to get involved. My idea of fun usually means diving headfirst into dicey situations that either leave me with lingering pain or a story so ridiculous, even I can’t decide if it was worth it. But that’s me. If someone is going to hurt from my decision or idea of a good time then let that just be me.

In the first place, I shouldn’t have gotten Remi involved but I can be impulsive and I needed a ride. Remi was available (There are tons more orgies he could attend. What’s one less.) and honestly, he was the guy I needed to cheer me up. Despite Remi’s tendencies to be a goofball and one whose priorities seem to be chasing skirts; Remington Astor is a reliable friend.

Remi makes a pfft sound, looking put off from my suggestion.

“And leave you to those brutish demons from the pits of hell? No, absolutely not,” he declares firmly, his expression hardening. “I’ll be joining you in this initiation—though I still find it cultish and utterly stupid—because I am a gentleman. My father would smack my backside into next week if he found out I left a lady to fend for herself.” He snorts, his nose lifted high in mock indignation.

God…he so precious. I could just kiss him.

And I do, planting one big fat kiss to his cheek. He responds with a hum of casualness but I can see his ear getting red. Aww~ so cute.

“Thanks, Remi.” I smile at him, as sincere as I can muster, hoping he could feel the weight of my gratitude beneath the playful edge, even if I rarely show it. “Now all we have to do is find a way for you to join the initiation without the guards finding out. You don’t have an invitation so that’s going to be a problem.” I quickly conjured up the few backup plans I made to infiltrate into the compound to join the initiation before Eli gave me his QR code. Sorry Anni, I really can’t help myself. I’ll make it up to you after I get out of this alive.

Remi chuckles, like one of those cartoon villain kind of laugh, trying to sound sinister but failing to do so.

“You think you’re the only one with an invitation. I got one too!” he announces with a cheer and I cheer along with him. Guess what Anni said was right, the Heathens did send invitations to some of the Elites.

“Okay Remi, time to pump ourselves up. We need music!”

I turn on the car radio and maybe it was a mere coincidence or a sign from the many deities of fate because in our excitement to face the unknown, this song comes out.  

Ain't nothin' that I'd rather do
Goin' down
Party time
My friends are gonna be there too

I'm on the highway to hell
On the highway to hell
Highway to hell
I'm on the highway to hell

…

Highway to Hell by AC/DC blasts through the car, the electric guitar shredding through the air, with Bon Scott’s raspy voice echoing the words Highway to Hell, marking the moment when both Remi and I fall silent. It’s as if the song itself is a sign, an anthem for the reckless path we’re about to tread —something reckless, something we can’t take back, but also something we can’t seem to walk away from.

I glance over at Remi, who’s still staring straight ahead, his hands gripping the wheel tighter as if the road ahead holds something more than just pavement.

"Better be worth it," Remi mutters under his breath, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as we roll closer to whatever chaos awaits.

I glance at him, trying to gauge his mood. "Oh, it’ll be worth it," I say, my voice steady but with a hint of uncertainty creeping in. "At least, that’s what I keep telling myself."

Remi shoots me a sideways look, lips twitching as if he wants to laugh, but doesn’t. “If this turns into some kind of disaster, I swear to god—"

“I’ll take full responsibility,” I interrupt, a smirk playing on my lips. "But you will thank me later. Trust me."

He grumbles, clearly not convinced. “Yeah, well, you owe me big time for this. Huge favor."

“Promise.” I give him a cheeky salute and he rolls his eyes at me because at this point, there is no turning back.

With a final exhale, Remi floors the accelerator, the engine roaring louder, the road ahead stretching into the unknown.

Chapter Text

“This is a bad idea.” Remi whispers as we put on the white masks given to us by one of the two men guarding the front and a bracelet snapped around our wrists (definitely a tracking device or something to identify us) after we got our QR codes scanned. Both were wearing creepy bunny masks with blood (hopefully fake) smeared on the surface. Even before we approached the men, the black metal gate and high intimidating walls with sharp wires surrounding the property of The Heathens’ compound was already sending alarm bells blaring in my mind and my instinct to run stirs almost painfully.

This was a cage—a self-made playground stretching far and wide, luring in those seduced by the allure of power and the empty promises of more if they served their makers well. Once you’re in, once you’ve been accepted into the club, there’s no escaping the invisible brand burned onto your soul. It’s a promise—almost a curse—that binds you to a game where the only winners are the ones pulling the strings.

The Heathens’ initiation.

Where one comes to find their purpose. Or maybe lose them in the end.

“Bad ideas always lead to dangerous fun, Remi.” I quip, fixing my beanie so that none of my hair slips out. “I don’t think they’re going to kill the initiates. It would be too easy and they don’t like easy, or feeling bored.”

I can sense even behind the mask how Remi is disturbed by how easy I speak of killing. Sorry Remi my boy, got too much blood on my hands to remember I’m supposed to be a law abiding citizen here.

“Getting kill is the least of our worries right now.” I continue, my voice low and steady as my eyes sweep across the area, taking in every detail with a careful practiced precision honed into me since a knife was place in my small palm. Taking in every single detail, gauging the terrain, the exits, the deep dark forest surrounding us and the shadows where danger might lurk.

The subtle hum of excitement and tension in the air as every white masked person gather forward for the Heathens’ initiation. I can’t help but share the same sentiment.

The anticipation curling in my belly, the thought of being able to participate and light the flame of adrenaline that lays flickering without the substance of risk and violence to torched it up. Maybe I’m too used to the ways of my clan that I can’t stay still without a bit of calamity in my life to spice things up. Wanting to be a civilian, a normal student, probably does not bode well for me like I thought it would but what is normal when the rest of these people around me also think the same.

Including danger is always fun.

“No, it's not!” Remi hisses at me, the drama queen tugging my arm. “Come on, Iris. Let's leave before they do try to kill us. His lordship is too young to die!”

I roll my eyes at his insistent squawking. I fit our fingers together, my thumb rubbing the back of his palm to comfort the slight shakiness as we walk towards the front yard of the mansion where the initiates are gathering like sheep about to be slaughtered.

“You can still leave now.”

“Not without you!”

“Well, like I said before, I’m not leaving. I’m staying Remi.” I stubbornly stated, dragging myself forward but stopping with every step since Remi pulls me back. God this damn beanstalk. “Remi!”

He shook his head and grunted out some gibberish word sounding like ‘You’re insane!’.

“Can’t we just do something normal, like, like going to the pub or karaoke!” Remi persisted, blabbering one activity after the other and I think he even suggested we go for a joy ride in his cousin’s car which is tempting because its Landon King’s precious special matte black Mclaren. I don’t know how Remington could pull off the attempt to steal the man’s car but it's tempting. Very temping.

“Nope.” I fix his mask, making sure his straps are tight to hide his face. Remi complained how it hid his handsome face and he couldn’t breathe properly with the thing on. I had to remind him that he wouldn’t have time to think about that handsome face of his when the initiation starts and him screaming bloody murder throughout the forest while running down the hill.

The number 41 was stamped on Remi’s mask while mine was 40. I make sure to remember that number.

“You don’t need to join me.” As much as I appreciate the gesture, I don’t want Remi to regret at the end of this. “I told you to just wait in the car or leave the compound.”

Remi lets out a huff of disbelieve at the notion of him leaving me behind. As he said before, a gentleman doesn’t leave a lady to fend for herself from the wolves.

“Again, I’m not leaving without you.” He harrumphs with his arms cross like a petulant child and I can just imagine the pout jutting out from those lips of his behind the mask. Really, what should I do? …I got it!

“I’ll go to one of your orgies if you go through with the initiation.”

That caught his attention because like a dog with a bone he snaps at the chance and instantly proceeds to drag me forward with our arms link where everyone is gathering. I swear he is grinning like a fool and I don’t have the heart to rain on his parade. Sigh, the things I do.

“What are we standing here for, let's go and get ourselves wreck!” Remi exclaims with glee as we join the line and I let out a laugh at how ridiculous this guy is. God, this lovable beanstalk of a jester.

The Heathen’s mansion, reminding me of a gothic chapel. Like the Cologne Cathedral, one of my favorite places to be when I want to stay hidden and seek silence. The building is imposing as I imagined for the children of those who lead the New York Bratva, mocking us as we stand before its grandeur structure. It screams wealth and power with how the building was built back in medieval times with how it was a castle and the structure really told a story because it was a fortress that suited just well for the Heathens. With the guards standing around observing us while wearing bloody rabbit masks, well, security was tight. Nothing can come in or out of here without permission from those who rule the castle in front of me.

I can hear the whispers of excitement and murmurs of curiosity from the initiates, all impatient and just bursting to begin the initiation. I’m guessing most of the initiates are from REU judging from the chatter I’m hearing and if there was a TKU student in the mix, like Remi and me, well they’re obviously hiding their identity from being discovered. As Annika said before, only the toughest are chosen to go through the initiation to become a Heathen and if they find out that there are REU students among them, we’ll probably get weed out and eliminated during the trial. Not saying REU students can’t fend for themselves but most of us are not known for our brawns. So better to be careful. I wonder who else from TKU received the invitation for the Heathens initiation besides Remi and Eli?

The mixture of different languages from the students chatting has me curious as I pick up conversations about mind games, different color masks, the past initiation and etc. Apparently not many were able to pass the previous initiation to become a member of the Heathens due to how brutal it was especially with the ways they handled these initiations. Blood is to be expected, injuries is to be branded on the skin and death is just an unfortunate circumstance with one wrong move or decision. I’m sure there won’t be any deaths tonight but accidents do happen. Let just hope one doesn’t befall me.

“Remi,” I whisper close, catching his attention when I spoke his name in an accent that is familiar to him. “Make sure to keep yourself close to the shadows and hide. If we’re somehow separated, we make sure we don’t get hurt in whatever plan the Heathens have in store for the initiation. Meet back at the car after all this?”

Remi gives me a look of disbelieve when he heard the words I spoken. He lets out a disgruntle huff and replies back in French like I did.

“His lordship is not a coward,” Remi retorts. “I will not hide like a dog with its tail between its legs and since when do you speak french?”

“Not calling you a coward, just planning a contingency plan. And yes, I speak french.” Along with three other languages. I don’t really portray myself as the linguistic type. More like the laid-back, nonchalant grunge gal with a ’fuck you, world!’ attitude, as describe by Annika.

In her own words, the spice to her sugar, the nutmeg pancake to her cinnamon roll, the sup to her hiiiiiiiii. Yeah, well, you get the idea.

“Yes, but since when do you speak french and why now?” Remi repeats again, making me look at him despite the masks hiding our faces.

“Since forever and now for precaution.” To limit others from figuring out who we are from our voices. I wasn’t someone worthy to gain notice around these parts but Remington was since he was connected to the Kings, Nashs and Knights. Also, he was an Astor, well-known captain of REU’s basketball team and lover of all women. Everyone knowns him.  

“Promise me that if anything, anything happens to you, you run Remi. Don’t try to be the bigger person who ends up turning into a bigger idiot and challenge something way out of your control.”

“God, not you too.” He huffs and puts an arm around my shoulder, bringing me close to him, with my face ended up planted onto his dress shirt.

Even with the mask on, the smell of his cologne invades my senses and I bristle a bit, a menacing hiss about to escape my lips before I am reminded that this wasn’t any unfamiliar man, this was Remi. It's Remington and I‘m not in danger. Deep breaths Iris, deep breaths.

Well aside from his scent, I should have made him change before coming here. Dress shirt and slacks aren’t practical clothing for running especially in dress shoes. Yep, he should have at least worn his sport shoes the one I know he always has in his car for basketball practice.

“You know, I’m not that useless. Even without the spawn physically fighting my battles, my lordship can handle myself quite well, thank you very much.” He grins at me, booping my mask where my nose is supposed to be. My nose unconsciously scrunches up. “My cousins are Kings, two being adrenaline junkies with one being a questionable psychopath and they taught me a trick or two, so don’t worry about me, darling. I should be worry about you.” He pointed out, poking my chest and ok, now I feel offended. “You’re the vulnerable one here.”

I grab his finger and let out the hiss I’ve been keeping in. I could easily break this pointer, one little snap to make him scream but I don’t, because he’s a friend, my friend, and we don’t hurt friends do we Helena.

“If you call me weak.” I let the words hang unfinished, the threatening growl escaping between my pearly whites enough of a warning to Remi who simply ruffles my head, nearly spilling my hair out of my beanie. I smack his hand off me (gently) and try to get away from him but this beanstalk was surprisingly strong as he held me close, arm still firm around my shoulders.

“Hey, hey, did I specifically say you were weak? I didn’t.”

“The implication was there, you ass.”

He made a tsktsk sound as he waggles his finger right in my face. I would bite it off if it wasn’t for the mask.

“I said ‘vulnerable’, darling. There is a difference. And really, with the way you ambushed me back at the party looking like the reaper coming to collect its winnings, I very much doubt you’re weak. Attire aside, you’re quite intimidating when you want to.” Again with the nose boop.

“Fuck you.”

“Never attempted pegging before, but there is always a first. His highness is willing to try new endeavors, and you, darling, definitely have permission to tap this arse.” Remi drawls out cheekily, his tone dripping with mischief — the kind that probably sends girls into a flurry of giggles. I roll my eyes and elbow his side, earning an exaggerated groan from him as he clutches his ribs dramatically.

“Ouch! Abuse, I say! Is this how you show affection, you cold-hearted wench?” He protests, his voice a mix of mock hurt and laughter, but the tone of amusement gives him away.

I’m about to give him another berating when the sound of doors opening alert us and the rest. Silence falls on the participants as the upper doors open with ceremonial noise. Then the lower ones open, too, and countless men in those damn creepy bunny masks circle us.

Five figures dressed in black step out from the upper doors, all wearing black purge style masks with neon-colored stitched faces.

A sharp chill runs down my spine when my gaze landed on them. They haven’t done anything but appear and stand before us, yet if there is one thing I can trust, it's my gut telling me to seek caution. Experiences from dealings I’ve had in the past with dangerous people taught me that people who say less and just simply exist are the frightening ones to look out for.

Orange, red, yellow, green and white.

Five neon-masked men stand at the ready, looking down at the pitiful souls offering themselves as willing sacrificial lambs to the hellscape created for tonight. Was it simply out of duty etched into their bones since young or entertainment to rid of the boredom they limit themselves on the island? Maybe the later or the former, maybe both, maybe none of the two. What I know, the smell of iron will only get stronger from here.

I carefully look what needed to be watch out for, remember what needs to be taken note of, the environment around me that I would take advantage for the success tonight and the ones that could be the possibilities of my downfall. The many hidden cameras around the site, the number of bunny-masked men (MEN, not young adults who mostly, probably never experience what they experienced before in this dark, sunken underworld where guns are toys of choice and fists do much quicker damage than words. Dangerous men with their hulking bodies trained to anticipate the unexpected, ready to serve and use their bodies to shield those above them.) stationed at every part of this forest surrounding the mansion both seen and hidden, the initiates around me with their eagerness and trepidation oozing out of them and me, staring wide, starry-eye at the five daunting figures, specifically one, standing before us like gods on a warpath.

My lips curve into a grin, probably resembling the cheshire cat, as I stare right at the neon orange-masked man standing front center and gripping the handle of a golf club like a knight anchoring his sword into the ground. Pride radiates from his posture, his shoulders squared and head tilted just slightly, exuding an air of calculated confidence that dares anyone to challenge his authority. The glint of metal catches the dim light, and for a fleeting moment, it feels like he’s not just wielding a club but a weapon meant to shatter illusions and strike fear into those who oppose him.

Its him, the one that has been invading my thoughts with his haunting voice, spellbinding scent and dominating gaze.

 Jeremy Volkov.

The savage devil of my dearest nightmares. The new addition to the torment of chaos in my mind that is both a blessing and curse.

My blood sings knowingly at the sight of my unhealthy obsession, my heart drumming with eagerness to get close. Touch him, hurt him, make him bleed. I don’t need to remove the person’s mask to know who is behind it. No doubt those soulless gray eyes. His silhouette and mere presence are enough of a sign that that’s the man whose voice slithers the word manic has me in a chokehold.

I shiver in delight and dread. My fingers unconsciously move to the skin just above my collarbone close to the dip of my neck as my palm soothes the throbbing bite mark he left, again, on me. He bit me over the healing one and I have no doubt when the mark starts to heal, he’ll bite me once more. Again, and again and again until it becomes a permanent mark that has made a home into my skin. A tattoo of ownership I’m not too sure whether to be disgusted or revel over.

Curiosity peaks when I’m reminded that the original founders of the Heathens are the four men I had the pleasured to snoop around, digging into what little I can find about them.

Gareth Carson, Killian Carson, Nikolai Sokolov and of course, Jeremy Volkov. So, who is this fifth member standing with them?

The green mask steps forward, a microphone in hand and elegance in his stand. A gentleman this one. Probably Gareth Carson behind the mask.

Static fills the air, a foreboding sign at the first go before a loud modified voice echoes around us.

“Congratulations for making it to the Heathens’ highly competitive initiation. You are the selected elite who we, the leaders of the club think are worthy of joining their world of power and connections. The price to pay for such privileges is higher than money, status, or name. The reason why everyone wears a mask is because you are all the same in the eyes of the club’s founders.”

Not one sound is made from all of us taking in the words that have been said as anticipation rises. All eyes and attention are to the five that stand like gods that would either give their becoming followers their blessing or damnation. Everyone is eager, everyone wants to get a taste to prove themselves worthy of becoming someone that matters. This is the time for them to shine.

The green mask nods in approval before continuing.

“The price of becoming a Heathen is handing over your life. In the literal sense of the word. If you aren’t willing to pay that, please exit through the small door to your left. Once you leave, you’ll lose any chance to join us again.”

An instinct of all humans, the need to run and survive is in all of us. The choice to leave was in our hands and I notice how some flinch in reflex to move and get out of this man-made cage. Remi does to and I don’t blame him when his shoulders nervously tense and fearful, hesitating eyes turn back to the open door where a few participants are already making their way out with their heads bow down, in shame or fear. No judging here.

The old me would have bolted too, but when you grow up with two overly competitive older brothers (sharp words are exchange, and the occasional thrown object isn’t off the table), a father who is kind in his lessons and a trainer who drills the fear and submissive nature out of you, you find a strange trill in quiet danger. It’s not fear anymore, it’s a pulse-quickening sense of anticipation, the kind that makes you stand your ground even when every instinct tells you to run.

It's now more of a turn on that gets me going.

The outside bunnies give them their phones and take away their masks and bracelets. After a moment, the door closes with a low creak and the man on the speaker goes again.

 “Congratulations again, ladies and gentlemen. We should now begin our initiation.” He stops for a long second, holding in the anticipation brewing in the air. Gareth is kind of good in getting peoples’ attention. He seems to like the attention despite what I heard about him. “Tonight’s game is predator and prey. You’ll be hunted down by the club’s founding members. That will be five to ninety, so you have the upper hand. If you manage to reach the edge of the property before they hunt you down, you’ll be a Heathen. If not, you’ll be eliminated and escorted out.”

Hunt.

The grin on my face sharpens almost eerily when I hear the theme of tonight's initiation. My nails painfully pressing deep into my palms to hide the fury despite the smile on my face. Oh, that fucking bastard.

Predator and prey.

“The game between us hasn’t started yet. Remember what I told you?”  

“And I want you to run your little heart out, Луничка .”   

How could he not let me in on the fun?! That bastard! Leaving me out when he knows I’d thoroughly enjoy this after all the promises he made to chase after me while I run for my fucking life. He has another thing coming if he thinks I would obediently sit on the sidelines after peeking my curiosity. Does he really think I’ll stay put like a sweet little girl? Hah! Well, he has another thing coming. I’m not a sweet girl and Jeremy Volkov will definitely get it through his head, one way or another. There is no way I’d miss out on the chaos he tried to keep me away from.

“The founding members have the right to use any methods available to hunt you down—including violence. If their weapon of choice touches you, you’ll be automatically eliminated. Bodily harm can and will happen. You are also allowed to inflict violence on the founding members—if you can. The only rule is not taking a life. Not intentionally, at least. No questions are allowed and no mercy shall be granted. We don’t want any weaklings in our ranks.”

“Oh mon Dieu, pourquoi m'as-tu fait endurer ça ?!” Oh my God, why did you put me through this?! Remi hisses, gripping my arm and shaking me like a rag doll.

 “You have a ten-minute head start. I suggest you run. The initiation has officially begun.”

As if an invisible starting gun had gone off upon those words being spoken, the initiates around me scattered like rats in a maze, darting in every direction to put as much distance as possible between themselves and this spot, using the ten-minute head start to their advantage.

And I was still staring up at the people in masks staring down at us.

My eyes remained locked on the five men in neon masks, standing motionless amidst the chaos, watching it all unfold with an unsettling calm disposition, like predators waiting for their prey to make a fatal mistake as excitement fills the air and the rustling of leaves spread throughout the grounds.

I don’t move despite my instincts telling me to do so, despite every muscle in my body begs to stretch, to act, to flee. My pulse thrums in my ears, a steady reminder of the tension coiled within me, but I stay rooted, defying the primal urge to run.

The need to be chased, the need to stamp my image into his mind, the rush of adrenaline steadily bubbling up in me as my fingers shake in anticipation. I wanted to be chased and captured and fight him off before he goes into my flesh and consume me like the beast I know he is.

Look at me. I’m here. Fucking. Look. At. Me.

I’m throwing out all the things that's been hammered into me and exposing myself for the taking. Papa would be so disappointed knowing how idiotic I become for a man. I’m disappointed in myself. What is it with Jeremy Volkov that has me going stupid and making all the wrong choices? I barely know this man, only knowing that he bears the name of Volkov and is part of the New York Bratva and even by that time I didn’t even think to look up the face of this stranger with the name I become fascinated with. We only met a few times and I’m obsess. What I know isn’t worth the danger when getting involve with him spells trouble for me and my family, gaining his attention means risking the safety of my family, the people who I would risk everything for even when I feel like the world is caving me in. Not him in the orange mask. My clan, my brothers, my grandpa, my papa.

Not Jeremy Volkov.

I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t indulge in this unhealthy obsession. I shouldn’t want his soulless eyes on me.

But I want. I want it so bad.

Suddenly, my body lurches forward as I realize that I’m being carried like a sack of potatoes. An arm wraps around behind my knees and a palm places itself on my ass, balancing me in their hold.

“Why the fuck are you standing like an idiot? Run!” Remi’s voice pierces through the mist in my mind and acting like the rational part of my brain, he dashes off into the forest, running like the madman he kept cursing himself under his breath. I think if it wasn’t for the fact that we’re running from people who are going to hurt us, potentially traumatizing us after this night ends, he would have been gleeful to have a hand of my ass in his palm.

…nahhhh. As perverted of a guy Remi is, he is definitely a gentleman who respects boundaries.

The image of the five men gets smaller and smaller leaving behind five colorful dots before we’re deep into the woods like the rabbits we are, escaping from the impending hunt of predators seeking flesh. I see a few people running like us. I see some who hide. I see them planning, contemplating, regretting. I see preys looking to be predators, the hunted wishing to be hunters. I see a whole mind game being planned out in these woods and no one is safe from being hunted or betrayed.

I can’t help but laugh gleefully at the anticipation coursing through me, my body trembling eagerly with every little giggle I let out and how I’m impatiently awaiting what is in store for me tonight. Because this might not be the chased Jeremy planned out for us but I wanted a taste of what the future prospect would be. And if he somehow realizes one of the initiates he is hunting is me, well he’s expression is just the cherry on top.

Helena can’t wait to play.

And I, I can’t wait to be devoured and return the favor.

So hunt me down, my beautiful obsession. Let us see how far we’ll go until this consumes us. Jeremy may not know I am here, but the next move on this chess board is yours. I’ve made mine.

Let’s start the hunt shall we.

***

JEREMY

I can taste blood in the air.

It's potent, sharp and unmistakable - an iron tang that clings to everything it touches, like a phantom marking its territory. The scent pulls at something primal in me, a reminder of who I am and what I’m destined to become. It's not just blood - its power, its sacrifice and its a warning. This is my world and the price of playing in it is steep.

Like these sheep running from the inevitable. If they think they have the upper hand in this game, then they have another thing coming. Because for all, this is a game to sate our need for destruction, to calm the demons thriving viciously in our blood. There are no winners, there are only sacrifices we are willing to make to reel in this darkness in us.

The beast in me growls, eager to sink its fangs into flesh, craving the taste of fresh blood as the temptation of crime lays itself bare before us. Feeble minds dare to think they have the chance to elude us, but their arrogance only stirs my hunger. They’re nothing more than prey wandering into the predator’s den, oblivious to the inevitable end that awaits them. I couldn’t even care at the end result if it meant I had my fun.

And one of them has already caught my attention.

I am being taunted with a middle finger directed at me by an initiate being carried off by their associate as he/she laughs blatantly at my face before disappearing into the woods as the dark engulfs them. Their echoing laughter screeches my bone like nails against a chalkboard and I find myself tempted to end their laughter in a shriek of anguish pain.

“Ease on the grip, Jeremy,” Gareth whispers at my side. He too had witnessed the small, insignificant moment. “Wouldn’t want you to break your weapon before painting it red, do we. Seems like we have some bold ones in the game this time.” I grumble at the hint of amusement in Gareth’s tone before the both of us flinch when Nikolai’s loud voice makes an appearance.

“Motherfucking salivating is the word you’re looking for, Kill. I’m gonna break some bones and drag fuckers across the ground. If anyone dares to stop me, they’ll meet the same fate.” Nikolai shows his bare fists to us, clenching and unclenching them with a menacing, manic grin that spells trouble for the ones at the end of his fists.

Speaking of manic, I wonder how my little manic is? She wasn’t around Annika when Killian volunteered to fetch my sister after her classes end. I should know, I saw Iris with Eli motherfucking King. That bastard, who does he think he is for approaching Мой Луничка, touching her without my permission. That goes for that stubborn girl—why the hell is she so willing to let others touch her?! I’m already seething at the so-called friends who have unrestricted access to her easily bruised skin, her fleeting touches, her maddening smiles. Every single one of them grates on my nerves, but I will not tolerate another godforsaken bastard thinking they have the right to put their hands on what’s mine.

The only reason I didn’t is because I still have my dignity intact to not give a damn about a woman who I barely know and can barely stand to be around without attempting to get her on her knees and teach her other uses for that petulant mouth of hers.

Fuck…now I sound like Nikolai when he needs to get his jollies rock after a day of abstinence. I need to release some of this pent-up stress. I need to get rid of the taste of that little manic out of me.

“And whats with the rubber on the arrow, Gaz?” Nikolai pokes at the rubber tip. “This won’t do any damage on the runts. Pick something else.”

“No need, this will do just fine.” Gareth answers, tugging the quiver against his shoulder away from Nikolai’s grabby hands. “And you, whats your weapon of choice?” He eyes Nikolai, noticing the lack of weapon on him.

Nikolai punches the air with that cheeky grin of his. “My fists, of course.”

Killian scoffs, leaning over with his baseball bat with Vaughn wearing the white mask at his side chuckling as he strokes the gleaming metal chains wrapped around his knuckles.

“Typical barbarian.” Knowing Killian, he was rolling his eyes at Nikolai behind his mask.

“You won’t be able to win with your fists.” I swing my golf club, pointing it at Killian’s baseball bat, and then at the chain Vaughn is holding. “We’ll be able to hunt more than you.”

 “That’s what you think.” He grabs the railing, shoves his mask against one of the cameras, and screams at the security who are watching every nook and cranny of the property. “You better keep the right count for each of us, motherfuckers, or I’ll skin your balls for dinner.”

“Hannibal Lecter much?” Gareth deadpans before addressing Vaughn. “And you Vaughn, make sure to return your Japanese princess’s calls. She has been blowing up my phone since you arrived on the island. Don’t get me involve in your lover trifle.”

“Dear brother, why are you even acknowledging her calls?” Killian lazily drawls out, his arm around his older brother’s shoulders. Gareth tenses at the touch but does not instantly push him away. Really, I’m thinking these two actually love to be in each others vicinity but would rather choke on nails than admit it. Hatred is there but the scrape of fondness lingers. “Its easier to ignore her constant badgering on our dear future Pakhan.”

“Easier said than done.” Gareth finally shrugs Killian off him, straightening his clothes. “I don’t want to be at the end of Yuko’s naginata just for simply ignoring her like the rest of you four.” Garreth glares at us and we all act like the ‘innocent’ bastards we are, even Nikolai is whistling and avoiding Garreth’s gaze. I don’t even deny his claim because it’s true, we’re ignoring Yuko. That girl is scarily tenacious especially when it comes to Vaughn. Not even with the threat of Damien Orlov sinking his fangs on us or getting my head slice off by her blade will get me involve in the drama between those two. I sympathize with Gareth for getting involve between them and he knows better. Always the peacekeeper our fixer.

Vaughn snaps his chains before letting the metal clank to the floor, irritation in his stance at the mention of Yuko. Despite him being the youngest among us five and still coming into his own at 18 years old, the boy has a notorious temper on him which I quickly took notice from the way his shoulders tense and the blue veins on his neck threatening to pop behind the dark long hair covering his neck.

I place a hand on his shoulder, grasping it firmly to remind Vaughn where he is. Among familiar companions, among friends. That seems to break the tension as he takes a deep breathe and his body starts to soften. Vaughn whispers a murmur of thanks, his Russian rough hiding the appreciation.

“Ignore her.” Vaughn focusses back on the current moment. “We have much more pressing matters. Jeremy…” The anticipation in his voice is enough of an indicator of what he is looking forward to and with that, it invokes a certain excitement spreading to the rest of the neon masks looking at me to make the final call.

Their claws already itching to drag a prey to their ruins and as Nikolai puts it lightly, salivating to quench the bloodlust in us. Something like pride makes an appearance in my chest. These are my men, my fellow comrades who share the unfortunate desire for brutality and destruction. My Heathens.

“You all know the rules.” I reminded earning a childish groan from Nikolai.

"Yeah, yeah. No killing—just pain and lifelong scars. Got it. Now, pull that damn stick out of your ass," Nikolai gripes, but when I turn to him, his hands are already up, that damn smirk (I know even behind that yellow mask) still tugging at his lips as he takes a step back. He knows. He knows my expression beneath this mask is murderous, and one wrong move will remind him exactly why I lead this pack.

I let the tension hang for a second longer before exhaling slowly, eyes sweeping over them. Then, with a tilt of my head, I signal the beginning of tonight’s initiation—the hunt. Predator and prey.

“Let’s hunt, boys.”

Chapter Text

I hunt not in the kill, but for the thrill of the challenge, the preparation and the chase it brings.

“Number fifty-four, fifty-five and fifty-six are eliminated.” A voice from the speakers spread throughout the forest announces after I retaliated against three people who attacked me from the shadows.

I hunt to fill the never-ending hunger that continuously spills over the goblet with every drop of blood bleeding from the pain I inflict on those who hinder me.

The sound of leaves rustling from behind alerts me despite how much they try to hide their steps and my body reacts first before my brain can catch up as I quickly avoid the incoming hit. A broken branch swings down at me fast from a masked number. And before the person can respond, I hit them in the face with the golf club, the painful sound of a crunch bone resonates through the forest, vibrating through the metal as the person falls with a pained scream. Squirming on the ground like the worm it is. A loud, pointless scream.

“Number ten is eliminated.”

With no mercy, I bring another hit down and the sound of a crack follows. Potent silence follows  aside from the wind rustling the leaves and slight whimpering of the three initiates that attacked me before this poor soul did.

Its quiet…good.

I hunt with the need to simply hunt, to quench this hunger instilled in me ever since I could grasp its meaning.

This insatiable gluttony for brutality, the intoxicating rapture of being the one to inflict it. Call me a beast that craves the chase, that thrives on the symphony of fear and the poetry of pain. The rush of control, the sheer ecstasy of watching power shift at the tip of my blade—it’s a high nothing else can match.

Well, in this case it isn’t a blade that’s done the job for tonight. A golf club does the job well enough.

The sound of a sharp whistle cutting through the air is heard, close to my ear before I hear a cry of surprise nearby.

“Number seven is eliminated.”

Gareth appears from the tall trees with his bow and arrows, walking towards me with calm confidence.

“You’re welcome.” The fixer simply says as he picks the arrow close to the shaking initiate with the number seven stamped on their mask. Lucky bastard got hit by a stupid arrow with a rubber tip while trying to ambush me. Pathetic.

I grunt out, wiping the blood from the end of my club on my trousers.

“Didn’t need your help.”

“Is it so hard to say thank you?” Gareth placates, shrugging his shoulder a few times to loosen up a kink. Did he get hurt this early in the hunt?

He notices my quiet staring and releases a sigh.

“My shoulder is sore, not from the game. So don’t make that…face.” He moves his finger to his green neon mask and draws a downwards curve in the air. I know he’s talking about the scowl I usual have, the one Nikolai quotes as “perpetually pissed off, liked the world personally offended you.” That hulk of muscles loves to mock it, claiming I was born scowling, that even in my sleep I probably look like I’m plotting someone’s murder.

But I don’t bother correcting Nikolai despite his tendency to seek danger in places or people he shouldn’t. Maybe he’s right. Maybe my face is just permanently set this way, molded by years of irritation, ruthlessness, and the sheer exhaustion of dealing with idiots who think they can challenge me. Unfortunately in my case, the scowl tends to appear when my people get injure in the crossfire.

I roll my eyes underneath my mask, but Gareth isn’t done yet.

“Seriously, it’s like your resting-scowl expression screams murder and I know you’re making that face behind the mask. I can just imagine it. Not that I mind, but at least let me have my moment of pain without you looking like you’re plotting war.”

I cross my arms, unimpressed. “I am always plotting war.”

He lets out another dramatic sigh. “Exactly my point.” Gareth pats my back. “Don’t mind me. Have fun, that’s the point of the initiation.”

You saying such thing doesn’t stop me from minding my own damn business.

“And you choose a bow and arrow as your choice of weapon for the initiation when you have a sore shoulder? You know better than to be left open for the taking.” I retort, not intending my tone to be condensending but from the way Gareth tenses (his fingers slightly flinch when he feels he is being judge), I think he took it that way.

“Are you implying I’m an invalid?” Gareth takes a step towards me, his stand one not to be mess with judging from the way he grips his bow, the wood threatening to snap if he wanted to. Really, if he wanted a swing at me, I welcome it.

Gareth Carson is one who does not follow the nature of his beast. While the rest of us Heathens welcome the chaos and mayhem in our life, our reliable and trusty fixer doesn’t. Hmm, no, its not that he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t allow himself to fully immerse in it. Oh Gareth is brutal, but his brutality is a refined art—a game of precision rather than reckless violence. He dismantles his adversaries with words sharpened to cut deeper than any blade, orchestrating circumstances so masterfully that defeat feels like a choice they made themselves. Blackmail (or as he so delicately puts it, “gentle persuasion”—tch, as if), negotiations laced with veiled threats, the calculated drip of misinformation—he wields them all with the ease of a seasoned puppeteer. No blood needs to be spilled when he can have his enemies ruin themselves, all while he watches with that damn knowing smirk.

Our cool, collected fixer with the heart of Lucifer himself. Making deals have always been as easy as taking candy from a baby when it comes to Gareth Carson.

If there is one thing about Gareth is his ability to stay calm and in control in whatever circumstance, all the damn time. Good for his future career as a lawyer, but a fatal flaw in the long run. As much as I pride myself in my own self-control and having the tendency to see the whole situation through like a stubborn bull rushing towards red, I do let myself loose. Punching someone in the face until they’re unrecognizable is therapeutic. Really Gareth, chess is all good and fun but straining your mental capacity differs from physically exerting that fury locked inside him, preferably something that unleashes that chained beast inside.

Gareth is the embodiment of every parent’s dream—a model son who excels academically, carries himself with unwavering responsibility, and upholds his duties with diligence. He is the kind of child they can proudly boast about, the golden standard of success and discipline. But beneath that polished exterior, behind the carefully curated image of perfection, lurks something far less pristine—something calculating, something ruthless, something that makes even the proudest parents wary of what they’ve truly raised.

There is a reason why he is a Heathen and I’m just seeing a glimpse of it as he glares at me despite the green neon mask hiding his face.

“I didn’t say you were an invalid.”

“The implication was there.” Gareth coldly states as he leans his face to mine. “Just because I avoid acting rash like the others and don’t swing my fists like a fucking monkey on steroids doesn’t mean I’m the weakest link.” There’s a hidden insecurity hiding behind that firm sharp conviction, like he doesn’t believe in what he says. Weakest link…

I grasp his shoulder, feeling his muscles flinch from the sudden act. Squeezing his shoulder like I did with Vaughn, trying to convey the words that I find difficult to convey towards this person who has been nothing but loyal and is a moral compass to the constant devil whispering in my ear.

The backbone and the sanity of the Heathens, Gareth Carson.

“Get it through that fucking head. You aren’t in any circumstance the weakest link, Green. You’re the one who gets us out of trouble, who comes up with an escape plan from our crazy schemes, who rather cut his own tongue than betray us. You’re important.” I growl back, not backing down on my conviction despite the current situation now not being a suitable time to have a ‘heart-to-heart’ session. Any of the initiates could attack us at any moment but I don’t give a fuck when one of my men has self-esteem issues that might have been churning from years ago and haven’t been resolve. He at least has to hear what I think of him. “You’re important to us, and in the future, to the Bratva. Don’t doubt your capabilities just from the measure of strength because you’re stronger than you look.”

I don’t do pep talks or weak-ass encouragement. What I do offer is the truth—usually blunt, often accompanied by a hard slap to the back of the head to knock some sense into whoever needs it. But I doubt Gareth would appreciate that right now.

Thankfully, I don’t have to. His shoulders drop, a shaky breath escaping from behind the mask. I can’t see his expression, but the silence he gives me speaks volumes. I can only hope it means I’ve gotten through to him—that for once, he’s actually listening.

“Can’t believe Jeremy Volkov is acting all touchy-feely.” Gareth chuckles, his tone light and posture relax as if some of the weight on his shoulders have been lifted, quickly changing the subject to avoid further conversation of what we just touched upon. And he chooses the one subject I was trying to avoid thinking the whole day. Emphasize on the trying. “Does this sudden change of attitude have to do with the girl who looks like she doesn’t get enough sleep? Miss Panda Eyes~”

Really, that detestable nickname. Killian and his nicknames.

Killian apparently has a bone to pick with my little manic. According to Gareth, Killian was acting all reckless after getting himself beaten up by the youngest King and losing to Nikolai’s displeasure and then disappearing for a few hours with no medical attention to his bruised face and body, bleeding all over. Killian should know better being a future doctor on the making. Though by the time he got back to the mansion, his face was all clean from the blood. While he was getting his face disinfected and band-aided properly by his annoyed yet concern older brother, our resident psycho said a scathing remark in regards to my little manic. Something about keeping her hands away from what doesn’t belong to her or he’ll remind Iris why people should fear him, murmuring something about capturing the perfect moment on camera with that cold, sinister smile of his.

For that, Killian received a smack to the back of the head. No one threatens my manic except me.

“Code names.” I gruffly reminded. “Shut up, and don’t call her…that. The mutt has a name.” Fuck. I was already being territorial. She was messing with my head and I’m being antsy from distancing myself from her despite it being only a day. Damn it, I need to ruin something, someone. I need to get my hands dirty. I have to stop thinking about her. “Also, I don’t think our resident muscle-head appreciates being called a monkey, especially being called a monkey on steroids. ” Nikolai would wreck something of ours if he found out.

“I didn’t say any names.” Gareth quips innocently and I snort at that.

“The implication was there.” I return back his own words and that got a small laugh out of him.

“Touché.” His gaze sweeps the area, tapping the arrow he was holding to his chin. “We better not linger around, or those three will hog all the fun out of this initiation. You think Killian would kill me for stealing his kills?”

Yeah, he’s doing that on purpose. The smug bastard knows exactly how ridiculous that sentence sounds, and judging from the tilt of his head, he’s waiting for me to call him out in it.

“He’ll take that bat and swing it to your head until you sing like a canary to his tune.” I retort with a deadpan expression and a sarcastic, vacant voice.

Gareth scoffs, probably pouting behind his mask. Pfft, Gareth, pouting. Yeah right.

“You’re such a killjoy, Orange. But…you’re probably not wrong about Red. He’ll probably take a chance to kill me if I’m not careful tonight.”

His casual acceptance of the possibility is jarring. The way his voice softens, almost thoughtful, as if he’s considering the reality of it rather than just throwing out a joke, makes my jaw tighten. It’s not fear—it’s something worse. A quiet resignation, like he’s already made peace with the idea.

God, these two have the worse communication  I’ve ever seen or that’s just me trying to convince myself that there’s a silver lining to the madness between these two. I really think they should fight this out and get it out of their system, the deep-etched resentment and lingering bitterness curdle beneath the surface, a slow-burning poison that neither time nor reason can purge.

“Yeah well, you’re not getting kill tonight if the shadow that’s been following you has any say in it.”

Gareth lets out a confuse “Huh?” as I point out the lingering phantom that’s been around him, probably since the initiation started. A reminder to myself that not all of us are trained to have keen observation especially detecting bloodlust, this prominent since its targeted at me.

“Come out.” I announced, what little warmth in my voice with Gareth quickly reverted back into one that I’m used to, with emptiness. My stand cautious and ready while I stare into the dark of the forest.

A few long seconds pass until the silent crunch of dead leaves alerted us of the new presence. A figure appears wearing dark clothes, the sound of his heavy boots welcoming the new tension in the air. Gareth’s body freezes, his shoulder tensing beneath my palm. The mysterious man, an initiate wearing mask number 30, was taller than me by an inch or two, with an intimidating physique similar to Nikolai’s, maybe bulkier. He dresses like he wasn’t prepared for the initiation, looking quite comfortable in his environment despite the tension that is going around the forest with eliminated numbers being announced over the speakers and the screams of initiates echoing throughout the forest. The person is staring pointedly and Garreth and I.

“Seems like this one forgot the memo and decides a direct approach is the way to go. Maybe we should give him the Heathen’s special, huh Green.” I airily say, leaning against Gareth pulling him close as I tap the end of my golf club to my shoe, preparing to swing if needed. The bloodlust turns heady when I hear a warning chuff from number 30. Ah…guess we have that one in our mist. Another testing squeeze to Gareth’s shoulder tells me my theory is right when the person takes another bold step forward. “He’s here for you.” I whisper to Gareth who flinches and murmur a curse under his breath.

Gareth isn’t shy when it comes to admirers. He acknowledges them the same way he acknowledges that humans need air to breathe and food to survive—an inevitable fact of life, nothing more. He’s aware of their lingering stares, the flirtatious smiles thrown his way, the subtle and not-so-subtle attempts to win his favor. Doesn’t mean he indulges them.

Most of the time, he meets their advances with polite indifference—an unreadable smile, a slight nod, or, if they’re particularly persistent, a well-placed remark that leaves them second-guessing their own audacity. Not because he’s cruel, but because Gareth doesn’t entertain things that don’t serve a purpose.

And yet, despite his nonchalance, they still come. Drawn to him like moths to a flame, enamored by the very thing that keeps him untouchable—the effortless confidence, the sharp mind, the subtle but undeniable power he wields in every room he steps into.

But admiration is fleeting, and Gareth has no interest in fleeting things.

Except this one perhaps. Our fixer seems to recognize this stalker of his because he pushes me back and close the distance between our masks, a low warning growl escaping from deep within him that I have never heard from calm, collected Gareth before. A tone familiar to myself when it comes to little manic.

“Don’t touch him…He’s mine to do with.” Gareth says in a steady controlled voice, almost nonchalant. Yet I could distinguish the distinct, almost pleading tone for me to back away, him knowing I could simply ignore and bash this initiate’s head if I want to. There’s something in his voice—something raw, almost desperate—that makes me pause. A rare crack in Gareth usual composure, like he’s barely holding something together beneath the surface.

I glance at him, and then back at the initiate thats standing there, barely able to content the quiet fury I can see from the way his boots dig into the dirt, the way his fingers curl in a way thats ready for a brawl and the challenging silent gaze hidden behind the white mask. 

Towering, imposing…I could take him on. It’ll be a nice little fight to keep my blood pumping. A boost of adrenaline before I hunt the rest.

…But I don’t.

I finally let go. My palms up, retreating a step back. It’s nothing to get work up about. I still have that one I want to hunt right now.

“You do you, he’s yours to do.”

Because to me, number 30 is nothing.

Gareth exhales, a tension I hadn’t noticed before easing from his shoulders. His hand twitches at his side, like he wants to reach out, but he doesn’t. He never does. Instead, he meets my gaze, something unspoken passing between us, heavy and unyielding.

Mine to do with.

I wonder if he even realizes what he just admitted.

“Be careful. Your phantom might stab you in the back. You don’t know, the unexpected always happens.” I reminded because as much as we Heathens tend to get involve in unnecessary, complicated situations. Bit of reminder to bring us back to sanity is required.  

Gareth scoffs and turns around, heading towards Number 30 with three large steps then out of nowhere, stabs him on the chest, hard, directly at the heart with the arrow in his hand. Ouch. If it wasn’t for the rubber tip, I’d think that hurt.

“Number thirty is eliminated.” The electronic voice from the speakers announces breaking the tension.

The green-neon mask whips back to face me, and I can just imagine the sharp, challenging green eyes glaring directed at me.

“There. Not a problem anymore.” He states as a matter-of-factly, wiping his hands as if brushing off the remnants of a short moment of aggression, action calculated and detached as ever. Like he hadn’t just unraveled someone’s world in mere seconds. Like Number 30 rubbing his chest, staring at the spot Gareth just stab as if he was betrayed, looking exactly like a kicked puppy. Brutal, yet efficient.

Well…that was unexpected. Nevertheless, a welcoming one. I just wish he could have stabbed the man without the training wheels intact.   

“Seems like you have it handle. If you’re confident he won’t attack you out of the blue, then have at it. Have fun, Green.”

“You too, boss.” After patting my shoulder, Gareth walks, sashays, away into the woods to continue the initiation with Number 30 following behind like he expected the man to do so without uttering a single word to the man throughout this encounter. Gareth isn’t a small man. He is tall and built like the rest of us albeit leaner and compact but standing beside Number 30, he looks smaller against the behemoth of a man. I’m…concern.

I trust Gareth with his choices. If he wants to pick up a stray, he can have a go at it. Like I say, I trust our fixer, but that doesn’t mean I trust the masked stranger who seems too at ease in our presence, like he belongs here. Like he hasn’t just stumbled into a den of wolves but walked in willingly, unafraid. And that? That sets me on edge. There’s something off about him, something calculated lurking beneath that quiet demeanor, and until I figure out what it is, he’s nothing more than a potential problem waiting to unfold.

Number 30 passes by me, purposely knocking my shoulder before whispering a low, guttural warning.

“Touch him again and I’ll wring your neck.” What an absolute delight of a bastard.

“Hurt him and you have my brothers and I hunting you down. I have eyes everywhere Phantom, you best remember that. I don’t take too lightly one of mine getting hurt.” Even if it meant destroying the very thing my brothers consider important. Though, I doubt Gareth cares enough for this man. I think.

Both of them leave, and I’m left with nothing but the bite of the chilly night breeze and the distant echoes of screaming initiates ricocheting through the forest. The chaos fades into background noise as my gaze lingers on the empty space where they disappeared moments ago.

I exhale sharply, running a hand through my hair, internally grumbling at the inevitable headache this night is turning into.

***

Specks of red splattered on my mask, my clothes, my bat, my very being. For obvious reasons of course, as I finish up two initiates who were surprisingly a welcoming challenge. I absently push my hair back with my gloved hands that were stained with blood since I had to get physical with them (the majority of initiates actually) who decided working as a duo was the way to bring me down. Good choice, terrible execution.

I could have easily end this fight with the golf club if I wish to but that would be too easy. I love to play with my food before devouring them and the rule states that once a founding member’s weapon touches an initiate, he/she is instantly eliminated. So I play the long game. Its not often you get a free workout that includes blood and torment.

I pick up the golf club laying on the ground and simply tap the end to the two initiates’ chests.

“Number sixteen and number forty-seven are eliminated.”

Now that that’s done, I need to find that fucker who flip me off. The cheeky initiate who got carried away by their companion the moment we announced the start of the hunt. Number forty.

When I get my hands on that little shit, they’ll wish I’d finish them off by just breaking that damn finger. I can’t help but get annoyed that it reminds me of the little manic that night after I had a taste of her skin again, had a chance to feel the smoothness and curve of her supple body. Flipping me off and mouthing like the little bitch she was…

Fuck. I need to get her out of my system. I need to hurt something, to make me get rid of this tingling feeling throughout my body whenever I think of Iris.

I need to hurt and to get hurt.

My head quickly whips towards a certain point, my eyes glaring into the darkness as I listen to the subtle sound despite the ever so silence of the forest. Its quiet…too quiet perhaps. There is not a single squeak that can be heard, even the rustles of dead leaves. Empty silence aside from the echoing screams of the numbered masks.

Someones is here, someone is watching me, anticipating my next move. Maybe I’m being delusional, overthinking this when all I’m staring are a pile of thick trees covered with dark green leaves and the void that surrounds this forest. There is nothing to make my hackles rise except this stinging feeling of eyes on me.

Someone. Is. Watching.

I inhale deeply, steadying myself, forcing my senses to stretch beyond the suffocating silence. My eyes flutter shut, waiting—listening—for the faintest shift in the air, a murmur carried by the wind, a presence too restrained to breathe. Anything to silence the sirens blaring in my head, warning me, urging me to be on high alert.

I hate this feeling. The weight of the unknown pressing against my spine, coiling around my gut like a vice.

…Snap.

There, a soft snap of a twig, one that wouldn’t be notice if you weren’t looking for it. I open my eyes and stare directly at the direction of the sound, one hidden behind the thick bushes of the forest. This…no, this isn’t the one watching me. The lack of interest and bloodlust tells me that this isn’t the one my beast has been seeking ever since I stepped foot on the grounds. There’s another presence among the peeping tom and I, one that has unfortunately cross paths with me.

The irritation comes in full bloom, my beast snarling at the lack of rush and adrenaline to sate its craving of the hunt, the chains holding it in place crackling with ever tug and claw marks. Its restless, agitated, fucking starving for the one prey that has its hackles raise and fur bristling the moment it-…I had my eyes on. No matter how many people come my way, no matter how much blood I spill on the ground and stain my hands, no matter how pointless this hunger in me is, the women who throw themselves on me, the men who attacked me to have my place, the monochrome colour of my gaze as days pass by in usual, expected scenes. Its not enough, its never enough.

The one thing that shifted my entire perspective—if it meant she wasn’t the one my teeth sank into, the one my nails clawed at.The devastating maniac who painted my world in chaos, who brought color to my vision where there was once only black, white, and endless shades of gray. But now? Now it’s a fucking masterpiece of colors, the whole damn rainbow and the hunger, oh the damn hunger, a craving I can’t shake.

And it’s her. It’s always been her. The one I’ve been salivating over, the one I can’t decide if I want to ruin or keep intact. Someone who shouldn’t even be in my radar, someone who should have been a done deal after the alley.

I need her out of my system. Now.

“I know you’re hiding. Come out and I promise not to hurt you. Much.” My rough, deep voice echoes into the air filling in the silence that I’m accustomed to. Nothing. Not a single sound, a peep, a damn squeak. Hiding…fuck I hate when they hide.

“Come out while I’m giving you the chance. If I have to pull you out, the scene won’t look pretty.”

Get out. Get out, show yourself. Let me chase something, let me run, let me shred my prey to the bones!

Tick tock, tick tock, times running out and my patience is short…

“Times up.”

The moment those words leave my mouth, a figure bolts from the bushes, tearing through the forest in a desperate attempt to escape.

Wrong choice, prey.

I give them one, two seconds—just enough time for a single, frantic breath—before I lunge forward, my strides long and unrelenting. My steps never falter, my focus locked on the silhouette ahead, their panicked movements betraying their futile efforts. It doesn’t matter if I have to plow through the initiates who make the mistake of crossing my path, sending them crashing to the ground. It doesn’t matter if the uneven terrain snags at my feet, if low-hanging branches whip at my skin like desperate hands trying to slow me down.

Nothing matters except the hunt.

Keep running prey, you’ll only get yourself caught in the inevitable. And that’s the beauty of the hunt. I let them think I’m slowing down, I let their guard down and catch their breath, I let them think that they’ve escape…except that never do. Once I’ve gotten a scent of their track, I’m a mindless hunting dog with a target, waiting to taste blood and flesh.

Dog…finally admitting you are one, Volkov?

A familiar voice penetrates the red haze in my mind. Her smooth, playful crooning in my ear like silk and the air grazing my skin akin to her ember-like touch as I chase after the helpless prey trying their best to keep themselves away from me. The corner of my lips lift, an involuntary wide grin makes an appearance.

‘Even when you’re not here to share this hunt with me, your presence still makes an appearance, eh lunichka.’

My mind wanders, imagining her by my side…no, not by my side. In front of me. Getting away from me. Running from ME. Instead of the prey that’s in front of my eyes, the image of Iris materializes.

She’s running. Running as I chase her, watching the way her raven hair, streaked with ashen gray, whips through the air like smoke dissolving into the night. She looks like a shooting star—brief, untouchable, but doomed to fall.

She runs to escape me, her breath ragged, muscles coiled with desperation, but it’s futile. Every frantic step, every strained inhale, only fuels the inevitable. I see the way her shoulders tense, the slight hitch in her movement when she realizes—I’m gaining.

And then she looks back to me, and I’m forever lost in the fear mix with excitement in those eyes.

She can run. But she won’t get away.

Lunichka, you were doom from the start. You shouldn’t have appeared in my sight and stayed in my reality. The moment those dull moss greens of your eyes turn to manic beautiful emeralds stamped the moment you were chained to me. My little manic…how I wish to share this moment with you. To actually be able to hunt you instead of this pale imitation. You would run, and you would fight me off. Like a wolf chasing after an untouched moonlight. My feisty little manic.

The beast in me growls, impatient and restless from the chase, snapping me out of my delirium and dragging me back to the present. My gaze sharpens, scanning the trees, the shifting shadows, the eerie silence pressing in around me.

The initiate is gone.

I exhale sharply, irritation curling in my chest. Seems like I was so lost in my own thrill—the rush of the hunt, the pounding of my pulse, the primal satisfaction of watching fear take root, the image of her clouding my mind—that I let my prey slip through my fingers.

Sloppy.

But no matter. The night is long, and the hunt isn’t over. Not yet.

Its about time I end this and move on to the next prey.

I look around my surrounding and again, only the eerie silence accompanies me. That person shouldn’t have gone far. They are around here somewhere, close by and just bidding for time until I’m gone. And then I see it, a glimpse of white by the large rock on the side of the dirt road. A sneaker peaking out from behind the rock.

Got you, rat.

I casually lean against the tree, arms cross as I wait for the initiate to notice me standing behind them. I take a very much needed breather. A long minute passes by and then I see the initiate’s head pop up and turn around, their body jolting backwards instinctually trying to get away when they realize I have been standing behind them all this time. 

I tilt my head to the side, curious when they haven’t move yet.

“Being accepted into the club can only be achieved through running, not hiding,” I drawl out, a slight impatience tinge in the neutrality of my voice. The initiate was trembling as he/she continues to stare at me. Hmm, something about them seems familiar. Well…that’s not really important now is it. I push myself off the tree which scares the initiate into taking a step back and the trembling becomes more apparent. I love when they get scared. “You’re still not running.”

That’s when the fear kicks in, and the initiate bolts again, desperation making their movements frantic. But before they can get far, I swing the golf club low, planting it firmly in their path. Their foot catches on the metal, and in the next second, they’re airborne—crashing face-first into the dirt with an impressive oomph.

“Number twenty-three eliminated,” the speaker crackles to life, the announcement ringing through the trees.

I roll my shoulders, stretching out the kinks from the chase, my grip tightening around the club. I’m not satisfied. Too easy. This one didn’t put up a fight, as I expected. I’m left feeling empty, the void in me deepens leaving me …unsated. Hollow. Like I just bit into a meal with no flavor, no substance—just air.

I exhale sharply, rolling my neck as I glance down at the crumpled figure at my feet. Too easy. Too predictable. The thrill of the hunt is supposed to fill me, to quiet the beast gnawing at my insides, but all this did was make the void stretch wider.

My fingers flex around the grip of the club, irritation prickling at my skin. I need more. Something raw. Something real.

I stare at the rat beneath my feet who is still on the ground, trying to get to their feet. I see the way their fingers clench the dirt. Frustration perhaps for getting caught. Well its none of my business. Yet, my curiosity can’t help but make an appearance. How did this weakling slip pass the invitation list when I throughly gone through it twice. I don’t make mistakes. Every name on that list was scrutinized, every initiate vetted. So how the hell did this one get through?

I tilt my head, watching as they push themselves up on shaky arms, their breath ragged but steady. Their fingers twitch like they want to grab something—maybe a weapon, maybe just the ground itself for reassurance.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” I muse, tapping the club against my boot. “So tell me, rat, did you sneak in, or did someone let you in?”

The initiate doesn’t answer immediately, just exhales sharply and meets my gaze through the mask. Defiant. Interesting.

“Let’s see the face behind the mask.” I reach my gloved hand towards the initiate, wanting to see the face behind the white mask. “How did someone as incompetent as you get invited to the initiation—”

But my words cut short when a hand shot towards my wrist, gripping it tight as the initiate had their hand up just seconds away from slapping mine. I stare at the hand gripping my wrist, their  fingers a stark contrast against the black gloves I’m wearing and especially when the person too is wearing fingerless gloves, giving me a show of fragile fingers encircling my wrist.

For the first time since the initiation started, I was caught off guard.

“What-“

“Wrong prey.”

The person speaks, whispering low and almost unrecognizable if it wasn’t for the airy tone underneath the hostility of their voice that catches my attention. My eyes glance upwards, returning back the hostility with one of my own as the tension between me and this unwelcome guest becomes too thick to ignore. It coils around us like a vice, pressing in, daring one of us to make the first move.

My grip tightens around the club, knuckles paling. Wrong prey? What the hell is that supposed to mean? And more importantly—who the fuck is this?

They stand in front of me relax, acting as an in-between for number 23 but there’s no sign of weakness in their posture. No frantic scrambling, no desperate attempt to flee. Just a quiet, simmering defiance that needles at my patience.

I take a step closer, lowering my voice to something cold, sharp. “Then tell me—who exactly should I be hunting?”

And the cocky initiate had the gall to say right to my face “Me.”

I see the number stamped on the mask; number 40. It’s the little shit I’ve been trying to seek out all night. I thought they would avoid us Heathens but instead this dumbass seeks us out, seeks me out after giving me the damn finger. Either they’re stupid or brave, could be a combination of both which just spells trouble. How was this fucker able to find me? Have they been-…the familiar sensation of someone watching…

“You’ve been following me.” I exclaimed in calm disbelieve, quite impress actually. Though I wouldn’t even admit it out loud even if someone puts a gun to my head. Now that I have a close look at number 40, they’re physically shorter than me and prepared. Wearing all black; clothes, boots, gloves and even hiding their hair under a beanie. Their clothing doesn’t give off what gender they are, an androgynous figure that knows what is expected when entering the initiation.

And yet, something about them stands out. Not in a loud or obvious way, but in the quiet precision of their movements, the way they remain unnervingly still under my scrutiny.

I tilt my head, assessing. “Clever.” The word slips out before I can stop it, but it’s not praise—it’s observation. This one came prepared, blending in, masking every identifiable trait. But if they thought that would keep them unnoticed, they were dead wrong.

Number 40 doesn’t react, their posture steady, unreadable. A ghost among the chaos.

Interesting.

I tighten my grip on the club, my lips curling into something that isn’t quite a smile. “So tell me, shadow—were you hunting me instead of being the hunted, or just hoping to slip by unnoticed? Not playing by the rules of the game huh.”

He/She huffs. Huffs. Really? Acting like I did them a disservice. Its almost laughable. Damn brat.

“I gave you an invitation.” Oh, did you now.

“A middle finger isn’t exactly an invitation to hunt but you sure left an impression. So bravo.” I mockingly clap my hand in front of their face, their fingers still wrap around my wrist. Burning, a lingering heat that’s too familiar…

Their body goes tense and rigid; a visceral reaction towards my taunt and I hear them quietly hiss, nails biting into my wrist attempting to leave their mark. Unfortunately I don’t take kindly to this. So far the only marks I allow my body to take are from my little manic.

I pull my wrist back harsh, pulling number 40 along until our chests touch and our masks are mere inches apart. If it wasn’t for the masks, I would be staring dead at this little shit and beat them half to death if it wasn’t for my ‘no kill’ rule tonight.

“Let. Go.” I say deliberately slow as I take deep breaths to calm my nerves that’s been making me go crazy since this afternoon. Not getting to touch Iris and talk to her especially with that stunt she had with Eli King, no matter the fucking reason, has me all coiled up and I’m this close to unleashing all this twisted frustration on someone.

God lunichka, what is it with you that has me hanging by a thread? Spiraling like a fucking lunatic at the mere thought of someone else’s hands on you?

I clench my jaw, forcing my grip to loosen before I do something reckless. 

“No, I won’t.” They stubbornly reply, unyielding, challenging. So damn stubborn its almost tempting to just hit them to end this hunt and just head back to the mansion, letting the rest of my brothers have their fun while I go wallow in my own anger and despair. “You owe me a hunt. A chase. You promise.” They’re begging now despite how brattish they sound, quite insisting and I’m clueless to what they meant because I have made no promises to anyone about such things.

The words roll off my tongue, flat and unimpressed, because honestly, this is getting ridiculous.

“Do I know you?”

The figure stiffens ever so slightly, a barely-there reaction, but I catch it. My boredom wanes just a little. Interesting.

They don’t answer right away, just stand there, weighing their options, deciding whether I’m worth the truth or another lie. I sigh, already tired of this game.

“Well?” I press, tilting my head. “Or do you just enjoy wasting my time?”

Silence fills in the air and I feel the tension dissipates into something more somber. Despite me and number 40 having someone there watching us, number 23 unabashedly watching with them still there sitting on the ground,  my focus is on the silence when just seconds ago this person brazenly told me to hunt them.

“You promise.” Their voice wobbles, a silent anger…no, not anger. Disappointment. Why does their voice sound familiar? Its purposely made rougher, an European accent coating the words to divert me from identifying their identity. “You said you’ll make me run and I’ll be chase. You promise, you bastard.”

There is something familiar, too familiar and again I’m conjuring Iris in their image. Im hearing her voice sounding sad and lonely and just…I don’t get it. Why is she filling my mind and my very being? She makes me restless. Like an itch I can’t scratch, a ghost pressing into my ribs, curling around my spine. No matter where I look, I see her—feel her. Even in this stranger’s stance, in the way their presence lingers like an unspoken whisper, my mind twists it back to her.

I hear her voice, soft yet heavy, dripping with something I can’t place—sadness, loneliness… a quiet plea?

Fuck. I don’t get it.

Why is she filling my mind, embedding herself in my very being, weaving through me like she belongs there? Why can’t I shake her, even when she’s nowhere near?

“Stop it.” I growl back, frustration creeping back replacing this confusion whirling in me. I don’t have time to think about Iris when I’m currently running a fucking initiation. And this initiate isn’t making it any better especially those words spoken at me. “I’m not going to hunt you-“ Even I am surprising myself for saying so. “and you’re not making any fucking sense!” I need her, I need to get my hands on her. I just need-

“You’re a fool if you can’t recognize me from under this mask, Volkov.”

That’s when the shade of grays burst into a flurry of colors, painting my surroundings into something recognizable to the manic girl who has turn my life into something chaotic in a mere span of days. That familiarity becomes more obvious when the gruffness of number 40’s voice turns to the one I’ve been so captivated with; the wispy, lazy soft voice that soothes even the beast in me to growl longingly.

Its her. Its always been her.

The little manic that stormed into my life and created chaos in every place she steps into, my lunichka. Iris…

I’m too surprise to even respond properly before I see and felt her fingers at the bottom edge of my orange-neon mask and with that, the loneliness of her voice disappears, replace with the playful airy one that grates on my nerves and makes my heart beat like a running train.

“I don’t want to wait anymore, Jeremy.” She whispers, so low and lovely and ever so lonely. “You promise me a chase and I’m collecting.”

She tugs at my mask, just enough for her fingers to graze my jaw, a fleeting touch that ignites something sharp and restless beneath my skin. My pulse thrums, erratic, and I don’t know if it’s from the audacity of her actions or the way her voice wraps around me like a ghost of something I can’t quite name.

I should stop her.

I should rip her hand away, remind her exactly who she’s playing with. But I don’t.

Instead, I let her remove my mask as she removes hers. Her face covered, wearing a black surgical mask to cover the lower part of her face leaving me to stare into those emerald eyes. Not dull, but twinkling bright with mischief and unbridled excitement that’s oh so infectious that even I’m affected by it. By her.

The exchange of our chase, the one I promised, is settled upon her next move.

I watch as she steps back after she slips her initiate mask to my face, her eyes glinting with something wild, something untamed. Her eyes lift into a daring stare, subtle yet full of intent. And then…she wears my mask and I hear the soft laughter like fragile wind chimes that I imagined back at the fighting club.

“Tag,” she murmurs, barely above a whisper. “You’re it.”

Then she’s gone.

And fuck if I don’t want to chase.

Chapter Text

There is a certain thrill in the art of hunting.

Sweat drips down my back, the sting of exertion settling deep in my muscles, but I barely register the ache. Adrenaline surges through my veins, electrifying every nerve, sharpening every sense. The world around me fades into muted silence, drowned out by the thunderous rhythm of my own heartbeat—loud, insistent, alive. It fuels me, drives me forward, reminding me that I am the predator, and the one I am chasing in the one my beast has been hungering for since that fated night.

My prey—the one my beast craves, the one who taunts me with fleeting glimpses and laughter like wind chimes in a storm. She teases me with her silhouette, dancing just out of reach, igniting something primal, something insatiable. My fingers twitch with the need to seize her, to feel her warmth, to pull her into me until she is trap in my grasp, until she’s part of me—mind, body, and soul.

Iris was a breathtaking comet—wild, untamed, streaking through the darkness with reckless abandon. She dodged trees with effortless grace, leapt over rocks and fallen logs, her boots kicking up water as she splashed through puddles, leaving chaos in her wake. Her laughter, light and unrestrained, echoed through the night, filling the cracks of my world, bleeding vibrant colors into the black, white, and gray existence I had known. She was utterly fearless, oblivious—or perhaps indifferent—to the storm brewing inside me, to the inevitable destruction I would bring the moment I caught her. She simply lived, unapologetically, as if daring me to ruin her.

And I…I was enchanted by this very being.

Right now, she might be that shooting star, captivating everyone’s attention with a single fleeting glance, but I knew better.

Distant, untouchable, always just out of reach. Her elusiveness wasn’t just a trait; it was a challenge, a lure designed to keep fools chasing after her light while she remained untamed in the vast, endless night.

Yet, unlike the rest, I wasn’t chasing to admire. I was chasing to claim.

She might be a distant star now, but I knew better.

Iris Reed is the moon, with her quiet, untouchable allure, slipping through grasping fingers like silver light. She was never meant to be caught, only chased, only yearned for. And yet, despite knowing this truth, I was helpless against the pull, drawn to her like a creature bound by gravity, destined to orbit her for as long as she allowed.

Unfortunately, in my current situation, I’m unable to enjoy our private moment.

The sound of leaves crunching echoes from all sides, a telltale sign that I’m no longer the only predator on this hunt. A figure dashes past me, their white mask flashing in the dim moonlight as they fall into stride, joining the chase. Then, more emerge from the shadows—silent, swift, drawn in by the thrill of pursuit.

Iris, ever the reckless little manic, doesn’t falter. If anything, she laughs—sharp, breathless, utterly unafraid. The orange-neon mask she stole from me a beacon welcoming other to our chase, wearing it proudly as if she wasn’t already taunting them.

The little minx, damn menace this one.

If any of those initiates had an ounce of intelligence, they would have caught on by now—the subtle differences in movement, in stature, in the way she ran with a purpose that had nothing to do with survival. But they didn’t. They blindly followed, too caught up in the thrill of the chase to recognize that their so-called prey was toying with them.

The neon masks weren’t just for identification; they were a test. A safeguard. We weren’t foolish enough to let just anyone into our ranks. Reaching the edge of the property didn’t mean victory—it meant judgment.

All five of us agreed, brute strength could only take you so far. If you couldn’t even recognize an intruder in your midst, then you had no place among us.

Cunning was just as crucial as strength. A true Heathen wasn’t just muscle and bloodlust—they needed to think, to see through deception, to adapt. If they couldn’t even tell apart an imposter from the real deal, then they were just dead weight, bodies to be discarded when the real work began.

Iris was proving that point with every step she took, slipping through their ranks like water through clenched fists. A ghost in the moonlight, a trickster who played her role too damn well.

And the best part?

None of them had a fucking clue.

An initiate was gaining on her, a hand reaching out just seconds away to grab her back wanting to be the first to end this chase and win over the initiation by overwhelming one of the ‘founder’ of this fuck up game of ours. With this many initiates chasing after her, with numbers they could win over. Fools all of them. They had this game all wrong.

Numbers didn’t mean shit if you didn’t know how to use them.

Iris was faster, sharper—she knew how to weave through the chaos, how to turn their desperation into her advantage. The initiate’s fingers barely brushed the fabric of her hoodie before she twisted, ducking low at the last second, and with a single well-timed move, sent them crashing into the dirt.

The poor bastard lurched forward, caught in his own momentum, and stumbled straight into the path of another initiate. A collision. A curse. A brief moment of chaos.

A sharp yelp. A scuffle. And then another initiate tripped over the first, their momentum working against them as they tumbled over each other in a mess of limbs and curses.

And just like that, she was gone again, weaving through the trees like a phantom, forcing them to scramble, to adjust, to struggle.

She was playing them.

Toying with them the way a predator toys with its prey, leading them straight into their own downfall.

A grin tugs at my lips.

They thought they were hunting her.

But the truth?

They were already caught in her web.

“Wolf! Cut them down!” She calls out into the air, her voice sharp and commanding, slicing through the chaos like a blade. There’s no hesitation, no fear—just raw, unshaken confidence, as if she already knows the outcome of this game.

A thrill shoots down my spine. Wolf.

The name she calls me, the title she’s chosen to brand me with, as if she knows exactly what lurks beneath my skin—restless, ravenous, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

My grin widens.

Without a second thought, I lunge, using the chance she’d given me in the moment of panic among the players of this ordeal.

The initiates barely have time to react before I move. Swift. Precise. Brutal.

The first one barely registers my presence before my club slams into their ribs, sending them sprawling with a strangled gasp. Another lunges, desperate to make their mark, but a quick pivot and an elbow to the jaw have them crumpling like a ragdoll. The golfclub and the adrenaline running through me does the job as one by one blocking my way are eliminated and their numbers called out from the speaker announcing their end.

My beast howls in triumph, the blood soaking their paws and muzzle a testament of their pride and pleasure of a hunt well done. My lust for the hunt is sated, even if just for the moment, as I stand amidst the fallen—bodies groaning, some unconscious, some too dazed to realize they’ve already lost.

I exhale, chest rising and falling with exhilaration, the echoes of the chase still thrumming in my veins. My beast paces within me, restless despite the satisfaction, licking its bloodstained fangs and already yearning for more.

But my attention shifts—drawn back to her.

Iris stands just beyond the chaos, untouched, her breath quick but steady, her eyes gleaming beneath the moonlight, as she lowers the mask slightly until I can see those emerald eyes almost glowing in the dark. There’s no fear in them, no hesitation. Just amusement, maybe even something close to admiration, as she watches me.

And fuck—if that doesn’t make me want to chase her all over again.

“What the fuck man?!” One of the initiates, those who were far back from the bloodbath exclaims in shock confusion as they stare at me. Irritation spikes at the interruption to my private moment with my little manic. I growl out, letting the animalistic part of me take control as I turn to face those who did not become a victim to my moment of reckless abandon.

The rest hesitate now, their confidence wavering, realizing too late the mistake they’ve made. They weren’t chasing prey.

They were walking straight into the den of wolves.

“Fools.” I snarled, my hackles rising as I slam the end of my club to the ground causing them to flinch and take a step back knowing a threat when they see one.

 I wasn’t a pretty sight; blood staining my clothes and dripping from the weapon I held. Plus, the white mask I was wearing had speckles of red on it. I probably look like a fake Jason Voorhees, well a grim parody of a slasher villain, except this wasn’t some cheap horror flick. This was real. The blood was warm, the scent thick in the air, and the bodies at my feet weren’t getting back up.

“Fools?! You’re the one who’s an idiot! We’re suppose to beat the founders, you dumb fucker! Not beat each other up.” The one earlier continues to rant, frustration tinge in their voice as they and the rest try to make sense of my action, the others were even murmuring in agreement. Idiots the lot of them.

Note to self, I should reevaluate the people on the initiation list more throughly for the next one. This was a pointless argument when the goal of the initiation was already lost to them.

“Have you forgotten the goal and rule of this initiation?” My voice cuts through the tense air, sharp and cold. “Or did you all think this was just some chaotic free-for-all where the last one standing wins?”

I scan the exhausted initiates, watching as realization dawns on some while others still wear that clueless determination, as if brute strength alone would earn them a place among us.

Pathetic.

“If you can’t even grasp the fundamentals of strategy, you don’t deserve to stand here.”

I exhaled sharply, tapping the bloodied edge of my weapon against my boot. Some of them, probably the smart ones who catch on quick, gasp when they see the golf club, my words sinking in becoming much more clearer what I meant. “If you can’t even remember why you’re here, then you’re not worth the fucking mask.”

Tense silence fills the air. The initiates fumbling to decide their next course of action, unsure how to proceed. See, I am dealing with fools. They’ve just proven my statement.

Luckily, I didn’t need to continue with this trifling matter when I hear footsteps heading towards me and there coming out from the bushes, glowing neon masks; yellow and white appear.

Nikolai whistles at the fallen, unconscious/half-conscious bodies surrounding me.

“Jeez Jer, leave some for us why don’t you.” The hulking body belonging to my childhood friend drapes itself to my side earning a disgruntled grunt from me. Those mischievous eyes observing the scene as a snicker leaves his lips. “Can’t always be greedy you know.” Nikolai nudges me with his elbow, completely unbothered by the carnage around us. “Gotta share the fun, yeah?”

I cast him a sidelong glance, unimpressed. “Then move faster next time.”

He barks out a laugh, the sound rich with amusement. “You say that like you didn’t already plan to hog the best kills.” His arm tightens around my shoulder in mock camaraderie before he steps away, surveying the aftermath with the ease of someone who’s seen far worse.

“Still, I gotta say, you really know how to put on a show.” His lips quirk, sharp and knowing. “No wonder they’re fucking terrified of you.”

Oh they were, especially when three founders were in front of them. I could practically see how the initiates, the ones lucky enough to not be under the metal sheen of my golf club, were shaking in their boots.

Vaughn, the ever silent observer peers closer to me, his white-neon mask reflecting against my white plastic one.   

“Your mask-,” His gruff voice sounded even rougher making his russian accent even more noticeable, as if it had been overused during the whole initiation. “lost?”

Vaughn is someone with very few words to say and difficult to get a read on. He barely spoke aside from when needed to be said and those who known him long knew what he said even without words. He has difficulty connecting with people, trouble to gain an understanding of emotional connection in a casual, normal setting. Different to Killian who adapted to his environment, Vaughn was…withdrawn. Like a shadow, always lingering at the edges of the room, never fully stepping into the light. His silence was his armor, a barrier that kept others at arm’s length.

Where Killian would smoothly blend into a crowd, using charm and conversation to make connections, Vaughn remained an enigma—his presence subtle but undeniable. Those close to him knew that his words, though few, carried weight; when he did speak, it was direct and purposeful, like a precise strike. But his inability to bridge the gap between himself and others made him feel like he was always watching life unfold from the sidelines, disconnected. It wasn’t that he didn’t care—it was just that his emotional language was different, reserved for moments that could never quite reach the surface of everyday interactions.

I dare say he shared similarities with the youngest male King but at least Creighton King knew what socializing meant albeit usually force by the jokester of their group. The only emotion Vaughn seems to express openly with so much passion is anger, which he is working on.

I shook my head at his question. “Taken.” My gaze flicked toward the figure standing at a distance, her fingers raised in a playful ‘hi’ as if she had all the time in the world. The orange-neon mask back on hiding those jeweled eyes away from me. Damn minx.

“Ehhhh~ someone got the jump on you, Jer?” Nikolai sounded genuinely amazed, a teasing note to his voice as his eyes darted between me and her. He knew exactly how to push my buttons, and right now, he was pushing them all. My eyes narrowed on him as I tried to ignore the little smirk that danced on his face.

“Shut it, Nikolai,” I muttered, keeping my attention on the girl who was far too good at getting under my skin. But damn it, there was something about her that made it impossible to turn away.

Nikolai hums, his gaze still on Iris. “Wanna team-up? It’ll be easier to catch them with both of us working together and honestly, I’m curious. Its not everyday we see someone catching you off guard especially someone who has the balls to steal your mask.” I can’t help but bristle even though I know its just Nikolai being Nikolai. He’s always acted this way; lightening the somber mood among us Heathens, acting like a doofus since he was the sun in our lives. To Nikolai, this was his way of communicating —turning tension into something manageable, something less suffocating. It was his way of making sure none of us drowned in the darkness we so often found ourselves in.

But right now? Right now, I wasn’t in the mood for his usual antics.

This is my hunt. My chase.

And I don’t fucking share.

“She’s mine to catch,” I say, voice low, leaving no room for argument.

Nikolai whistles, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Territorial much?” He smirks, but there’s a knowing glint in his eyes. “Alright, alright. I’ll back off…for now.”

I don’t respond. My attention is already back on the trees, searching for the one that had the audacity to steal from me.

And there she is standing among the shadows, engulfing herself in the dark with what little moonlight brushing across her silhouette, enchanting me like a phantom—watching, waiting for my next move. She hasn’t move from her spot, a foolish course of action but one that elicits a certain warmth in my chest.

She’s there for me, only me. Nothing else matters in this moment aside from us.

The predator and prey.

Me and her.

Us.

“Go.” Vaughn says as he turns his back to me, sensing the change in my stance, the anticipation running through my veins to get close to my little manic and continue our game of chase. The heavy silver chains wrap around his fists clacking sharply in the air as he starts to slowly stalk towards the frighten initiates, Nikolai excitedly following from behind cracking his knuckles, each sound a death warning to them. “We’ll finish off while you have fun.”

I can’t help but let out a chuckle. Leave to Vaughn to handle the clean-up with that eerie, unshakable calm of his. A predator among prey, methodical and merciless. And Nikolai? He was the opposite—chaos incarnate, thriving in the thrill of the fight, already licking his lips in anticipation.

“Try not to break them too fast,” I muse, rolling my shoulders as I take a step back, my gaze flickering to the direction Iris disappeared into. “Wouldn’t want the fun to end too soon.”

Vaughn merely tilts his head, an unspoken promise in his silence, while Nikolai cackles. “No promises.”

I don’t waste another second. My feet move before my mind catches up, the instinctual pull towards my little manic far stronger than any sense of responsibility to this initiation.

Time to hunt.

***

I finally caught up to Iris closing in to the edge of the compound after the many twists and turns in the woods, her laughter a never-ending symphony to my ears and her running figure a temptation far too sweet to ignore. She really had me gone crazy in just these few short days and I’m unsure how to feel about this especially with every interaction with her, the self-control I pride myself on was slipping little by little.  

She was destroying the way I view my world, and I find myself unable to stop chasing after more.

With a burst of energy, I sprint towards Iris and grab her hoody, pulling her back into me with enough force to send her stumbling, but she doesn’t fall. Of course, she doesn’t. Iris moves with the chaos, twisting in my grasp like a wild thing, slipping free just as my fingers tighten. Her body is warm, alive, electric as she ducks low and drives her shoulder into my torso in an attempt to knock me off balance.

A breath of laughter escapes me, my pulse hammering in exhilaration. She’s fast, but I’m faster. Before she can slip away again, I latch onto her wrist, yanking her flush against me. A sharp intake of breath is all the warning I get before she brings her knee up, aiming for my ribs. I block it, twisting her arm behind her back in retaliation.

“Nice try, lunichka,” I murmur against the shell of her ear, my voice thick with amusement and something darker.

Iris grits her teeth, twisting sharply in my hold. Her flexibility is impressive—using the momentum, she hooks her leg around mine and drags me down with her as she falls. We hit the ground hard, a tangle of limbs and sharp, ragged breaths. I feel the moment she tries to scramble free, but I roll us, pinning her beneath me.

Her hood has fallen back, revealing those wild, defiant eyes staring up at me after my hand pulls the orange-neon mask off her along with ripping the black face mask covering her mouth. She’s panting, her chest rising and falling against mine, and despite the struggle, I can see the hint of a smirk playing on her lips.

“You’re holding back,” she accuses, voice teasing, breathless.

I tighten my grip on her wrists, pressing them into the dirt beside her head. “I like playing with my prey.”

Iris exhales sharply before shifting, and for a second, I make the mistake of thinking she’s finally submitting. But then, with a sharp jerk of her hips and a surprising amount of strength, she manages to throw me off balance just enough to slip her leg between us. Using it as leverage, she flips our positions, straddling me in one fluid motion.

Now, it’s her turn to grin down at me, breathless and triumphant.

“Checkmate?” she taunts.

I meet her gaze, my own lips curling into something dangerous. My hands shoot up, gripping her hips, and before she can react, I twist, rolling us again until I’m the one on top, caging her in.

“Not yet, little manic.”

She struggles, twisting beneath me, testing my hold. I let her fight, let her feel the weight of my dominance, the unspoken challenge between us. My heartbeat thrums in sync with hers, my blood singing with the thrill of it all.

Iris stills, her breath uneven, her eyes locked onto mine.

And just like that, the game shifts again, especially when I bring the golf club up and see how those pretty, green eyes crackle with something akin to dread and panic.

There is something gorgeous about a human who is seconds away from receiving their doom. The change is slow yet immediate when our neurons quickly connect the dots on whats about to happen next.  Iris’s expression changes to one of fear, realizing her mistake of assuming I wouldn’t hurt her just because I’m entertain with this game of ours. That is where she’s wrong. She should not have assumed I play nice in the first place.

I bring the club down, the sound of it cutting through the air sharp and final. At the last second, she twists her body, just barely dodging the full impact. But not completely. The metal edge grazes her cheek, slicing skin and leaving a thin line of crimson in its wake.

A single drop of blood slides down her skin, stark against her pale complexion.

Iris exhales sharply, her breath uneven, but her eyes—oh, those eyes—burn with something other than fear. Challenge. Defiance.

She lifts a hand to her cheek, rubbing at the wound as if confirming it’s real, before tilting her head at me, lips parting ever so slightly. “That wasn’t very gentlemanly of you, Volkov.”

A slow smirk tugs at my lips as I press the metal shaft against her throat, a warning to behave. “What’s wrong, lunichka?” My voice is smooth, teasing, yet dripping with something darker. “You thought I wouldn’t draw first blood?”

She exhales sharply, lips pressing into a thin line before her expression shifts again. The fear is still there, lingering at the edges, but something else takes its place—determination. The kind that makes my pulse spike, the kind that makes me crave more.

Good.

“Number forty is eliminated.”

I take in a deep breathe, the blood lust in my head slowly dissipating, clearing out the short moment of manic fueling this hunt. I remove the mask I’m wearing and throw it to the side, the cool air hitting my face a much-needed relief. Finally, I can breathe.  

I turn my attention back to her, the playfulness in my gaze disappearing into something serious, darker. I press down the shaft slightly more until she lets out a weak choke and her fingers wrap around the metal to create a space enough for her to breathe and her other free hand pushing my chest to make me get off her.

Not a fucking chance.

“Behave, lunichka. Or this will get messy.” I warn Iris, my tone low coated with a certain edge of danger as I press more of my body weight on her to limit her movements, using my thighs to trap her below me. A pretty picture to have her looking up at me with those pretty jewels of greens. She is struggling to escape and its futile. She knows it. “Unfair isn’t it, the difference between us.” I commented, my grip to the club tightening and I press more of the metal to her neck, the choking sounds getting louder as her gasping for air grows apparent. Her legs are kicking frantically behind me and she’s desperately clawing my chest while her face slowly turns red and tears form at the corner of her beautiful emerald eyes. Her need to breathe is a priority but the glare to me is still there—blazing, defying…my stubborn girl.

“Do you hate it? Being this soft, this vulnerable… this weak?” My voice is a low rasp, taunting, threading through the charged space between us.

I thrust my hips forward, pressing against her stomach, letting her feel exactly what she’s done to me. What she’s awakened. A sharp inhale hitches in her throat, her eyes going wide, lips parting just enough for a breathless sound to escape—so sweet, so fucking tempting.

My fingers trail down her side, slow and deliberate, as I lean in, my mouth hovering just over her ear. “This body,” I murmur, pressing closer, “was made to feel.”

She shivers. A full-body tremor that she probably hates herself for, but I catch it—I fucking feel it.

Her hands press against my chest, not pushing, just there, as if testing the tension between us, the weight of what’s building. My grip tightens at her waist, my thumb brushing the edge of her ribcage, feeling her pulse hammer beneath my touch.

“You pretend like you don’t want this,” I murmur, my lips grazing the shell of her ear, deliberately slow, dragging the words out just to watch the way she reacts. “Like you don’t crave it just as much as I do.”

She exhales, shaky and unsure.

I smirk.

“Say it,” I goad, pressing my advantage. “Tell me to stop.”

Silence.

A beat too long.

Her throat bobs with a swallow, her fingers curling against my shirt as if she can’t decide whether to push me away or pull me closer. My patience is razor-thin, fraying at the edges, but I wait. Because I want to hear it from her. I want her to be the one to-

“I hate you,” she breathes, the words soft, but her body betrays her, arching—just barely—into mine.

My smirk widens.

“Liar.”

Iris gasps when she felt her throat constricting again, a reminder of her current predicament.

“You know what to say to make me stop, lunichka. Say it.” More and more I press the club down to her neck, her body squirms and struggles and more of those desperate noises to breathe makes an appearance and I am mere seconds away from breaking her weak, fragile neck. She only has to say it. She only has to tell me to stop.

Her fingers claw at my wrist, nails biting into my skin, but I don’t budge. Her legs kick out, her body writhing beneath me, desperate, fighting—but still, she doesn’t say it.

“You’re running out of time,” I murmur, pressing the club down just a fraction more, enough to watch her throat flex, her pulse pounding against the metal. “Say it, and I let go. That’s all it takes.”

A gasp, sharp and ragged. Her chest rises, falls, struggling, but her lips remain stubbornly parted—no words, no surrender.

Something dark and possessive coils in my gut.

“You like this, don’t you?” I taunt, my voice husky, laced with amusement and something far more dangerous. “You like testing me, pushing me, seeing how far I’ll go before I snap.”

Her nails dig deeper. Her body trembles, but her eyes—fuck, her eyes—blaze with defiance, even as her breaths turn shallow.

Goddamn her.

A growl tears from my throat as I yank the club away, flinging it aside. The moment the pressure is gone, she chokes on a gasp, sucking in desperate lungfuls of air, coughing, trembling—alive.

But even as she breathes, she glares up at me, something victorious flickering in her gaze.

She never planned to say it.

“You’re a danger to yourself, little manic,” I mutter, cursing under my breath as my fingers work the buttons of my jeans.

She stays still, quiet—watching.

Foolish, foolish girl.

The way her gaze lingers, unblinking, only fuels the heat simmering beneath my skin. My zipper slides down, the sound sharp in the thick silence between us. The relief is instant as I free my aching length from its restraint, a low sigh slipping past my lips.

Her breath hitches.

My grin is slow, predatory.

“Keep staring, lunichka. You might just tempt me to ruin you.” I say as I squeeze the base of my cock, groaning at the intense pleasure it brings me. My cockhead—red, bulging, desperate for release. Slowly, torturously slow I start stroking.  

She stares at it, too shock by the sight of a cock directly at her face. A bead of pre glistens at the slit, begging to be lick and taste, and I watch as the tip of her tongue, red and soft, licks her bottom lip, giving a moist, tempting sheen to it.

“Are you going to fuck me?” Iris taunts yet it’s a failure; her bravado slightly faltering and her attempt weak from the neediness in her voice. Always having something to say despite the circumstance not being in her favor. I chuckle, continuing to leisurely pump my cock, grunting with each long strokes.

“Maybe next time.”

Iris scoffs, the brat rolling her eyes at me. “Like I’ll let you.”

“With the way you’re devouring my cock with your eyes, I’ll say there is a strong chance of you letting me sink this bad boy in you one day.” Just because I’m a bastard, I press the tip against her close lips, enjoying the way her eyes widen as pre coats her luscious soft lips. The image of her suckling on my cock with those eyes looking up at me submissively…fucking hell, what a sight.

 She is too stun to say another word as I continue to stroke myself, slowly increasing the pace as my breathing goes, every inhale sharp and quick, every exhale a silent surrender to the growing pressure, until the world around me blurs into a chaotic rhythm of heartbeats that grow louder with each passing second.

My intention very clear. I spread my thighs wider, my muscles clenching as I give myself more room to work with, my abs contracting with each pump. I’m not being subtle, I’m full-on masturbating in front of her, and I don’t give a damn if she watches or not. If she hates this or not.

“Stay like that, lunichka.” I groan as I give a hard stroke, twisting the end of my cock in that delicious way I like. Her lips open slightly given me a small opening to insert just between those pillowy petals. “Just like that, yes. Be a good girl for your wolf hmm.”

Iris freezes, lips parted slightly, allowing the tip of his length to slip past them with each thrust he gives himself. She whimpers softly as I growl above her, "Good girl, take my tip like that. Look how pretty your lips are stretching around my dick." I increase the pace, watching my cock head be tease by her lips. She moans, sending vibrations down to my balls, making him curse under his breath.

I fisted my cock, the stroking growing faster and faster. I couldn’t stop myself as I tread my fingers into those dark locks, her soft strands a reminder of how breakable and fragile this girl is despite her feistiness and disobedience. She laid there allowing me to do whatever I wanted, like I was to use her for my pleasure and not hers. Maybe she thinks I’ll hurt her again if she retaliated but I know this girl, even if its not to a point I would like. I know she wouldn’t just lay back and let herself be use like a motionless, helpless doll. No. Like the stab wound she gave me, Iris was no weakling. Not a victim. She would have done anything to escape from me, escape from this.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, I felt her palms massaging my thighs, urging me forward until her lips wrap snugly around my cock head. The flat of her tongue press against the slit, a pretty moan when I felt her lapping curiously to taste my pre coating that naughty appendage.

I hiss through clenched teeth as she takes the initiative, wrapping her hands around my thighs to pull me closer. Her warm breath tickles the sensitive tip as she explores the slit with her tiny pink tongue. "Lunichka, you're asking for trouble," I growl warningly, my voice hoarse. She ignores the warning, lapping at my pre-cum eagerly, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she tries to take more of me into her mouth.

See. This is enough of an invitation.

…Still.

“Tell me.” I demanded, groaning as I squeeze hard, not wanting to come undone until I hear her say those words. “Tell me I can-,”

“Yes…” Her soft voice breaks what little control I have. I grin widely at the permission given. That’s enough.  

My hand moves faster, abs tensing as I feel the familiar tingle at the base of my spine, the incoming wave of pleasure coiled about to be release. "Fuck, lunichka... I'm gonna come. Don’t you dare move. I gonna paint my cum all over that pretty face," I gave her a warning through gritted teeth, and she obediently follows, this little manic of mine. Instead of moving, she keeps those innocent eyes locked with his intense ones as she sucks me deeper, hollowing her cheeks out.

 That became my undoing.

I harshly growl as I pull my cock away, pumping my throbbing cock above her face as she watches me with glimmering eyes fill with lust and desperation.

“Open your mouth, Iris.” My tone harsh, demanding her to obey like the good girl I know she could be.

She does, all pink tongue in full display and clawing desperation as her nails bite into my thighs. I come undone under her spell.

With a roar, hot seed shoots out in thick, pulsing streams, filling her warm mouth completely and overflowing the sides. Cum splashes onto her open mouth and drips down her chin and neck, smearing her perfect face with sticky, white semen. She closes her eyes, her mouth remaining open to accept the offering, allowing the cum to drip down her throat and onto her chest, staining her clothes, hair and her every essence in all but name.

I pant heavily above her, my chest heaving as I try to catch my breath. Even Iris shares the same predicament as me, her breathing, though more subdued than mine, carries a quiet intensity—a rhythmic struggle that mirrors my own, as if we’re both locked in a dance with exhaustion, caught between desire and restraint.

I felt lightheaded, my legs trembling and my body languid after such intense release. This…was a first. It has never felt like this before. Usually, I wouldn’t find any comfort or satisfaction like this with other women—there was always something missing, some disconnect. But with her, everything was different. It wasn’t just physical; there was a depth, a sense of raw, unspoken connection that made my pulse race even as the heat slowly faded.

I look down at her, watching how my seed drips down her face like a white mask, staining her innocence in a way that felt almost symbolic, as if the weight of the moment had left an indelible mark—one that was both brutal and intimate, binding us together in a way nothing else could as we surround ourselves in the darkness of the wood. Anyone could have stumbled upon us, witnessing how I moved against her, driven by a primal hunger, as though consumed by the feral animal within.

What the fuck am I doing?

Have I been so lost in the chase that I’ve forgotten my responsibility and duties especially when tonight, right now at this very moment the initiation is still taking place. I have a role to play but I ignore it, even for a moment for this maniacal girl who is more trouble than I expected. She was gradually changing and ripping apart the rules I made for myself and she doesn’t even know it. I should have reminded myself of the time and place for such raw, uncivilized desire—yet here I was, consumed by it, unable to stop.

Should I care? I should.

Did I? No…I didn’t.

I had no energy in me to care if it meant she was right there for the taking, for my taking. Especially at the pretty sight she was making that made my cock again twitch in excitement. Fucking hell. She was making me think with my dick more than I like to.

Iris kept her eyes close, a string of cum hanging on her dark long lashes aside from the rest of the beautiful mess on her flushed face. Like I ordered, she had her mouth open, my come pulling in her mouth and tongue. Maybe I should take up photography like Killian. I wished I had a camera to capture this gorgeous, obscene image and immortalized it. Alas, my brain will do for now. This image will join with the rest of the ones I kept in my mind box.

I reach out a large, calloused finger to scoop some of the sticky fluid off her chin and bring it to her lips, pushing it inside as she, by instinct, close her mouth and wrap her lips around my finger.

“Swallow, lunichka.” And she does. Her throat moves almost sensually, swallowing the remnants of my essence into her body, guiding it down becoming one in a way that transcended just the physical.

I watch intensely as her throat moves, swallowing down every last drop of my cum. The sight so erotic—my seed disappearing into her body, becoming one with her—that I felt myself stirring again despite just finishing. A satisfied smirk makes an appearance, my thumb running gently across her come-smeared bottom lip. “Good girl, Iris.”

Her eyes slowly flutter open, gaze hazy almost as if she wasn’t with me in this moment but floating in a dream, caught between consciousness and something deeper, more intimate. And then…she gives me a smile, the sweetest and purest she’s ever directed at me. One that wasn’t disguised or guarded like the ones she given me before. This…this was just…

Something is wrong with me.

I shook my head, silently cursing myself for falling for such a sly ploy. This… girl. She was messing with my head, weaving her way into my thoughts with an ease that unsettled me. This shouldn’t have happened. This, this moment, this fucking moment with the chase, with the masks, with the fight to overcome and conquer one another until I have her under me writhing, desperate and then, then this.

I’ve lost control of myself because of Iris Reed and…and I feel so angry.

“Jeremy…” Her soft voice pierces through me, laced with confusion and worry, likely from my lack of response. Just the sound of it stirs something deep within me, and I react almost instinctively—drawn to her, compelled despite myself.

I don’t answer her, instead zip myself back and stand up from the ground together as I pull Iris to her feet. She stumbles into my chest, my arms halfway capturing her and bringing her close until my nose is press on top of her head, inhaling the scent that clings to her—florals and something nutty. A sweet smell, one I’ve been searching a name for.

“Jeremy-,”

“You shouldn’t be here.” I cut her off, my tone now one of controlled anger.

Stop saying my name lunichka. Stop calling my name, just stop.

I lean back to look at her face. She doesn’t even look guilty for getting caught especially when I told her this wasn’t her place to be. Of course, I expected something crazy from her like secretly climbing up the mansion to meet up with Annika but this, joining the fucking initiation? Hell, this woman was going to be the death of him.  

I use the bottom of my shirt to wipe off the excess come on her face that was beginning to dry, not caring if I soiled my shirt with my own jizz and ignoring her quiet complains as I treated her like a naughty child.

“Do you have any fucking idea what would happen if the others caught you? You are lucky it was me, lunichka or you would have been at their mercy, if they even had any.”

Iris lifts her chin, defiance flickering in her eyes despite the weight of my words. “And what would they have done?” Her voice is steady, but I catch the slight tremor beneath it. “Punish me? Kill me? I knew the risk.” She turns her face away from me and just from that small action of defiance, the ignoring, has my hackles raise. “I knew what I was getting into when I joined the initiation- “

“You weren’t officially invited, you stupid girl.” I exclaimed in frustration. “This isn’t the stage I set up for us.”

“Well, you’re all talk and no action. I was getting bored of your cryptic shit so I took matters into my own hands.” She huffs like a petulant child with her arms cross and if she wasn’t already pissing me off before, she is now.

She’s brave—too brave. It makes my jaw clench. She speaks as if she understands the consequences, but she doesn’t. Not truly.

I grab her chin harshly and turn her to face me, my voice lowering to something almost dangerous.” No, you don’t. If it had been them, you wouldn’t be standing here challenging me—you’d be broken. Or worse.”

“Well…you weren’t exactly a challenge.”

“Careful, lunichka,” I warn her, my voice carrying a steady calmness that makes Iris tense, the flicker of defiance in her eyes wavering as she realizes her mistake.

For a moment, silence stretches between us, thick with something unspoken. Then, I take a slow step forward until she steps back and lean against the tree, watching as she instinctively stiffens. “You think that was me at my worst?” I murmur, tilting my head. “You wouldn’t be standing if I really show you my worst.”

Hesitation flickers in her gaze, and I seize the moment to study her—taking in every crack in her armor, every unguarded detail she tries to hide. My eyes trace the subtle shifts in her expression, the way her breath hitches ever so slightly, the way her fingers curl as if bracing for whatever comes next. She wears defiance like a mask, but I can see it now—the fractures beneath, the vulnerabilities she doesn’t want me to find.

The physical marks I inflicted on her… they stand out against her skin, a stark contrast of bruised hues and reddened imprints. Faint crescents from where my fingers had dug in, a shadow of pressure along her wrists, the ghost of my touch lingering in the form of purpling reminders. The one that would make people definitely ask questions; the nasty bruised line on her throat when I press the golf club shaft down and the red line on her cheek. Each mark, a silent testament of this difficulty I have controlling myself around her.

Iris was a danger to herself, especially when that danger was me.

My fingers linger on her neck, tracing the bruises that are  beginning to darken. She shivers from my touch and I’m angry at how much that pleases me and how much I hate that I cause her pain.

She’s messing with me. I’m going crazy because of her. Poison, she’s poisoning my mind, my body, my blood. She is making me lose my own self-control.

I felt her touch gently grasping my fingers that were giving attention to her neck. Maybe it was an unconscious decision, but she presses my digits to her pulse point, a steady rhythm beneath my touch—calm yet betraying something deeper. A silent plea, a quiet surrender, or perhaps a challenge.

Iris looks at me, something in her gaze that I couldn’t decipher. The same gaze she gave me that night in the alley, a need that she herself was unable to identify. What did she want from me? I think even that was a question she found difficult to answer. And me, what did I seek from her?

She was about to say something, her lips parting, but the distinct crackle of the speakers echoing through the forest cuts her off.

“Number forty-one is eliminated.”

Instantly, her demeanor changes. Gone was the girl putty in my hand, giving me that lovely smile and looking at me as if I hang the stars and moon for her. Gone were the bright green eyes that seem alive and twinkling with mischief, replaced with the usual blank dull ones but this time panic fills them.

She starts moving away from me and I quickly grab her arm, not giving her a chance to escape. I should let her go, should let her leave, and just end this fucking mess I created in my head…but I can’t.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Saving a damn idiot.” She murmurs in irritation, tugging her arm but I kept a firm grip on it. “I need to go.”

“Let me guess, playing the knight in shining armor, little manic? Tough luck. You’re more of a damsel than knight and I’m not letting you leave.” I pull her close and whisper, my lips touch the delicate curve to her ear. Her scent is much stronger behind her ear. “You still have a few questions needing answers.”

“Huh? I don’t have time for this- whoa!”

Iris shouts out a string of profanities when I started carrying her like a sack of potato in one arm.

“What the hell, Jeremy?!”

 “Just behave and be a good girl, lunichka. I know you can, you just proved me minutes ago.” Iris tenses and growls, squirming in my arm and even kicking her legs, acting like a petulant brat, as per usual. “Iris, stop trying to escape.” I gruffly say as I pick up the golf club and our masks, wearing my original one instantly. I ordered her to wear hers in which she does with as much as a huff, her breath sharp with irritation. "You're impossible," she mutters under her breath, but the way she yanks the mask down over her face tells me she knows better than to argue—at least for now.

"Good girl," I murmur, my voice dripping with amusement as I adjust my grip on her. She might fight me, might curse me to hell and back, but we both know she isn't going anywhere.

"You're enjoying this way too much," she bites out, still wriggling, though there's a different kind of heat behind her resistance now.

I chuckle, low and knowing. "You say that like you aren’t."

“Go to hell,” she snaps, her fists pounding against my back, but there’s no real strength behind it—not enough to make me stop.

I chuckle, the sound low and taunting. “Already there, lunichka. And you’re coming with me.”

She growls again, another string of curses leaving her lips, but I barely pay her any mind as I move forward. The night is still young, and our game?

Far from over.

Chapter Text

This wasn’t how I expected it to go.

I stand under the shower, the hot water warming up my skin and washing away sweat, dirt, grime and any traces of Jeremy left on me. The sound of water hitting the tile floor bounces off the bathroom walls, the scent of citrus shower-gel (bergamot, a signature scent of Jeremy’s, I remind myself) clings to me like a second skin, the way I’m trying to breathe as I slowly count in my head; one, two, three, four…one, two, three, four… anything to ground myself, to keep from spiraling. My skin tingles from the heat, but it’s not just the water. It’s the memory of his hands, his voice, the weight of his presence still pressed into my bones.

I stand there motionlessly under the thundering water that deafens my surrounding, knuckles whitening, head bowed as I try to hold myself together.

The steam curls around me like a ghost, thick and suffocating, and I swear I can still hear his chuckle behind me. But he’s not here. I’m alone in my own thoughts, those voices leaving me to my own troubles when I surprisingly seek their haunted accusations and sugary lies to tell me otherwise, craving the sting of their judgment as if it could somehow absolve me of the guilt I refuse to name, to call me on my blunder.

One, two, three, four…

I ended the shower, stepping out from the wet area as I absently walk towards the sink, my fingers tremble as I press them against the cold edge of the marble. I let out a shudder, the water droplets clinging to me, the warmth slowly seeping away the more I stand there lost in the abyss of my mind.

One, two, three, four…

I open my eyes to my reflection the steam around me curling like ghosts, like secrets that refuse to stay buried. The mirror is fogged, my reflection nothing but a blurry silhouette—thank God. I don’t want to see the girl staring back.

I try again. One, two, three, four…

But the ache in my chest doesn’t ease. The memory of his touch, his voice, the way he sees right through me—it lingers. Like the bergamot. Like him.

And I hate that I don’t hate it.

‘I can still taste him.’

Shameless Helena. Pathetic Helena. Whorish Helena.

So easy to fall underneath a man you barely know. A man whose hands are soaked with blood and leaves a trail of bodies in his wake. A man who would gladly hurt me. He’s already proven himself in regards to it.

In a way, I don’t blame Jeremy for doing what he did. I always knew the nature of the man—danger wrapped in reason, control veiled in chaos. The cautious, logical part of me had screamed to stay away, to not make the same mistake others had. My gut warned me to steer clear, to avoid foolishness and let my brain, not my heart, lead the way like it always had in every unfavorable situation. I knew better… but I still walked straight into the fire.

My hand gently touches the harsh bruise across my neck, a sharp hiss eliciting from between my gritted teeth. Fuck, this hurts worse than the bite mark he gave me. It hurts to speak and as the adrenaline and lust wore off, a gnawing feeling claws into my chest, blooming with every seconds pass.

Guilt, shame…satisfaction.

I came here seeking an answer to this ever-growing presence he has over me. The need to have those dangerous, hungry eyes on me, to have my presence acting like stubborn deadly virus planted in his mind, to have me be an unwanted need at the end of the day.

In the end…did I win, or did I lose in this game of ours?

I haven’t found the answer yet. And the answer may very well lie with the man waiting for me outside this bathroom.  

Knock.

I snap out of my dazed state, blinking to clear the haze clouding my thoughts. Frowning doesn’t suit me—“Wrinkles!” Yvonne would chastise if she saw my face twisted like that. Even with an entire ocean between us, her words echo in my head like a stubborn mantra. I smooth out my expression, letting the calm mask settle back in place before quickly drying myself with a fluffy towel and slipping into the short sleeve t-shirt left out for me on the sink vanity, leaving the one I was originally wearing in a crumpled heap on the floor as I wore my cargo pants which were thankfully cum-stained free. These are my favorite pair, would be a shame to leave them in the beast’s care.

Taking a deep breath, I step out of the bathroom, letting the steam billow out behind me like a ghostly fog trailing my descent into something inevitable. And there he is—perched at the edge of the king-sized bed, elbows resting on his thighs, those storm-gray eyes locked onto me with a focus that sends a chill down my spine.

I stop myself from trembling, from showing Jeremy any slight of weakness from how just one mere look sends me into a certain doozy, a thrill that pools around my stomach.

He’s bad for me, Jeremy Volkov would ruin me if I let him. He would scar me for life and break every piece of my bone, carving his initials into the white surface as he lets me bleed before throwing me out to be left for the others to tear what little, scrap of meat is left on me. I have to stay away…yet my feet move and bring myself to stand in between his legs where the scent of citrus and wood grows more potent.

Intoxicating.

My head grows woozy that my hands move to place themselves on his broad shoulders to balance myself from the fall. Strong, firm, all coiled up in one beastly being. I’m very much aware I’m touching him, feeling the grooves of his muscles, how they flex and curl under my palms. How utterly warm he is. Is it my subconsciousness want to move, to touch, to have him near? How despite all the scolding I tell myself to stay far from Jeremy Volkov with those dark voices encouraging me so, I still can’t bring myself to turn away from him.

“You waited for little old me?” My fingers gently graze the small nail marks I left on him. It’ll heal but like how he intends to keep the bite mark on me a permanent, the darkness that has always been in me does to, as I return the favor scratching my nails deeper at the same place just below his nape, right at the hollow space between his neck and shoulder.

Jeremy groans deep, a sound so utterly animalistic that I want so much to go down on my knees and nuzzle my cheek on his thigh, looking up and being obedient. To appease, to submit, to please my very own beast that has always lay dormant, craving full submission to the one who deserves them. Just for him, I just want to make it all good for him.

His hands slide to my waist, warm and firm—a grounding weight that pulls me back to the present. I should flinch, should push him away, but I don’t. I can’t. Because part of me wants to lean in, to pretend that this touch doesn’t scare me, that it doesn’t make something twist painfully in my chest. It feels too much like comfort, and I don’t know if I deserve that.

“If I don’t, you’ll probably snoop and get yourself into more trouble.” He turns and noses my wrist, inhaling deep, murmuring words I could barely hear. A gasp escapes my lips when he pulls me in, face planted to my stomach over the shirt he gave me, the loose collar slipped down one shoulder, trailing warmth in its wake as his eyes followed. “I prefer having you where I can see, lunichka.”

His fingers play with the edge of the black shirt, leaving a trail of heat where the pads of his fingers touch, nosing my belly as he slowly pushes them up to reveal my stomach, mouthing at the unblemished skin while his eyes still gaze up to mine. Grays clashing with greens in this tension that electrifies us from the very first touch.

“There’s nothing to snoop.” I quip in which he gruffly responds with biting and nibbling me like he had all the time in the world. I roll my eyes at him, looking at the bare room of white he brought me to. I can’t fucking believe this is the esteem Jeremy ‘The Overlord’ Volkov’s room. “Ain’t worth anything to take here.”

“Except the bed.” A sly smile makes its way to his lips, curving at the corner. “Worth your time at least.” He implies with a rare impish tone while his hands trail up, moving to my back which I momentarily stiffen before brushing his hands off with practiced ease, stepping back and ignoring the lost warmth. I ignore the disgruntled confusion he directs me with, acting casual as I hum softly to myself, looking around his room. Really Jeremy, a little decorating wouldn’t hurt.

“What’s your favorite color?” Jeremy gives me an unimpressed look at such childish question. Hey, if playing 20 questions makes him talk and lets me get to know the enigmatic, control-freak, I wouldn’t mind being a hellion about it. “Mine’s green.” The nerve of this guy to scoff and say “Predictable.”

He pulls my arm to sit on his lap, ignoring how I squirm and wiggle. Jeremy growls and makes me sit properly on him, holding my arms so I stay put in place. I ignored the hardness of his groin pressing against me, just right above my ass as I deliberately planted myself on top of it, earning another warning growl vibrating from his chest with his lips grazing my right ear. I internally snicker because yep, menace.

“Careful, or you’ll get more than just cum on your face and the taste of it on your tongue.”He crudely says, whispering into my ear before nipping the delicate cartilage. “I won’t be gentle this time, lunichka.”

Fuck me…who am I kidding. I like the damn attention he’s giving me. Give it.

And maybe I like the danger. (Of fucking course I do. I live and breathe for it ever since I first stepped onto my father’s estate; cue me dragging Remi into the initiation despite knowing full well what that would cost). I obviously love the thrill that comes wrapped in barbed wire, the kind of fun that cuts deep and leaves you breathless. He might kill me if he finds out who I am—maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll smile, that slow, cold smile of his, and thank me before he wraps his hands around my neck. Depends on whether the New York Bratva has any old, rotting vendettas tucked away against the Nachtnebel Clan.

As far as I know, the last time our people crossed paths, the Bratva sent our predecessors crawling back to Germany with broken pride and blood-soaked knees. We were ghosts by the time we crossed the border, remnants of a war we couldn’t win.

So yeah, maybe Jeremy wouldn’t kill me.

But I wouldn’t bet my life on it.

And I’m a masochist for what Jeremy has in store for me. Its not like this thing between us would last. I doubt he wants anything to do with me after he gets what he wants. And I don’t expect anything from him except prolonging this game between us. Also, of course, to satisfy my curiosity over this man who I only know from the start his name.

I ignore the feeling of safety that tries to bloom in my chest—soft, unwelcome, and so dangerously deceitful. It’s not real. It never is with anyone, definitely not Jeremy. That warmth, that sense of being held like I matter, it’s a trap. A beautifully constructed illusion meant to confuse me, lull me, maybe even break me.

His breath fans against the shell of my ear, low and steady, and I feel the rumble of his voice in my spine as he says, “You didn’t answer mine either.”

God, he’s infuriating. And worse? A part of me—some traitorous, pathetic part—likes that he holds me like I belong to him.

“And which one is that?”

“Who did you get a Heathen’s invitation from?”

Oh…that. Do I have to answer that?

From the hard squeeze he has on me when I went quiet for a second too long, yep, I have to.

“From an…acquaintance. You know, you should really tighten up security for the identification when you host the next initiation because really Volkov, its kind of amateurish, even for you. I didn’t think the Heathen’s standard when it comes to security was that low.” I taunted, trying to get a rise out of him  and change the topic but Jeremy is impassive as ever, his silence speaking louder than any outburst. His grip tightens just a fraction more, enough to make my breath catch without fully hurting me—a warning. His chin drops slightly, gray eyes boring into mine with a glint that sends ice down my spine. Not angry. Not annoyed. Calculating.

He’s already dissecting my lie, peeling back the layers like he always does until there’s nothing left but the raw, exposed truth.

“You’re deflecting,” he murmurs, voice too calm. Too still. “That little mouth of yours always runs faster when you’re hiding something.”

I scoff, masking the unease rising in my throat. “Maybe I just enjoy the sound of my own voice.”

“And maybe I’ll find out exactly who slipped you that invitation… whether you tell me or not.”

The threat lingers, quiet and lethal.

I force a smirk. “What are you gonna do? Torture it out of me?”

His lips barely twitch—just enough to send a chill down my spine. “Wouldn’t be the first time, lunichka.”

Fucking hell…that is so hot.

“Is it wrong of me to want to see you act on it?” I don’t know where the eagerness in me comes from (liar, you know where it came Helena) but I was already leaning into it—into him. Like some fool craving the flame, knowing damn well I’d get burned.

His hand slides up, slow and possessive, wrapping around the side of my neck. Not tight. Not yet. Just a promise.

“You think you can handle what you’re asking for?” he says, voice dark and low, brushing against the shell of my ear like a sin waiting to happen.

I swallow, barely.

“Try me.”

And maybe I’m reckless. Maybe I’m starved for something—danger, pain, him. But in this moment, I don’t care. Not when his thumb is dragging over my pulse and his breath is dipping lower like a wolf savoring the moment before the bite.

He laughs, a deep, low, beautiful laugh that sends a warm thrill that makes me want to bottle the sound and keep it hidden in my chest, like a secret only I get to have.

It’s the kind of laugh that shouldn’t belong to someone like him—someone with blood on his hands and shadows in his eyes—but here it is, disarming and reckless and utterly unfair.

And me? I’m sitting on his lap staring right at him, heart tripping over itself, wanting to lean closer, to chase that sound again just to see if he’ll gift it to me one more time.

“Maybe next time.” He presses his thumb to the harsh bruise across my neck, a hiss of pain escapes pulling me down from my high. I glare at him, slapping his hand away while he watches me with a hint of mischief in those gray eyes that spells trouble. “We should focus on you answering my question and maybe,” Again, his hand reaches to my neck but this time the touch is…gentle. Just a lingering touch for the purpose to remind me he’s in control. Not hurting, not soothing, just present—like a claim made without words.

His thumb grazes the bruise with agonizing tenderness, and for a fleeting moment, I forget the threat laced in his voice, the weight of the question still unanswered.

“Maybe,” he murmurs, gaze flicking to my lips before returning to my eyes, “if you behave, I’ll make it feel good next time.”

My breath catches, not from fear—but from the sheer, wicked promise that slithers between us like smoke.

“Promises, promises.” I breathe out shakily, internally scolding myself for showing weakness to Jeremy, for letting him see how affected I am when it comes to him.

Stupid Helena, thinking with your pus-…ok, we get it. Let's not be too obvious about it.

“Yeah, let's put torture on the back burner.” I murmur, looking away from his intense gaze because if I continue to do so, looking into those eyes, the more I fall into his spell. I’m already haunted by my nightmares, I don’t need his presence crowding in my mind and joining the rest of the voices in taunting my sanity. They’re already loud enough—memories, regrets, screams I’ve buried beneath years of silence. I don’t need him in there too, slinking through the cracks and setting up camp in places I’ve desperately tried to keep empty.

Jeremy doesn’t say anything at first, just studies me with that unreadable expression that always makes me feel stripped bare. I thought he would continue with this fortunate silence as he held me, which I’m surprisingly quite comfortable where I am, until he insists again and again while he massages my hips (god, that feels good) who gave me the invite.

“You’re relentless.” I grumble, focusing on the bare white wall room instead of his hands on me, ignoring the scent of him invading my space, oblivious towards his breath tickling my ear, nonchalant at the satisfied rumble of his chest like the cat who got the cream. “It was Eli. Eli King, you know Creighton’s older brother, my Econs classmate-“

“Part of the Elites. I know, lunichka.” He grumbles, but this time, the pet name comes out sharp mocking, edged with something darker. Possessiveness, maybe. Jealousy, definitely.

His grip on my waist tightens ever so slightly, enough to remind me of the power he holds, the irritation simmering just beneath his calm. I finally risk a glance at him, and the look he gives me is nothing short of venomous. Possessive. Dangerous.

“I saw, I knew. You’ve been talking to him?” He says, the question barely more than a growl now, as if just saying Eli’s name leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “He always did have a habit of sniffing around things that weren’t his.” The venom in his voice is barely veiled. “Did he touch you?”

Confusion was probably apparent on my expression because he basically admitted to watching me. Was he fucking watching me from somewhere? “I spoke to him, Volkov and it's hard not to when we partnered together for an assignment. That’s all.” I snap back, but it comes out too soft. Too defensive.

I feel his jaw tick, feel the shift in his body like a storm rolling in.

“Did he touch you?” Again he asks, the Russian accent rolls out smooth, yet thunderous showing how enrage he is at my dismissal despite the neutrality of his tone.

And he took my silence as an answer to what he thought.

His eyes narrow. “Next time he even breathes in your direction, I’ll make sure he forgets how.”

My eyes widen at his firm declaration. His reaction towards Eli is definitely unnecessary, apparently Jeremy doesn’t think so. Is that…jealousy I’m hearing?

“You’re being very silly. Eli-“

“And you don’t owe him enough to be walking around with his name in your mouth.” Jeremy growls, his eyes sharpen, the threat hanging between us spelling trouble if I step out of line. The hand around my neck slowly reaches upwards, his thumb and forefinger pinching my chin forcing me to stare into those dark grays, a tornado of fury hidden in them. Daring me to look away. “I should have let my cum soak into your skin. Let them know how I marked you both outside and inside, let the scent of my cum linger on you until the notion itself integrates into this little manic brain of yours. Let everyone know you’re mine. Because you’re mine, aren’t you Iris? You’re just fucking stubborn to admit it at this point.”

God, he was jealous. Violently so. And the worst part? A dark part of me liked it.

My lips quirk in amusement, unable to help the smug satisfaction curling in my chest. I tilt my head slightly, watching his jaw tick with restrained frustration, and I lean in just enough for him to feel the heat of my breath.

“What, Volkov?” I murmur, voice laced with wicked delight. “Don’t like the idea of me being close to someone else?”

His eyes flash—a storm of gray lightning—and I barely have time to brace myself before he grabs my chin, tilting my face up to his.

“You’re mine, lunichka,” he growls, low and lethal. “And if anyone else thinks otherwise, I’ll make sure they regret ever looking in your direction.”

My breath catches.

God help me… I think I’m falling. Well, falling in a way that is in no way related to the big L because that’s just asking for trouble to come. No siree, Bob. Nope.

I take in a much-needed breath. “Color…”

He gives me a beautiful, confuse look and I laugh softly at that as I gently pat his face, my fingers brushing over the sharpness of his jaw.

“Favorite color, Volkov. Do keep up.” I quip cheekily to his annoyance since I change the topic again. Yes, I have avoidance issues that do not need to be dissected at this moment. Or any day. Or forever.

“I don’t have one.” He gruffly answers, nipping my finger in warning. Yep. Like a dog this one.

“Everyone has one.”

“I don’t.” God this stubborn ass.

“Humor me.”

Jeremy doesn’t respond right away. He just stares at me for a long, heavy moment, like he’s trying to see past the deflection, through the cracks I so carefully hide. I shrug, dropping my hand from his face, but not before trailing my fingers down the line of his neck like I wasn’t purposefully trying to distract him from the boiling tension between us, before going back to touching his jaw, to his face, just...admiring the charming beauty of this beast.

Jeremy narrows his eyes, clearly unimpressed but also—if I’m not mistaken—mildly amused. That twitch of his lip gives him away.

“Black,” he answers flatly.

I snort. “How very original of you. Let me guess—because it’s the color of your soul?”

He tilts his head, fingers brushing his lips in thought. “No. Because it hides blood well.”

I blink, and then—laugh. Loudly. “God, you’re such a walking cliché.”

He goes silent as he stares at me, his eyes slightly widened, as if the sound of my laughter struck something deep—an epiphany blooming quietly behind those stormy irises. Like he’s just realized something he hadn’t meant to feel, something that snuck up on him without warning. His gaze softens, almost reverent, and for a fleeting second, the ever-cold Jeremy Volkov looks… unguarded.

It unnerves me more than any threat he’s ever made.

Damn him. Damn me.

I cough slightly, my throat hurting from laughing so hard. God, what I would do for a cough drop. I think I kept a handful in the pocket of my cargo pants—those lemon ones I’m never without. I always hoarded the damn things, like they were emotional support candy.

“Don’t tell me I’ve finally broken you,” Jeremy murmurs, the amused edge to his voice returning. His eyes are back to that lazy, observant sharpness—as if he’s memorizing the way I unravel piece by piece.

“You wish,” I mutter, turning my back to him and digging through my pockets. My fingers curl around the familiar wrapper, and I sigh in triumph as I pop the candy in my mouth.

Jeremy’s lip twitch. “Cute.” He says in that dead-pan voice of his.

I roll my eyes. “You know, for a supposed menace of the underworld, you talk a lot of shit.”

He moves closer, closer than we are now as I felt him hook his chin to my shoulder, pulling me into his chest, the heat of his body seeping into my back. “And for someone who calls me a cliché, you laugh like I’m your favorite punchline.”

That… shuts me up.

And he knows it.

“Favorite band?” I softly say, my fingers playing with the veins of his arms, admiring the way they pulse beneath my touch—strong, steady, grounding me in a moment that feels dangerously intimate. “Mine’s Arctic Monkeys, Muse, Green Day and…hmm, The 1975 if I’m in a shitty day.” I direct him a cheeky grin. “And Elvis, the Eagles and Gun N’ Roses cause of my gramps.”

His brows twitch in surprise, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, his lips curl into something that’s almost a smile.

“You ask the strangest questions at the strangest times,” he mutters, his voice low and rough, but there’s no real bite behind it. Just curiosity. Just… him, letting me in, little by little.

He hums a bit, eyes close as if remembering a distant dream.

“I don’t have a specific band…but my father, he let me into his office when I was barely reaching his hip and on those rare moments, Hotel California would be playing on the record.” Jeremy begins telling me, a certain fondest in his voice when he recalls back to his childhood memory. softening the usual edge in his tone. “He enjoys the classical you see, a tribute to my mother who is fond of the symphonies. So it was not often for me to hear him listen to something other than Beethoven, Vivaldi, Tchaikovsky or Shostakovich.”

He pauses, eyes still closed. “But on those rare days,” he continues, voice softer now, “when he wasn’t buried in ledgers or barking orders, he’d sit back in his leather chair, pour a glass of whiskey or his favorite vodka, and let the Eagles fill the room like a secret only I was allowed to witness. That song... it felt like rebellion, like a crack in the walls of his fortress.”

He opens his eyes then, meeting my gaze. “I used to think it meant something—that he wanted more than power and bloodlines. Maybe he did. Or maybe it was just a song.” The faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips. “I didn’t understand the lyrics back then. Not fully. But something about the melody stuck with me. It felt… freeing, in a way. Like the world outside that office didn’t exist.”

There’s a pause, his gaze softer than I’m used to. “Strange, isn’t it? Out of all things, a rock song would be what I associate with peace.”

I swallow thickly, caught off guard by the glimpse he’s given me. “Not strange,” I murmur. “Just… human.”

“Human enough to forget I could hurt you, little manic?” he murmurs, the softness in his voice now laced with something darker—more dangerous. His thumb brushes over my knuckles, almost tenderly, but there’s tension in the way he holds my hand… like he’s remembering who he is, what he’s capable of.

I don’t flinch. I don’t pull away. I meet his eyes, steady and defiant even with the goosebumps rising along my arms. “You haven’t hurt me,” I say quietly. “Not really.”

“Well…I guess I’ll just have to work harder to scare you enough to stay away.”

“Would you…scare me off, Jeremy?” I ask him, my mind and heart conflicting with one another because I know I should stay away but my actions so far have proven that I’m incapable of following through what I say with what I do. Contradicting everything so far and failing miserably at staying away at the being call Jeremy Volkov.

Jeremy probably feels the same way. He looks at me, trying to find a semblance of something to pull him back, to break this spell between us, to make me disappear from his sight once and for all. His lips part slightly, almost as if he’s about to say something that would push me away, but his silence speaks louder than any words ever could.

Instead of answering, he just holds me. He buries his face to my hair and holds me as if I was his last lifeline. That was enough of an answer.

Better to say nothing than risk saying something that would shatter the fragile balance we’ve somehow created. I can’t believe it’s only been days since we crossed paths, and yet, here I am, already inching closer to his trap—whether he’s aware of it or not. And that’s the problem. I’m starting to like it. But I don’t want to. Not yet. Not when the silence between us is so suffocating, thick enough to make my heart race faster with every passing second.

And I do what I do best.

I talk.

“Your room is so empty.” I loudly proclaim to his surprise and I continue blabbering nonsense, uncaring of his confusion as he looks at me like I lost my mind. “You know what, you should paint the walls. Bring a bit of color because blank, boring white walls just reminds me of an asylum.” Reminds me too much of when Midas stayed at the psych ward. I never want to see that again. “You should paint it orange like your mask! I think I read that orange often associated with emotions like joy, warmth, and happiness which honestly, you kind of need it Jeremy. I can’t believe Annika is related to you. You hardly smile.” Maybe I could make you smile more. “Maybe you should paint the walls darker since you like black, like blood orange or a deeper hue shade. And books! You have to put shelves of books and maybe start collecting vinyls or cds so you can start a collection of music, and carpet cause-“

I kept chattering up a storm, filling in the silence I usually crave. Most days, I long for calm—for the quiet that helps drown out the voices that darken my thoughts. Silence is my refuge, my fragile escape. When the noise in my head stills, it’s a blessing. A rare one. So I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut, to preserve that illusion of peace. But silence was a double-edged sword—comforting in its stillness, yet cruel in how loud it made everything else inside me feel.

Like now, I don’t want to be quiet if it meant Jeremy would make that face—as if he was in anguish at the very thought of me pulling away, slipping through his fingers like smoke. His brows drawn, jaw clenched, that storm of conflict brewing in his eyes… God, it made something sharp twist in my chest.

I didn’t want to be the cause of that look. Not from him.

So I speak. Even if my voice trembles. Even if the words feel like they might betray me. Because silence, in this moment, feels crueler than anything I could ever say.

I don’t know how long I talk, what I was saying as I kept blabbering out words until they become jumbled up and I’m not sure where I’m leading this conversation to. I’m embarrassing myself and it looks pathetic, me trying to appease Jeremy, trying to smoothen the frown on his face.

But when I hear the soft chuckle against my neck and feel how his body trembles with it, I think—maybe, just maybe—I did something right.

“You talk a lot, Iris,” he murmurs, the words brushing warmly against my skin like a secret only we’re allowed to share. “But for once, I don’t mind listening. Its growing on me.”

And just like that, I forget what silence ever felt like.

***

Leaning against the doorframe, Jeremy watches me walk away from the entrance of the Heathen’s mansion. I didn’t know how long we were inside his bedroom but by the time I heard the announcement from the speaker announcing the end of the initiation, I knew our time ended. Apparently, he had stayed the entire time with me during the initiation and I asked him why and he simply said, “Because if I left, you’d disappear.”

His words had been so quiet, so offhand, that I almost thought I imagined them. But I didn’t. Jeremy Volkov, with all his cold control and brutal silence, had chosen to stay.

Even now, leaning there with his arms crossed and that unreadable look on his face, I could feel the weight of his presence like a tether around my ankle—anchoring me, dragging me back to him whether I wanted to go or not.

So here I am forcing myself not to look back as I walk away, wearing his large hoody that smells entirely of him over the shirt he gave me with the smell of medicine around my neck, the salve easing the bruise around my neck that has been throbbing in a way I couldn’t ignore the pain.

He kept my face down with the hoody covering me when he lead me downstairs as we encountered the rest of the Heathens. I caught a quick glance of them, all four in the grand living room lounging like kings in their court, bruised and bloodied, but very much alive with that dangerous spark still dancing in their eyes. One young man holding a white-neon mask had a busted lip and a cigarette dangling from his fingers with Killian beside him lighting up his own cancer stick in between his lips with a calm elegance surrounding him. Nikolai was shirtless for some reason, his knuckles red-raw from the fights he gone through with the initiates I reckon, and Gareth had a cup of tea, somehow untouched by the chaos. They all looked up when they saw us—when they saw me—but no one said a word.

Not a joke. Not a whistle. Not even a cocky smirk.

That silence was loud. Deafening.

And yet, Jeremy didn’t falter. He just kept walking, his hand tight on my shoulder like a quiet warning: stay close, don’t look up, don’t break.

And I didn’t.

Even now, with each step I take further from the mansion, my heart beats in time with that memory. I don’t know what it means. I don’t know what he means. But I know this—he didn’t hide me from them out of shame. No, it was protection. Possessiveness.

And something worse. Something terrifying.

Claim.

I hug myself, controlling the shiver of something I refuse to name—whether it’s the cold, the fading adrenaline, or the ghost of his touch still clinging to my skin like a brand. My fingers dig into the sleeves of his hoodie, inhaling the scent that clings to the fabric: citrus, wood, smoke, and something distinctly him.

I shouldn’t crave it. I shouldn’t feel this hollow ache from just walking away.

But I do.

God help me, I do.

I rush towards where the cars were park, hoping that Remi was there. Now that I was away from Jeremy, worried thawed in my chest at the very thought of Remi getting hurt during the initiation. When his number was called, my heart stopped and I would have gotten to my friend despite no knowing his exact location but then Jeremy happened and then, well…that happened.

Yes, I admit, I was distracted and I feel fucking guilty for leaving Remi to fend for himself despite the guy giving me a chance to escape when we encountered the person with the white-neon mask. Remi had aggravated them and was able to distract the person to chase after him. If there was a bruise or scar on my friend, if Remi got hurt…I didn’t know what to do with myself to make it up to him.

As I got close to the Porsche, I see a tall figure sitting on the hood of the car, tapping their foot to the ground as they bite the nail of their thumb. I brighten up when I recognize who and my steps grew faster.

“Remi!” I called out his name in which Remi looks up and is relieve upon having his eyes on me. We met halfway and Remi holds me up and spins me before dragging me into a tight hug. I could feel him trembling while he holds me, the unfamiliar smell of cigarettes lingering on his clothes which confuses me since so far I know Remi doesn’t smoke.

"Sacré bleu, I was so worried you crazy lunatic! I kept calling your phone but you didn’t pick up. Where have you been?”

His voice is muffled against my shoulder, thick with a French accent and something dangerously close to panic. I pull back just enough to look at him—his brows furrowed, lips pressed into a hard line, and his eyes roaming over me as if trying to convince himself I’m really here, in one piece.

“I’m okay,” I whisper, and for the first time, I let myself believe it too—at least enough to say it out loud.

Remi’s hands tighten around my arms. “No, you’re not,” he says firmly, eyes flicking to the faint bruise still peeking from the edge of my hoodie. His jaw clenches. “Who did this to you?”

I don’t answer right away.

I fidget with the string of the hoody, recalling back my encounter with Jeremy during the initiation in the wood and the sexual moment between us to his decision to bring me inside the mansion to his room and how we talk during that whole time. How he acts with me as the leader of the Heathens differ to how he was with me privately.

Even so, its exciting to get to know two sides of Jeremy Volkov.

“The hurdles you go through during the initiation.” I give him a lazy shrug, my lips curve into a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “Things get a little rough. You know how it is—mind games, dominance, intimidation… the usual culty theatrics.”

Remi doesn’t buy it—not for a second. His brows pull together, his expression stormy and suspicious. “Bullshit,” he mutters. “You’re avoiding the question.” I hate myself for being dishonest. But how do I even begin to explain Jeremy Volkov? The danger that coils around him like smoke. The obsession. The pull.

I glance away, pretending to fix the sleeve of the hoodie Jeremy gave me, the fabric still carrying his scent. It’s ridiculous how much comfort it offers and how much guilt it brings.

“I’m fine, Remi,” I say softly, trying to ease the tension. “I got through it, didn’t I?” I say quietly, tugging my sleeves down like that could somehow erase what I went through. What I let happen. What I wanted to happen.

Remi sighs, eyes flicking away like he’s trying to rein in his temper. “We’re talking about this later. All of it.”

And for once, I don’t argue.

“Did you have fun at least?” I tentatively asks him, chirping to lighten the mood as the both of us got into his car. A stupid question with an obvious answer but hey, I’ve always been one to never shy away from awkward and tense situations.

The look on Remi could be said to be one of regret and utter weariness, and I notice how he winces when he grips the steering wheel a little too tightly—his knuckles turning pale. That wince is…concerning. He has his sleeves down and button to the wrists when he had them folded to the elbows the whole time I was with him before the initiation started.

“When your friend disappears in the middle of a psychotic initiation, while masked lunatics run around like it’s The Purge?” he mutters, eyes flicking to me briefly with a scowl. “Yeah, Iris, I had loads of fun.”

I wince at that, shrinking a little in my seat but still managing a sheepish smile. “Right. Dumb question.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head before starting the engine. “You’re lucky I love you, you know that?”

“Awww~ Remi, you love me?” I tease him with a cutesy voice and that earns me at least a twitch from his lips.

The word “sorry” hovered just on the tip of my tongue, but I held it back, uncertain if it could ever make up for dragging him into this hellhole—when he could have been safe at that house party, lost in a threesome with those two girls, as safe as any person practicing safe sex can be. The truth is, sorry isn’t enough… but as a purple princess once told me—a believer in friendship is magic, and the power of honest communication—it’s a start.

“I’m sorry, Remi. I shouldn’t have made you come with me.”

My voice is low, almost swallowed by the hum of the engine, but I know he hears it.

He doesn’t respond right away. Just keeps driving, eyes fixed on the road ahead, jaw tight like he’s holding back everything he wants to say.

Finally, he exhales, not quite a sigh, more like a quiet surrender. “You didn’t make me do anything. I chose to follow you, Iris. You’re my friend—where else would I be?”

His voice softens toward the end, and it twists something in my chest. He barely knows me and he’s already calling me a friend. My heart flutters warmly. Is this what it feels like to have a friend?

“But,” he adds, glancing over at me, “next time you decide to sneak into a literal death cult initiation, maybe give me a heads up before I have to play Batman in the woods, yeah?”

I huff a laugh despite myself. “Deal.”

The both of us laugh it out, releasing all the pent-up tension, anger, and unsaid words that had been building like a pressure cooker inside us. In that moment, the weight of everything—our fears, regrets, and the madness of the night—seems to lift, if only for a fleeting heartbeat.

It’s not pretty or graceful—Remi’s laugh cracks halfway through, and mine is more breathless than anything—but it’s real.

He glances over at me, eyes still shining with concern beneath the smile. “Next time you drag me into your insane plans, at least promise there won’t be any masked psychopaths involved?”

I grin. “No promises.”

He rolls his eyes and goes straight back to minding the road, leaving us in this comfortable silence with only the music of the radio filling in the space. This gives me a chance to observe Remi, noticing little bits of detail that weren’t there before we stepped foot on the initiation ground.

“So~ who eliminated you?” I tease, but the question is wrong from the start—his body tenses the moment the words leave my lips. Remi’s handsome face twists into a deep frown, and I catch him muttering curses under his breath. After a heavy pause, he answers, grudgingly.

“The white mask psycho…” he hisses, his tone laced with a venom I’ve never heard from the usually cheery, goofy Remi.

“Oh…mines the orange one.” That’s the truth, of course. It isn’t as if I’m blatantly confessing that Jeremy Volkov was the one hunting me tonight. I’m not entirely sure Remi caught on to the identities behind those masks either.

“Did he do that to you?” Chin lifted slightly pointing towards my hidden bruised neck and the bandaid on my cheek where Jeremy’s golf club nick me.

I shrug, forcing a nonchalant smile despite the sting. “Maybe. Probably, but that’s expected in the Heathen’s initiation. They warned us beforehand didn’t they. Its’s a game.”

He narrows his eyes, a mix of concern and barely contained fury simmering beneath their depths. “Games aren’t supposed to leave scars, Iris,” he murmurs.

I bite my lip, feeling the weight of his words even as I try to laugh it off. “Maybe not. But maybe some of us can’t help but enjoy playing with fire—even if it burns.”

“He hurt you, Iris.” Remi stresses.

“I let him,” I murmur before I can stop myself.

The car falls into a heavy silence. Even the engine seems to hush.

Remi’s eyes bore into me like he’s trying to read between the lines. But I don’t give him more. I can’t. Not yet.

Not when I still don’t know how I feel about the monster who touched me like I was something precious, right before he bared his fangs.

Changing the subject, I point to his bruised lip, swollen at the bottom. “Did the white mask guy do that to your lip? It looks-“

“You have your secrets, I have mine.” He smiles at me, deflecting with that familiar charm, but there’s something tight around the edges of his eyes that gives him away.

Still, I let it slide.

He reaches over to ruffle my hair treating me like a kid, as if that will erase the weight lingering between us. “You should see the other guy,” he adds, trying to tease.

I snort. “Right. I’m sure he’s crying in a corner somewhere because Lord Remington Astor punched him in the face.”

Remi grins at that, the tension easing just a little. “Damn straight.”

But even as we joke, I can’t help but notice how he avoids meeting my eyes… and how he hasn’t told me everything either.

There’s a story there. Just like there’s one in the bruise he saw on me.

Secrets. We’re both drowning in them. And for now, that’s the closest thing to honesty we can offer each other.

“Promise not to tell the rest of the rugrats the kind of hell we went through?” I grin, nudging his arm playfully, though there’s a weight behind my words that I don’t bother hiding.

Remi snorts, but there’s no humor in it. “Please. Like they’d believe half of it anyway.”

I laugh softly, letting the sound fade into the hum of the engine as the car pulls onto the road, both of us carrying more than we left with, but choosing—for now—not to unpack it.

***

My room has a balcony facing TKU’s large field, giving me a front-row seat to the ever-changing canvas of campus life—joggers in the early morning mist, lovers sneaking kisses behind trees, and the occasional chaos of an impromptu soccer match breaking out under the afternoon sun.

It’s quiet now, the moon casting silver light across the grass, making everything feel distant, almost dreamlike—like the calm after a storm, or the moment before another one begins.

I can’t sleep. Well, that’s usual for me but today’s event keeps playing in my mind, a background noise silencing the voices that fortunately stays dormant at this point in time. It’s a cold night, but I’m used to it. Its better than camping in the woods with only a backpack of the necessities and the clothes on my back while taking shelter under the rain. Good times. I snuggle into the large hoody, smelling Jeremy’s scent lingering on the fabric as warmth seeps into me.

Tonight was…interesting. Intense. Exhilarating.

I guess getting chased through the woods is something I’m into now. Who would’ve thought?

It’s sick, really—how my heart races just thinking about it. The adrenaline, the way the trees blurred past me, how every snapped twig could’ve meant something worse. And then him. The predator in the shadows with that wicked smirk and sharp gray eyes. Jeremy Volkov.

Maybe I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I like that edge of danger too much. Or maybe… I’ve just finally met someone who speaks the same twisted language as me.

I lick my lips, recalling the taste of Jeremy. God I can still taste him…I love it.

I need a distraction…

My phone, still on silent, vibrates in the pocket of my basketball shorts. I pull it out and smile at the ID caller, answering it instantly.

“Not asleep yet, papa? You know, you’re not getting any younger. Sleep is very important to old men like you.” I tease, the German words slipping easily from my tongue, coated in affection and just the right amount of sass to earn an exasperated sigh from the other end.

“Ach, meine kleine Nervensäge,” Oh, my little nuisance. He grumbles fondly, and I can picture him now—lounging in his favorite leather chair, cigar untouched in the ashtray, probably nursing a glass of scotch he’s been ‘cutting back on’ for the past ten years. “Should I not be asking you the same question? Still giving your old man grief, I see.”

“Wouldn’t be me if I didn’t,” I reply, grinning to myself, warmth blooming in my chest despite the chill of the night.

He chuckles, voice deep and warm through the speaker. “Always so mouthy. I should’ve taught you more discipline instead of letting myself be wrapped around your pinky.”

I giggle, leaning slightly forward on the railing of the balcony, eyes drifting to the vast, starry sky. “You would’ve failed anyway. I was born to be a menace.”

He hums, simply agreeing. My father, one who doesn’t waste words when silence does the job just fine, lets the comfort of his presence settle between us. He’s always been like this—stoic in voice, but steadfast in care. A man who loved through action, not declarations, despite how cold and impassive he might be.

I close my eyes, letting the familiar cadence of his breathing through the line soothe me. “I missed hearing your voice.” I admit quietly, not quite ready to say more, to admit how close I’d felt to shattering tonight.

“I’m always here.” He says, simply, and somehow that’s enough.

There’s a pause, a beat of silence that stretches before his voice softens. “You okay?”

My smile falters just a little. “Yeah,” I lie, “just thinking too much.”

“As always.”

“Genetics, right?” I murmur, letting his laughter roll over me like a blanket I didn’t know I needed. “Sorry I haven’t call much. Got busy with university and lost my head a bit with everything. Its…overwhelming.” Because it is despite how much I treat it with the same aloofness I’m usually known for.

“All new experiences are, blümchen. Especially when you are in a new country. I still think it would have better if you took your masters here, closer to home and the family.”

“You’re the one who told me I should gain new experiences.” I remind him with a soft smile, twirling the drawstring of the hoodie in my fingers. “You can’t give fatherly advice and then be upset when I follow it.”

He chuckles again, that deep, warm sound that somehow reaches across continents and calms the fraying edges of me. “Yes, but I didn’t mean jump into a pit of wolves, mein Tochter.”

I huff a laugh. “Too late. Turns out the wolves are kind of fun. Sharp teeth, but they don’t bite unless you let them.”

A pause. I can almost feel him frown through the phone. “I trust you to keep yourself safe. But remember—you don’t have to carry everything alone. Even wolves know when to retreat to the pack.”

“Thanks, papa.” My voice cracks slightly, and I clear my throat. “I’ll try to remember that.”

“Good, because if I find out someone bullied my daughter… well, they wouldn’t be able to walk straight by the time I’m done with them,” he says, his voice light but with a razor edge of sincerity beneath the humor.

I laugh softly, the sound more real than I expected. “Papa, you can’t just threaten people.”

“I’m not threatening, blümchen,” he replies smoothly. “I’m promising.”

God, I missed him.

“I may be retired and a respected businessman now, but I haven’t forgotten how to make people disappear.”

 Shaking my head, thinking how silly the stone-cold gangster and menacing head leader of the Nachtnebel Clan is acting. “Papa, you can’t threaten college kids from another continent.” Again, I reminded. “And you’re not fully retired, half-retired at the very least until Mikael and Midas pull their heads out of their asses and get their acts together.”

“Language.” He sternly reminds me before continuing. “I can, and I will,” he says with the kind of certainty only a protective father can manage. “And don’t think distance matters when it comes to mein blümchen.”

“Urgh, you’re being mushy.”

“You love me being mushy.”

“I don’t!” Lie. I do.

These rare moments with papa, laughter and easy conversation, unrelated to the criminal organization world we are involved in are the times I cherish with my papa, Conrad Nachtnebel.

Gone was the man who would bark orders in a cold boardroom to a room full of men with blood on their hands, flanked by men who both feared and respected him. Gone was the man who had gone through many trials and pain to get to where he is now. Leaving a trail of blood in his wake of the enemies that attempt to put him down and the once friends that betrayed him so easily for a place they did not deserve. In his place now is just my father—voice warm, heart softened by the ocean of miles between us, and maybe, by the knowledge that he can’t protect me the way he once did.

These rare moments, stripped of titles and bloodied legacies, remind me that before I was born into the Nachtnebel name, I was simply his daughter. And to him, I still am.

These rare moments were my keepsakes—slivers of softness in a life built on steel and shadows. And I would hold onto them, fiercely. Because someday, when the world goes dark again, I’ll need this version of him to remind me of who we really are beneath all the power, blood, and legacy.

Then I heard another sound on the background of the call that wasn’t my father. The sound of grating metal and muffling steps; quiet enough not to notice but still, I heard it and I’m alarm.

“Papa, what was that?”

“Hmm? Oh, nothing you should be worry about blümchen.” He says with no indication that is out of the norm, carrying on like usual. “I’m just dealing with something is all. You know me—work, work, work.”

Papa is deflecting. Meaning this isn’t related to his legal work but the other one we’ve been taught to be— to have a heart of ice and guts of steel. The one that usually means getting our hands extra dirty and to clean without leaving a single trace of our presence at the scene.

“If you need my help-“

“I will tell you, I know Iris.” He says, kindly but with firmness to his tone, the one that brooked no argument but was still wrapped in the warmth only a father could give. It’s the voice that reminded me that while I may be his daughter, I was also being raised in the shadow of something far more dangerous.

I sigh quietly, pressing my thumb to the edge of the balcony rail. “You always say that.”

“And I always mean it.” He replies, a faint smile in his voice. “For now, focus on your studies, and maybe sleep more, ja? Your voice sounds tired.”

“You always know, huh?”

“I’m your father. I know everything, blümchen.”

And that, in simple wording, describes the man who is my papa.

***

Amidst the long, continuous conversation between father and daughter, someone has been watching Iris far longer than they should especially at this late at night, no, early morning.

Jeremy watches from a distance, hidden away within the tall trees skirting the edge of TKU’s student dorm buildings. He straddles his black motorcycle in the shadows, his helmet resting on the handlebar, cigarette burning between his fingers, forgotten. The ember glows faintly in the dark, just like the way his eyes do—fixed, unwavering, drawn to the balcony where she stands.

The girl who wormed her way under his skin without permission.

Iris.

There she is, draped in the hoodie he gave her—his hoodie—hair tousled from the wind, one hand curled around the phone, voice soft as she laughs into the receiver, so unlike the sharp-tongued, fiery girl who had clawed and kicked her way through the woods. There’s something intimate about the moment, something he shouldn’t be witnessing. But he can’t look away.

Not when she looks like that.

Peaceful. Untouchable. Like a secret he wasn’t meant to know.

Jeremy’s jaw ticks. He knows he shouldn’t be here. Knows that watching her like this, silent and unseen, isn’t just dangerous—it’s fucked up. But that hasn’t stopped him before. Not when it comes to her.

She speaks again, the sound of her voice carried faintly by the wind despite not being able to make out the words being said, just enough for him to hear her laugh. The real one—the rare kind. And just like that, something shifts inside him.

A dangerous thought coils in the back of his mind.

Mine.

He flicks the cigarette away and puts on his helmet, the glow of his eyes still burning behind the visor. Not tonight, lunichka.

But soon.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 11 IRIS

“Oof, woof, woof!”

“I couldn’t agree more. You’re very right, we should definitely stage a coup and demand better snacks,” I say, tossing treats into the bowls inside the large cage where a few dogs are kept in. They hound towards their individual bowls, devouring lunch with gusto. Warm spreads in my chest and my smile widens with each cage I go to while carrying out my task to the next one.

The little border collie mutt lets out another excited yap, his paws tapping eagerly against the concrete floor as he sticks to my heels like a tiny, furry shadow.

“And equal belly rubs for all,” I add solemnly, scooping a handful of kibbles. “None of that ‘only when they’re good boys’ nonsense. A revolution for belly rub equality!”

The puppy barks again as if cheering, tail wagging like a flag of rebellion.

I grin down at him, my heart feeling lighter than it had in days. “You’re gonna be my second-in-command, little guy. Hope you’re ready for war.”

“Does war involve getting the little guy all stuff and pass out from too much treats?” Cecily says nonplussed, eyeing the pup obediently wagging its tail by my side, its belly already rounding out from all the extra kibble I’d slipped him.

I shrug, grinning. “Every great general needs to keep morale high. He’s just…preparing for battle.”

Cecily snorts, crossing her arms as she leans against the kennel gate. “At this rate, he’s gonna roll into battle instead of march.”

The puppy lets out a contented huff, flopping down against my shoe like he’s claimed it for life.

“Strategic surrender,” I say, laughing softly as I crouch to scratch behind his ears. “First rule of war: win them over with unconditional love and full bellies.”

Cecily rolls her eyes, but there’s a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You’re gonna spoil that pup rotten before he even finds a home.”

“Correction.” I say, bending slightly to press a kiss to the top of the pup’s fuzzy head, its paws place on top of my knees, small fluffy tail wagging like the blades of a helicopter. “He’s already spoiled enough.” The little guy barks in agreement, tongue lolling out in that adorable expression all vulnerable puppies have.

God, this one's gonna be a handsome little killer. I just know it. Makes me miss my own pupster. I really need to check in on Hugo and make sure Midas is taking care of my huge fluff baby like the emperor he is. Hugo deserves only the best!

I continue filling in the rest of the bowls with kibble while being attended by an eager pup fumbling along by my heel and with Cecily helping me with the rest as we chatted.

And yes, in the end I did agree to help with the shelter out of my love for the animals who needed much care and love from us lowly humans and a persistent ballerina who insisted my presence was needed to keep the more rebellious dogs from launching a coup d’état in the kennels. According to her, I had a ‘soothing delinquent energy’ that somehow made the rowdy ones sit and listen.

So here I am, scooping kibble into bowls, talking philosophy with a border collie mutt, and pretending like I don’t actually enjoy every second of it.

“You know we aren’t allow to let any of the dogs out of their kennels with the exception of play time.” Cecily reminds me as we walk out of the area, eyeing the puppy following behind us trying to keep up with his short legs.

“Yeah, yeah, I read the rules.” I wave her off, but my pace slows just a bit so the little guy doesn’t trip over his own enthusiasm. “This one’s just… shadowing me. Interning, really. Future Head of Security material.”

“Downgraded from second-in-command to security now.” Cecily snorts. “Really, at this rate, you’ll be leaving with him tucked under your hoodie.”

I don’t respond because honestly, she might be right.

I guess it is consider breaking the rules…but really, how can I not want to kidnap this cutie away?! Mean, Cecily.

“But technically,” I say, glancing down at the fluffy little shadow trotting behind us, “He let himself out. All I did was… not stop him.”

Cecily shoots me a look that says you’re impossible, but there’s a twitch at the corner of her lips that gives her away. The puppy lets out a proud little bark as if to second my defense, and I smirk. “See? He agrees.”

“Just…don’t let the manager find out you’ve been sneaking him extra treats or that he’s basically chosen you as his human.” Cecily finishes with a sigh, rubbing her temple like I’ve given her a headache. “He’s already followed you around like some furry little stalker all day.”

“What can I say?” I playfully wink at an exasperated Cecily, picking up the puppy and placing the small fellow inside my hoodie that his head pops out at the front of the hoodie opening. “The boy has good taste.” He barks happily in agreement.

Cecily keeps glancing at me, her expression one I recognized all too well—that mix of curiosity and hesitation, the kind that bubbles right before someone blurts out something borderline inappropriate but meant well. Too bad for her, I’m not exactly known for being soft and diplomatic when it comes to personal questions.

So I arch a brow, smirking lazily. “Go on then, say it before your head explodes from holding it in.”

Sure enough, her mouth opens a second later. “So… you and Jeremy Volkov?”

“What about us?”

She gives me a look. That look. “You and him seem...close despite how he lugged you around like a suitcase, especially the way he treated you that night at the fighting club.” Cecily’s expression morphs into one of concern, her teasing fading into something softer. “I mean, he’s intense. Scary intense. And you...well, you don't flinch around him like most people would. It's like... you see him, and he lets you.”

I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Maybe I’m just into emotionally unavailable psychopaths with trust issues and a penchant for violence.”

Cecily deadpans. “You’re not helping your case.”

“I’m not trying to,” I mutter, then sigh, tugging the sleeves of the hoodie down over my hands.

“I know you’re tough, but I also know what bruises look like, Iris.” She eyes my neck, scrutinizing me. The puppy acting as a wall helping me cover most of it from being closely look at. They’re already healing but somehow, I find myself wanting them to stay on my skin longer. “And I saw your face when he touched you. It wasn’t just pain, it was something else. Something complicated.”

I don’t respond right away. Instead, I shift my weight, my gaze dropping to the floor as I force a casual shrug.

“It is complicated.”

She watches me a beat longer, her voice quieter now. “Just promise me you’re not falling for the kind of danger you can’t crawl back out of.”

Too late for that.

A sly smile makes an appearance on my lips as I playfully lean closer causing Cecily to take a step with her back against the wall, closing her in. I’m not much taller than her but according to personal experience, people most likely get intimidated, a fact I’ve never shied away from using to my advantage. My voice drops to a teasing whisper, “Careful, Cecily. You sound like you care.”

Her brows furrow, but her cheeks betray her with a soft flush. “Of course I care, you idiot,” she mutters, eyes flicking to the side. “You’re my friend. Even if you have the emotional range of a rock and flirt like a Bond villain.”

I grin wider. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”

Most would assume at one glance of Cecily that she was the type of quiet girl who kept to herself and lay low, the type to not draw attention to herself with a meek disposition with the way she dresses and doesn’t put herself forward compare to our Ava dearest who is the brightest star shining among mere peasants. Well, if you’re the type to look at a person’s exterior, then bravo. You’ve already lost the game before it even started. Because Cecily? She’s the kind of girl who watches with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue, calculating the room before she says a single word. She’s the bomb you didn’t know was ticking–quiet, yes, but only because she’s watching, waiting, learning. And when she finally speaks, it’s always with precision, like a knife sliding between ribs.

You don’t notice girls like her until it’s too late, and by then, she already knows everything about you.

And with Cecily, she wasn’t the type to easily submit from a bit of intimidation play.

She lifts her chin in defiance, though it's hard to take her seriously when the faintest flicker of pink dusts her cheeks. Her arms cross, as if she’s shielding herself from whatever ridiculous thing I’m about to say next.

“People mostly get intimidated when I invade their space like this.” I continue, my voice low and teasing. “You, however, just look like you’re about to lecture me.”

“I am about to lecture you.” She deadpans, her eyes narrowing. “Because you flirting to deflect a serious conversation is classic deflection.”

I sigh, stepping back with a grin. “What can I say? It’s a skill. Like emotional sabotage, but cuter.”

Cecily rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile threatening the corner of her lips. “Just don’t come crying to me when you fall head over heels for someone with blood on their hands and a vendetta against the world.”

“Too late.” I mutter under my breath. “And really darling, don’t use that psychological shit on me. Just because you’re studying to be a shrink doesn’t mean you get to play Freud every time I have a moment.” I flash her a teasing smirk, but there’s a steel edge beneath it, one she doesn’t miss. “Save the psychoanalysis for someone who actually wants to be fixed.”

Cecily raises a brow, unimpressed. “Again, deflecting with sarcasm. Classic.”

I roll my eyes, brushing past her. “Keep that up and I’m charging you hourly.”

“Fine.” She calls after me, voice dry. “But I’m keeping my notes. This case study is gold.”

We leave the dog kennel area and step into the front lobby where the receptionist who volunteers on the weekends, a a wide-eyed teenager with a dreamy expression is swooning together with a flustered Annika, blatantly ogling a half-shirted Creighton outside washing the shelter van, his toned back and those sexy spider tattoos glistening under the sun like some walking romance novel cover. Cecily groans beside me, muttering under her breath about “hormones and bad taste,” while Annika fans herself dramatically with a clipboard.

The teenager, a girl with spunk in her step, doesn’t even blink as we approach. “Do all guys look like that, or is this one genetically engineered?”

Annika lets out an embarrassed squeak beside me, burying her face in the clipboard she’s holding while I bite back a laugh.

“If he’s engineered, someone deserves a Nobel.” I quip, joining in watching Creighton like the eye-candy he is. Ooo~, impressive arm muscles especially paired off with suds.

I yelp when Cecily pinches my side, shooting me the stink-eye and signaling with those bright, lively green eyes which are so different from mine, that we’re supposed to be responsible role models, not hormonal teenagers ogling shirtless guys like it’s a summer rom-com.

“Right, right. No objectifying the help,” I mutter under my breath, straightening up as if my spine just remembered I had dignity. Which I don’t. I like being a hoe in my spare time, thank you very much.

I sneakily glance at Annika who is trying, but failing, not to take interest in Creighton. Her gaze constantly burning a hole through the back of his head, while Creighton, impassive as ever, goes about his task completely unbothered. Either he was completely unaware or just masterfully ignoring the fact that we’re all enjoying the very pleasant view.

It was a huge surprise when I found out Creighton would be volunteering with us at the shelter. I thought it would just be Annika and me— quiet mornings, the scent of wet dog, and the occasional chaos of feeding time. Instead, we got brooding eye-candy in the form of a tall, aloof guy with forearms that looked like they could crush a coconut.

Like, this isn’t even his field of interest because as far as I’ve known him in this short (but chaotic) amount of time, with a flabbergasted Remington and an unimpressed Eli as my unwilling reference points, Creighton King has a deep, almost philosophical hatred for doing more than absolutely necessary. If it doesn’t involve eating, fighting, or sleeping—the holy trinity of his existence—then it’s usually beneath him. Volunteering at a dog shelter? That’s practically a miracle on par with water turning to wine.

Once, Cecily asked him to join up with her (cue me gossiping with Remi and Ava, yes, me and sassy Ava) but Creighton just gave her a look that basically says “Hah! That’s funny, woman.” and said a terse, firm no before continuing gobbling up his chicken wings

Imagine separating Creighton with food. Scary~

Back on topic, Creighton wouldn’t just do something without there being an ulterior motive, some hidden reason buried beneath that blank expression and couldn’t-care-less attitude. He’s not the type to wake up one day and decide, “Hey, let me save some puppies today.” No. There’s always a reason.

I eye Annika and him, the way her gaze flickers to him when she thinks no one’s watching, and, if I look closely enough, the subtle way he positions his body directly in her point of view thinking, knowing nobody would think otherwise. Maybe I’m just imagining it, maybe I’m just making up scenes to simplify this and not take it out of proportion but…its fucking obvious to me.

Don’t tell me, did something happen between them that I missed while being in my own La-La Land, too busy dodging my own emotional landmines to notice theirs colliding in slow motion?

Fuck…I know I encouraged Anni to seek her romance story of the century but I’m not ready to let the kid be all grown up. Is this how papa felt when I left Germany?

Still…

“Ten pounds we find them making heart eyes at each other before the end of the week,” I mutter under my breath, arms crossed as I stare suspiciously at the two.

Cecily arches a brow. “You’re betting on Annika falling for the human embodiment of a brick wall?”

“Exactly. That brick wall has been suspiciously… considerate lately and I’m betting on Creighton to show some human emotion here because honestly are you seeing Annika right now? She’s practically blushing at the air he breathes.”

God help me, I might be witnessing a slow-burn, enemies-to-lovers arc unfold right before my eyes, if you count a perpetually grumpy, emotionally constipated guy getting worn down by a sunshine-in-human-form kind of girl who refuses to take a hint or a no for an answer.

Honestly, it’s like watching a rottweiler try to ignore a very persistent golden retriever… and somehow, I think the retriever might just win.

Cecily snorts beside me. “You’re on. And if I win, you’re doing the next adoption event in a tutu.”

“…Deal. But only if it’s black.”

Because if I’m going to lose a bet over my best friend catching feelings, I’m at least going down with style.

“Aurf!”

The puppy seems to agree with me.

*****

After successfully convincing Cecily, cue the combination of two large puppy dog eyes (with one of them literally a puppy), I made my way to lunch with my partner in crime, the border collie puppy behaving like the good boy he is. Not too far from the shelter, there was a deli shop tucked between a laundromat and a flower store, the kind of place that smelled like toasted bread and nostalgia. The bell chimed when I stepped inside, and the man behind the counter barely spared me a glance…until he noticed the fluffball resting front center of my hoodie.

“No pets,” he grunted.

“He’s a service dog in training,” I lied with the ease of a seasoned con artist, giving him the most innocent smile I could muster. “Emotional support.”

The man squinted, looked at the puppy, then at me. The puppy tilted his head with that perfectly timed doggy expression of virtue and vulnerability.

“…Fine. But if he pees, you’re cleaning it.”

“Deal.” I grinned, already heading toward the booth by the window.

I slid into the booth, placing the puppy beside me like he owned the place. He sat proudly on the seat, tail wagging softly as he pressed his little side against mine. I slipped him a tiny piece of turkey jerky from my pocket, bribery and reward all in one.

The deli was quiet, a low hum of conversation from a couple of college students in the corner and an old man reading the paper at the bar. It was a kind of peace I rarely let myself enjoy. The scent of pickles and pastrami was oddly comforting, like the world outside didn’t exist for a moment.

As I scanned the menu on the chalkboard wall, the pup let out a small huff, his head resting on my thigh.

“I know, I know.” I muttered under my breath, stroking between his ears. “This might be the most normal thing we’ve done all week. Don’t get used to it, though.” Because causing havoc at the shelter and eating lunch with a puppy I technically kidnapped is totally normal.

The server came over, a lanky girl with two nose rings and tired eyes. “What’ll it be?”

“Roast beef and lettuce on rye, extra mustard with ketchup. And can I get a bowl of plain boiled chicken? For the emotional support.”

She raised an eyebrow, then her gaze fell to the pup, who blinked up at her with the force of a thousand innocent souls.

“…Sure. Why not.”

As she walked away, I leaned back, watching the world pass by through the glass window. My phone buzzed once in my hoodie pocket, likely anyone of my new friends checking in. Usual suspects are Glyndon, Annika or a bored Remi sending me memes.

But for now, just for a few bites and stolen minutes, I let myself pretend this was a quiet life I could have. Me, a sandwich, and a scruffy shadow who followed me like I hung the stars.

“Don’t make it a habit.” I whispered, scratching his chin. “But thanks for sticking around.”

I received a cute gruff as the fellow snuggles close to my side, the mix of brown-black and white fur tickling my fingers as I let my fingers absently run down its coat and we wait for our food to arrive. I take this chance to relax and take a much-needed breather as I collect my thoughts into my single point, my eyes gazing out of the window watching the peaceful afternoon ticks away, the kind that shouldn’t feel borrowed or fleeting. But in my chest, something tightens.

It’s calm… it’s supposed to be a safe moment, a still frame in the chaos, and yet my gut twists with that familiar ache that says calm never lasts. Not for people like me.

Already deluding yourself, Helena? Tsk, tsk, tsk. How many times do we have to remind you, you’re nothing but our sweet, pretty, broken doll? Why don’t you be a good girl and just sit pretty and lay back-

I hit my temple with my wrist several times, stopping the voice dead in its tracks, like slamming a door on a ghost. My jaw clenches as I shut my eyes, breathing slow, measured.

“Not now,” I whisper to no one, to everyone, to the shadows that live inside my head. “Not here.”

The puppy beside me lifts his head, ears perked as if sensing the shift in me. I run my hand through his fur again, grounding myself in the soft, tangible reality of now.

The voice fades, for now. But I know it’ll be back. It always is.

I force a breath through my nose, grounding myself in the warmth at my side, in the rhythmic rise and fall of the little body pressed against mine. The puppy lets out another soft noise, nudging his head under my hand as if to say, Still here. Still safe.

I pull the front part of the hoodie up to my nose and inhale the faint scent of bergamot and wood clinging to the fabric. The calming effect is instant and my body slumps into the booth, soaking up the last bit of Jeremy before I have to throw the damn hoodie into the washer. I sigh unhappily, pouting at the weakening scent that’s mix with mine. It's unfair how the scent is slowly disappearing.

Makes me want to go steal his clothes and roll all over it or just bury myself under the pile of clothing so his scent would stick to my body and I would simply be in bliss, never coming out to see the light of day. Damn, I’m dramatic when I’m in one of those moods.

The server comes back with our food and I gave her my thanks as I put the small bowl of boiled chicken shread in front of the puppy, placing it on the booth seat because no way was I letting him eat off the floor like some common mutt, even if he technically was one.

He gives an appreciative bark before digging in, tail thumping wildly against the vinyl seat.

I sip my drink and stare at him, the corners of my lips twitching despite everything. “You’re lucky you’re cute, you little con artist.”

He doesn’t even pause in his eating. Figures. Typical male.

I take a few bites of my delicious, hearty sandwich (definitely recommending this place to Creighton) before the constant buzzing of my phone finally gets on my nerves. I wipe my fingers on a napkin and check the screen, expecting a message from my friends. Since this was my ‘public use’ phone, the phone I use for public appearances to show that I’m a normal university student. One always has to be careful especially when you were born part of a criminal organization.

Instead, I see six missed calls from one unknown number and that confuses me since I don’t just give out my number to anyone and so far, the friend group and a bossy Eli, who deems me an acceptable class partner after we aced our assignment and proceeds to make a decision that I was “his favorite project pet,” have my number. So, unless this is Remi pulling a prank with a burner phone (highly unlikely since he’s still too emotionally raw from initiation night), this reek of trouble.

Curiosity outweighs caution as I open the message that follows those missed calls.

Unknown Number: Answer your phone, Iris.

I blink. My name. No emojis, no casual greeting. Just that—an order, laced in tension. My pulse flickers, and not in a good way.

I glance at the pup again, now dozing off with a full belly, then shift my gaze to the deli window. Calm street. Still daylight. But the storm’s brewing, I can feel it in my bones.

I hit redial.

“I have a certain set of skills and I’m not afraid to use it.” I growl into the phone and in return receive silence. Yeah, dramatics always does that.

The silence stretches, so long that I think maybe the line cut off, until a low chuckle filters through, deep and slow, curling through the speaker like smoke.

“Cute. You practicing for the next Taken reboot, lunichka?”

Jeremy. Of course it’s him. Who else would bypass every social norm and go straight to terrifying theatrics just to get my attention?

And it isn’t helping that my heart is beating a thousand miles from just hearing his stupid voice!

“How did you get my number?”

“That's a secret of mine to keep.”

Obnoxious bastard.

“I’m eating lunch, Volkov. Unless you’re planning to helicopter in and steal my sandwich, I suggest you stop playing the mystery caller.” I say with a brattish tone, covering the giddiness of hearing his voice after he has been no where in sight ever since the initiation. Yes, me, acting oh so ever pathetic after a boy who probably doesn’t care about me.

Ever since that night of the initiation, after the peaceful moment between us in his room—beneath the heat of his stare and the quiet weight of his touch—something unspoken rooted itself between us. A tether neither of us acknowledged out loud but felt all the same.

In the way he says my name now, like it means more than it should.

And it’s definitely in the way my heart stutters every time my phone lights up with an unknown number.

But he’s been ignoring me since that night, treating the moment between us as a fleeting lapse in judgment, like it didn’t happen, like it didn’t mean something.

Not a text. Not a call. Not even one of those soul-pinning stares he’s so good at that makes it hard to breathe. Well, in his defence, he doesn’t have my number but come on, according to Annika, the guy is a techie genius. A mere phone number is nothing difficult for him to get and its prove now that he has my number so what was stopping him from using it?

Pride? Guilt? The fact that he practically branded me with his hands that night and now doesn’t even have the decency to look my way?

It shouldn’t bother me this much, but it does.

Maybe because I let him in, just a little. Maybe because for once, I didn’t feel like a pawn in someone else’s game.

Or maybe I’m just mad that he got under my skin so easily and now has the audacity to pretend like he didn’t.

Either way, I hate that I’m even thinking about it this much.

It’s stupid, really, how much I notice the absence of something I never officially had. But when someone like Jeremy Volkov gives you even a glimpse of softness, even just for a moment, it’s hard to forget.

And even harder to pretend it never mattered.

I don’t seek him out, even if I want to, and he doesn’t seek me. Both of us don’t take the first step, leaving it to hang like a curse, a tempting curse that would burn us in an instant. Which I agree, since I told myself many, many times that getting involve with Jeremy is a mistake. A mistake that I won’t be able to turn back.

Yet, the niggling feeling is there, urging me to go to him, urging me to seek that certain comfortable silence that has the voices in my head non-existing for once. With Jeremy as my focus, the voices seem to dim down, hiding at the back of my mind trembling at the presence of an even bigger threat and for once, I can be Iris around him. Not Helena, not pretty doll. Just Iris.

Despite knowing he might be my ultimate demise.

“That mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble one day, lunichka.”

I roll my eyes, leaning back in the booth. “Do you make it a habit to stalk girls and blow up their phones, or am I just that lucky?”

“You didn’t answer,” he says simply, the amusement still lacing his voice but undercut with something sharper. “So I got creative.”

“Creative? Try psychotic.”

“Semantics.” He replies smoothly. “Where are you?”

I hesitate, glancing at the sleeping puppy. “Why?”

“Because I’m coming to get you.”

I frown, dissatisfaction filling my chest and a bit pissed off, if I’m being honest.

Who the fuck does he thing he is saying that like I’m some lost pet or kidnapped damsel? No warning, no explanation, just a command wrapped in arrogance. Pfft, please.

I grip my phone tighter, jaw ticking as I stand up from the booth. The border collie pup whines at my sudden movement, but I barely register it. “Excuse me?”

There’s a pause on the other end. Then, calm and low like a promise laced with danger, he repeats. “Stay where you are, Iris. I’m coming to get you.”

And just like that, my annoyance tangles with something else, something stupid and warm that settles in the pit of my stomach.

God, I hate how he gets under my skin.

Against my better judgement, I obediently sit down, taking care not to jostle to much and wake up the dog. I grumble, grabbing the sandwich and munching it noisily with the phone still against my ear. Let him hear the disgusting noises, fuck if I care if it effects his sensitive ears.

He hums knowingly, letting the noises fill the line for a moment before speaking, voice low and far too amused for my liking.

“Feisty today, aren’t we?” he murmurs, like he enjoys this. My irritation, my resistance, the way I bite even when I’m caged.

I scowl, taking another exaggerated bite. “You try being stalked and ghosted in the same week and see how you like it, Volkov.”

A soft chuckle bleeds through the speaker, dark and damn near sinful. “So you have been thinking about me.”

I nearly choke on my sandwich. “I think about all the people who piss me off. You’re just a recurring favorite.”

“I’ve been busy.” He simply says, the low rumble of an engine in the background confirming he’s about to ride his bike, probably speeding through the streets like the menace he is.

I roll my eyes, shifting the phone slightly. “Busy brooding in corners or busy pretending I don’t exist?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just the sound of the engine revving, a pause heavy with meaning, and then-

“You’ll see soon enough, lunichka.”

God, I hate how much I like that stupid nickname.

“You don’t even know where I am to find me, asshole.”

“Don’t worry. I have my ways, and you’re not exactly subtle, lunichka.”

That nickname... Damn him. It slips so easily from his lips, curling around my spine like a warm chain I pretend I don’t want.

My lips trembles and my hands shake. I sigh and place the sandwich down on the plate, making myself small in between the space of the booth and against the store window. I carefully take the sleepy puppy and place the little guy on my lap, my shaky fingers seeking comfort running them against the soft fur. I need to ground myself.

“I don’t want to see you…” My voice instead of the harsh, cutting tone I was going for turns sulky. God, I sound utterly pathetic.

Liar. I want to see Jeremy, but I’m angry that I’ve been ignored by him, only being remembered when it suits him, when he decides it’s time. Like I was just a brief distraction in his twisted little world. And now he suddenly decides to show up? No explanation, no apology, just because I’m coming to get you.

The silence on the other end stretches, thick with tension. Then, his voice drops—low, edged with something dangerous and intimate.

“Too bad. I’m already here.”

My heart skips a beat, traitorous thing.

It takes every fibre of me not to turn my head and look out the window but my traitorous heart which has been anticipating the glimpse of him takes the bait. I shoot a glance toward the window out of instinct, and sure enough, parked across the street under the shadow of a tree is a familiar black bike. His silhouette leans against it, still wearing the helmet covering the expression of his face, but his visor is up giving me a clear view of those dark gray eyes, his gaze fixed straight at me.

Of course he found me.

“What do you want, Jeremy?” I ask, my voice low. Tired. And maybe just a little bit hopeful.

His reply is immediate. “You.”

***

It was awkward returning to the shelter from lunch with the puppy and an intimidating, hulking guy watching my every move. It’s especially awkward when the teenage receptionist from earlier spots us walking in and promptly drops her pen, eyes darting between the fluffy pup in my arms and the walking storm cloud behind me like she’s trying to piece together the world’s strangest rom-com.

Cecily’s voice floats from the back room before she even sees us. “You’re late. Did you fall into a- oh.” Her sentence dies as she rounds the corner, gaze locking on Jeremy. “You brought that one.”

Jeremy doesn’t blink. He just crosses his arms, looming beside me like some kind of morally questionable bodyguard.

“I didn’t bring him,” I mutter under my breath, adjusting the puppy in my arms. “He followed me. Like a very large, very grumpy duckling.”

“Duckling? Looks more like a wolf that hasn’t decided whether to eat you or guard you,” Cecily deadpans, eyeing Jeremy with open suspicion.

Jeremy tilts his head slightly, offering her a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Depends on the day.”

“And what day is it today?” she asks, arms crossed.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “The kind where I bite.”

I roll my eyes and mutter to the puppy, “See what I mean? Duckling behavior.” The innocent, oblivious puppy licks my cheek, trying to cheer with up and it does, even if it’s a little bit.

I let out a loud and embarrassing squeak when I’m suddenly pulled back by the shoulder and I know instantly who with Jeremy’s scent engulfing me like warm smoke and danger-laced comfort. My back collides gently with his chest, and his arm hooks lazily around my waist as if it belongs there.

“You shouldn’t talk behind someone’s back when they’re standing right behind you.” He murmurs low near my ear, voice rich with amusement and something else I don’t want to name.

Cecily clears her throat pointedly. “We’re in a public place, Volkov. Try not to commit a felony before 3 p.m.”

He gives Cecily a blank look over my shoulder, not moving away. “Relax, princess. No blood today. Just stealing away my lunichka.”

God, please don’t blush. Please don’t fucking blush.

“And lunichka, I suggest you pass the mutt over to someone before I’m forced to carry both of you out of here, and I really don’t feel like being a spectacle this early in the day.” His voice is casual, but the grip on my waist tightens just enough to make a point.

Cecily gapes at him, torn between horror and secondhand embarrassment. “You are unbelievable.”

“I’ve been called worse,” he says, finally pulling back but not before brushing his lips lightly against the side of my head like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I hand the puppy to Cecily with a grumble, avoiding eye contact with both of them. “You touch my dog, I’ll shave your head in your sleep.”

Jeremy only smirks. “Can’t wait.”

Without a word, he leads me out of the shelter, his arm still wrap around my waist like he has every right to touch me, to take me, like I’m his to drag wherever he pleases. I should pull away. I should demand answers. But instead, I follow, heart thundering in my chest, caught between defiance and something far more dangerous. Even passing by Annika who is walking into the shelter looking surprise to see her brother here and taking me somewhere I have no clue where.

Behind us, Cecily’s voice calls out faintly, “Hey! You can’t just-!”

The door swings shut before I can hear the rest.

***

“You were-,” I clamp my mouth shut to stop the moan attempting to escape between my lips. My teeth bite down my lower lip as I felt Jeremy’s hand trail up to cup my breast, his thumb teasing my nipple over my bra as he places kisses to the column of my neck. His other hand was palming my inner thigh, spreading my legs as he stands in between them while I’m sitting on his bike, being assaulted the moment we’re alone together.

He parked his bike at the alley close to the shelter and the moment he placed me on the leather seat, with me about to give him a piece of my mind, he launches at me like a rabid dog.

“You’re impossible.”  I whispered, the words trembling against his jaw.

“And yet, here you are.” He murmured into my skin, his voice low, like he was the secret I wasn’t supposed to want.

His lips found the edge of my jaw, trailing soft, maddening kisses up to the shell of my ear. The kind that made it hard to breathe, let alone think. I hate that I melted into it. Hate that my fingers gripped the front of his jacket instead of pushing him away.

We weren’t supposed to be like this, whatever this was. But when his forehead rested against mine and our breaths tangled, it was impossible to pretend that anything about this felt wrong.

“I don’t like sharing what’s mine.” Jeremy says, voice low and rough, his breath brushing against my skin. His eyes darken as they rake over my face, and there’s something accusatory in the way he looks at me, like I’ve betrayed him without realizing it.

“Huh?” I blink up at him, trying to catch up.

“My mutt.” He mutters, and before I can ask what the hell he means, he pinches my nipple through the fabric of my bra. A gasp escapes me before I can stop it, sharp and involuntary.

He grins, sharp, satisfied, almost cruel in its delight. “My mutt went and got herself a mutt of her own.” He continues, tone deceptively soft, teasing, but laced with something more.

Jealousy? Possession?

“Were you that lonely, lunichka, that you replaced me with a dog?”

I swallowed hard, unsure whether I was supposed to laugh or smack him. “He doesn’t talk back and drool all over my neck, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Jeremy’s smile widened, but his eyes didn’t lose their heat.

Suddenly, he pulls out something from his trouser pocket and dangles it in front of me. My knife!

I try to take it back but instead I got a mouthful of his shirt as Jeremy leans back, still holding onto me.

“Give. It. Back!” I growl, tugging at his shirt with one hand while trying to snatch the knife with the other. “You klepto maniac!”

Jeremy laughs, slow and pleased, completely unfazed by my struggle. “You left it behind that night.” He says, twirling the knife between his fingers like it’s a toy, not something I’ve used to draw blood. “Thought I’d keep it. A little souvenir from my lunichka.”

“You’re unbelievable.” I push at his chest, trying to wiggle free. “That’s not a damn souvenir, it’s mine. I need it.”

“Need it?” His brow lifts, teasing. “What for? Planning to stab me again, shchenok?”

“Don’t tempt me,” I growl, even though my pulse is quickening and I can feel his breath fan across my cheek. “I might just make you regret ever touching it.”

His gaze burns into mine, voice dropping to a purr. “You never regret the things you touch, Iris. Only the ones you let go.”

My eyes widen at those words and my hands tremble at the notion of what he meant, if he meant it. That twisted, dangerous part of me wanted to believe there was something deeper behind the sharp flirtation and arrogant smirks. Something real. But I knew better than to trust wolves in sheep’s clothing… even if this one never bothered to hide his teeth.

I hate it. Hate how my throat tightens, how my heart stutters like it’s been caught off guard. I hate that his words feel less like a line and more like the truth I’ve been avoiding.

I scoff, a weak attempt to hold onto my usual bravado. “You’re not that deep, Volkov. Don’t act like you know me.”

“I think we’re pass last names, Iris Reed.” He leans in closer, his breath hot against my ear. “Especially after the way you moaned mine like a prayer.”

I stiffen, caught between wanting to shove him away and clinging to the magnetic pull he has over me. He knows it, the bastard. How I’m unraveling, thread by thread, every time he gets close.

“I don’t need to know you.” He continues, brushing my cheek with his thumb, inhaling me like I’m his darkest secret to keep. Am I? “I just need to break you enough to see the cracks I’m dealing with. Because isn’t that what you need Iris? Someone to finally break you to pieces and see the inside before gluing you back together again.”

A shiver crawls down my spine, but I don’t let it show. I can’t, because if I give him that satisfaction now, I’m afraid I’ll never get the pieces of myself back. After all the hard work I did to keep myself sane and not break to the point of being unfixable like in the past.

Because how dare he. How dare this bastard say shit like that and claim to know me then me myself.

“That’s a dangerous game to play, Jeremy,” I whisper, my voice lower, rougher. “What if you break me and realize you don’t like what’s underneath?”

He tilts his head, the barest hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth But his eyes, those cruel, clever eyes, stay serious. “Then I’ll learn to love the mess I made.”

It’s twisted. It’s terrifying. And somehow, it makes my pulse race like it’s never raced before.

“Don’t say shit like that,” I mutter, voice quieter now, but my tone was harsh. Gone was the playfulness, the uncertainty, leaving only steel and hidden fury behind.

Love. He uses it so carelessly, not knowing how impactful that singular word is to someone, especially someone like me.

I don’t do love. Love is not something anyone is given freely. Love is something you have to work hard to get and even harder to keep. Love isn’t just a word; it’s a promise, a commitment, a constant battle against doubt and fear. People throw it around like confetti, not realizing that to someone like me, it’s a heavy burden, a weight I’m not sure I’m ready to carry.

He doesn’t understand what it means to me, how fragile it feels, how much it’s been twisted by the past. I can’t give it to him so easily, not when I know how easily it can be broken. And maybe that’s the problem. He says it without truly seeing me, without realizing that I’ve already given everything I can to survive. I can’t afford to love and lose again.

Not like this. Not with him.

Jeremy watches me closely, expression unreadable for a moment before his gaze flicks to my trembling hands. He grabs one, pressing my palm flat over his chest.

“You feel that?” He asks, voice rougher. “That’s real. Doesn’t mean I’m good. Doesn’t mean I’m safe. But it’s yours if you want it.”

I hesitate, the words hanging between us like a dangerous thread. My chest tightens as his gaze holds mine, raw and unflinching. He doesn’t see the walls I’ve built, the scars they’re meant to protect.

“I don’t need you to offer me something you can’t keep.” I say, my voice steadier than I feel, though the ache in my stomach tells a different story.

Jeremy smirks, a flicker of challenge in his eyes. “I never promised you forever.” He replies, his presence enveloping me with my palm still to his chest, just above that strong beating heart. “But I’m here, right now. And right now, I’m offering you what I can give. It’s not love. It’s just… this.”

He’s dangerous, oh so dangerous. The way he plays with words, making everything feel like a choice. But choices have consequences, and I’ve made enough mistakes to know when something—someone—is too tempting to resist.

“Why should I believe you?” I ask, though deep down, I know the answer. It’s the same reason I can’t look away.

His lips curl into a half smile, and for a fleeting second, there’s a vulnerability beneath his bravado. “Because I’m here. And I’m not asking you to love me. Just… don’t run.”

And he does something I never thought he would do. The knife, my knife still in his hand, he brings it to the side of his neck and drags down a clean shallow slice, leaving a fine line with blood.

My breath catches in my throat as the blood wells up, a dark, stark contrast against his skin. For a moment, time stops. His eyes never leave mine, his expression unreadable, but the sharp sting of fear courses through me. This isn’t a show, a threat. This is real.

“Stop,” I breathe, my voice barely a whisper, the instinct to move forward warring with the sharp, logical part of my brain that screams this is wrong. So wrong.

But he doesn’t stop. Jeremy tilts his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that could almost be mistaken for a grin, though it doesn’t reach his eyes.

"Why would you-” My words falter, the impulse to stop him almost too strong to ignore.

He looks at me, his gaze steady, and for the first time, there’s a rawness to him that cuts deeper than the wound. "It’s a mark," he says softly, his voice hoarse. "A reminder. That I’m here, I’m real. And I’ll bleed for you, if that’s what it takes for you to see it."

The blood drips down his skin, tracing the path of the blade, staining his shirt. It’s not just the physical act that hits me—it’s the implication, the weight of it. The knife wasn’t just a weapon in his hand. It was a declaration.

“I never asked for this,” I say, the words escaping before I can hold them back. The vulnerability in his gaze makes my chest ache, but it’s too much. I’m not sure I’m ready to dive into whatever this is.

He takes another slow look at me, his hand steady on the knife. “Doesn’t matter,” he murmurs. “You’re already here.”

We’re so close. Too close. The silence right now is too much that I swear I can hear out heartbeats beating in sync. I wish for once that the voices come and fill out my thoughts,  anything to drown out the weight of this moment, the terrifying stillness between us. But there’s nothing. Just his eyes on mine, the echo of my pulse in my ears, and the metallic scent of blood thick in the air.

I should pull away. I should shove him back, tell him he’s crossed a line that can’t be uncrossed. But I don’t. I can’t. Because something about his presence, this raw, unfiltered version of him is undoing me.

Jeremy lowers the knife, not dropping it, just letting it rest at his side. Still bleeding. Still watching me like I’m the only person in the world who matters.

“Say something.” He whispers, barely audible. “Even if it’s to tell me to fuck off.”

But I can’t. My throat is tight, thoughts spiraling too fast to catch. The voices don’t come, but the silence speaks louder than anything.

He’s right. I’m already here.

“I hate you for this,” I finally manage, my voice trembling. “For making me feel like this.”

His expression shifts to something determined, almost reverant.  Pained in the act of wanting something he knows he shouldn’t, knowing this decision in his world is a bad one to make. He takes a deep breath, so close now I can feel the heat of him, the tremble of restraint in his body.

“Then hate me.” He growls. “But don’t leave.”

And I don’t. I stay. God help me, I stay even though every instinct in me is screaming to run. To protect whatever fragile pieces of myself I have left. But I don’t move. Not because I’m brave. Not because I trust him. But because somewhere, buried under all the fear and chaos, I want this. Him.

His breath fans against my face; warm, uneven, desperate. His hands are shaking, and for the first time, he looks less like a monster and more like a man trying to hold himself together with trembling fingers and bloodstained promises.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I whisper, eyes locked on his. “I don’t know how to be something worth staying for.”

His jaw clenches, and his hand comes up, the one with blood on those rough yet gentle fingers. Slow, careful, as if I might flinch. He rests it lightly against my cheek, the touch grounding and staining my cheek red. “You already are. You just don’t see it yet.”

I don’t know what to do. Jermey doesn’t understand that I don’t know what he wants from all of this, from me. I need guidance when it comes to this fuck up thing between us. For me its not love, its not even lust. It’s survival. It’s instinct. It’s clinging to the only thing that makes the noise quiet for just a second. Jeremy doesn’t get that. He thinks this is about connection, about choice. But it’s not. Not for me.

For me, it’s about not drowning.

I need someone to show me how to feel without falling apart. I need someone who doesn’t expect me to already know how to love, how to trust, how to give without fearing it’ll be taken. But Jeremy… he just feels. He throws himself into this thing with reckless abandon, like he’s never been burned. Like he’s not afraid of getting cut on the pieces of me I haven’t even tried to fix.

I don’t think he realizes it himself what he’s getting into with me. Like me, he is simply following his instinct. While my is of curiosity, like a wolf he is driven by something deeper. Territorial. Protective. Possessive. It’s not love—not yet—but it’s primal, raw, and it scares me how easily he lets it consume him.

While I watch and try to make sense of us, he acts. Moves closer. Holds tighter. As if claiming something he doesn’t even understand.

My curiosity draws me to him like a flame does a moth, dangerous, inevitable. But his instinct? It’s survival of a different kind. Like a wolf circling something he thinks is his, not out of malice, but out of instinctual need.

He sees me, and somewhere in that wild, broken part of him, he’s decided I matter. That I’m worth the risk.

But what happens when he finally realizes I’m more ruin than redemption? What happens when the fire in me doesn’t warm, but burns?

Will he stay?

Will I let him?

And for the first time, I’m not sure which answer scares me more.

I don’t know what to do with that. With him.

Because when I look at him, I see danger. Not the kind that hurts, but the kind that heals. And that’s somehow even more terrifying.

Maybe the problem isn’t Jeremy.

Maybe it’s me.

Words aren’t going to be enough to escape this grasp he has on me. I’m not going to be able to escape this anymore than that time during the Heathens Initiation.

Right now, Jeremy is giving me a choice and its my decision to accept or reject this offer he’s given to me.

Mama…I’m scared. I need you to be here and tell me what I should do.

Because I know if I let him in, Jeremy Volkov will be the next to break my heart and…and I can’t do that anymore, mama. I don’t have in me to feel disappointed and broken anymore than I am now. I don’t want to end up like-… I’m sorry mama. I’m sorry for even thinking that.

Jeremy’s controlled, firm expression flickers to confusion when I held his wrist, the one holding the knife close to my face with his thumb to my cheek. I bring it to my own neck at the side, the sharp blade barely touching the fragile skin and I do the exact thing as him. I bring the knife down, slicing a thin layer of my skin that’s enough to make me bleed like him.

Now we’re the same. Now we’re both mark.

His breath catches the second the blade bites my skin. I see it in his eyes—that flash of panic, of disbelief, of something that almost looks like pain. For a second, his hand tightens around mine, like he wants to stop me, like he should—but he doesn’t. He lets it happen. He watches me.

The silence between us is heavy, almost sacred now. Blood runs warm down my neck, a mirror to the trail on his. It’s not dramatic. Not deadly. But it’s enough. A symbol. A bond forged in recklessness and something neither of us knows how to name.

“Why?” He breathes, his voice cracking around the word like he’s forgotten how to speak.

I don’t flinch. I don’t look away. The sting on my neck is sharp, but it’s nothing compared to the ache in my chest. “Because you weren’t supposed to do this alone,” I say quietly. “You bled for me. Now I’ve bled for you.”

There’s too much. Too many unsaid things lodged in my throat like broken glass. So I keep my eyes on him and say the only thing that feels true.

“Because I need you to understand… I’m not afraid of the dark parts of you.”

I take a shaky breath, my fingers still wrapped around his wrist. “But I need you to know, I have dark parts too. And if you want me… this,” I gesture slightly with the blood-stained blade between us, “is what that means.”

Jeremy stares at me, and I swear, for the first time, he looks like he sees me. Not the version he’s imagined. Not the girl he wanted to chase and hurt in the forest. Not the girl who pissed him off with constant chattering of his lack of taste in interior. But the girl who bleeds beside him. On her own terms.

We’re not healed. We’re not whole.

But now, we’re marked.

And maybe that’s the beginning of something neither of us was ready for.

Jeremy doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. His eyes flick down to my lips, then back to the cut on my neck, and something in him snaps.

In the next breath, he closes the distance and crashes his mouth onto mine.

It’s not soft. Not careful. It’s rough, desperate, like he’s trying to make sense of all the things we can’t say. His hand tangles in my hair, the other gripping my jaw, tilting my face up as his lips press harder, hungry, unrelenting.

I taste the blood first. His. Metallic, warm, sharp. Then mine, mixing with it. Our pain, our choices, blurring into one breathless moment.

And I kiss him back.

Fiercely. Furiously. Like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to the ground. Our mouths move in sync, not just with passion, but with something deeper. A fucking need that needs to be quench. Rage. Fear. Everything we’ve buried.

He groans against me, low and guttural, like he’s been starving for this. For me. And when I open my mouth just enough, his tongue slides against mine, tasting blood and heat and defiance. His grip tightens. So does mine. We’re holding on too hard, but neither of us lets go.

It’s messy. It’s wrong. And it’s real.

When we finally pull apart, we’re breathing like we’ve just surfaced from drowning. His forehead rests against mine, and our blood-streaked skin sticks together, warm and alive.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”  Jeremy rasps, eyes wild. “But fuck, I’m glad you did.”

And for once, I don’t regret it either.

Chapter Text

She tastes like lemon drops.

“Jere- mmm~” I cut her off before she could utter a single word, my lips molding into hers as my body does the same. Trapping Iris against the wall right in front of her dorm building, my body covering hers so people who pass by us would not know or see the way she instinctively melts from my heated touch, from my hungry kiss that leaves no room for questions, only answers carved from breath and pressure. One hand braces the wall beside her head while the other curls around her waist, possessive and grounding.

She whimpers against my mouth, and that sound— god, that sound—makes something primal claw its way up my spine. She tries to speak again, but I deepen the kiss, swallowing whatever protest she might’ve had.

I don’t rush it. No. This isn’t about urgency. This is about reminding her who she responds to like this. Who pulls out the soft gasps, the shivers, the surrender.

When I finally pull back, her lips are red, swollen, and she’s panting like she ran a marathon. Something in my chest growls with approval being able to bring out this kind of reaction from this minx.

My lips linger to the side, press against her temple where the dark strands of her ebony brush against my face. The scent of calming floral and sweet nut invading my space, subtlety hardwiring my brain so that I become addicted to her more than I am now. Thus, seeking that scent like a hound searching for game.

It’s a dangerous thing when my brain catches onto something It can’t stop replaying—looping over and over like a corrupted code, like how puzzle pieces don’t quite fit despite the picture on the box insisting they should. Like the way 0s and 1s glitch just enough to ruin a flawless program.

Like how now, suddenly, I want to know all the scents clinging to her skin—what soap she uses, what shampoo lingers in her hair, what perfume she forgets to wear but somehow always carries. I want to know them the same way I know danger—by instinct, by feel, by obsession.

My brain, constantly turning wheels, searching for patterns, answers, the tiniest inconsistencies. Now, it’s fixated on her. Not just her voice or the curve of her smile, but the way she walks, the rhythm of her breath when she’s annoyed, the silence she carries when she thinks no one’s watching.

It’s like trying to decode a song I’ve only heard once but can’t stop humming. And worse, I’m not sure if I want to solve her, or get lost trying.

Currently, one thing is running through my mind.

I murmur low, not wanting to move away and be separated from her heat. “You taste like lemon drops.”

Iris rolls her eyes, grumbling out “Weirdo.”, but her lips show me how amuse she is with my comment as her fingers grip my shirt, steadying herself from falling in disgrace at how a mere kiss affected her so much that her legs were trembling like a newborn fawn. She has those legs of her close, those ‘golden thighs’ of hers she so proud of press tightly together like she’s trying to hold herself from spreading them to show me how I affected her, pretending she’s not on the verge of coming undone just because of me.

“Better than tasting like blood.” Iris argues but she hasn’t pushed me away since I have her here against the wall when I took her back to her building with my bike. The way her chest moves up and down in a controlled yet shaky rhythm betrays her real feelings. She’s trying to stay composed, to cling to whatever threads of dignity she has left, but her fingers are still curled in my shirt like she needs the grounding.

Iris is wearing the hoodie I gave her. The one I put her in where she smelt like my shower gel after coming out from the shower, with my shirt that looks baggy on her and unfortunately with pants. She already smelt like me but it became more potent when I force the hoodie on before we went downstairs and I had to face the rest of the Heathens when she left the grounds. I took note of Remington Astor hugging her (It took every ounce of self-control not to launch myself and tear the motherfucker to shreds for touching my lunichka.) and concluded that he must have been the masked number carrying her into the woods when the initiation started. Honestly, I’m surprised to see Astor there.

We sent out invites to the Elites and of course, as predicted, they didn’t come. Probably by loyalty to the Devil Incarnate himself, Landon King. Or in fear that if they come, King would cause hell on the poor soul. I expected this, so I wanted to see who used their codes to get into the initiation and surprise, surprise. There were a few names that popped up I didn’t expect. From the Elite’s inner circle, masked under dummy credentials that wouldn’t have raised a red flag unless you knew what to look for. But I do. I always do.

One of them had the audacity to linger by the edge of the crowd that night, just watching. Not interfering, not participating, just observing like they were taking notes for their master. And if Landon King sent them?

Then maybe, just maybe, the Devil is more curious about me than I thought.

For now, I’m leaving them alone under observation. Nikolai has made it very clear that he’ll take care of one of them, mumbling something about ‘stubborn lotus flower’.

“People might see us.” Her voice brings me back to the current and I scoffed at her argument—weak, flimsy, a last-ditch effort to regain control. And still, I can’t stray away when she gets like that.

There's a shyness to her voice that wasn’t there before, as if she wasn’t used to being treated like the moonlight she is. Girls like her are one in a million, but fuck that. Girls like Iris who hold my attention with their wicked tongue and and reckless heart are once in a lifetime. She’s all thorns and wildfire, but when she softens, even just a little, it feels like the universe tilts in her direction.

My moonlight…my damn beacon of light that my beast would chase for miles if it had to, just to get a glimpse of that light even if it scorched me to ash. I would even let her stab me again if it meant I’m able to see the green manic lighting her eyes and her grinning from ear-to-ear with blood on pale skin bringing her life and wind-chime laughter haunting my every move.

Iris Reed is an anomaly that has me craving for a taste and makes my blood boil to the point of deliriousness.

Because that’s what she does. Iris burns. Not in the way fire does, but in the way starlight hurts your eyes after too long in the dark.

My beast does not care. It would crawl, bleed, and break bones for her warmth. For that wind-chime laugh she tries to hide and the mesmerizing small, soft smile I see her giving to Annika, wishing it was always directed towards me, for me. For those sharp words she uses like armor and the way her eyes dangerously glow when faced with an adversary.

For that look, the one she gives me now. Like maybe she sees the monster and still chooses to stay.

And maybe I’m greedy, but I want to be the only one who sees her like this. The only one she lets her guard down for.

Мой Луничка.

“Do I look like I care?” I argue back, wanting her more and more to the point I’m being stupidly unreasonable even when she’s in front of me and I have her where I want her. Here. With. Me.

I’m being reckless.

I’m not known to be the reckless one, that’s Nikolai’s forte or Killian in his bad days in the name of killing boredom. Or fuck it, like Gareth in one of his moods wanting, fuming himself playing nice rather than to destroy something with his hands but intending to keep that perfect son persona he walks around. I have steps for every plan, a contingency plan for the ones that fail and yet here I am, tearing it all apart with my bare hands for a girl who smiles like she has nothing to lose and kisses like she knows exactly how to ruin me.

Every instinct tells me to pull back, to regroup, to remember who I am. But the way she looks at me, with something frighteningly close to one that is unspeakable and, makes me throw every calculated move out the window.

My rules don’t apply to her. She’s the glitch in my system, the chaos in my order. And I’m happily breaking the rules I made for myself for her.

“You should.” She bites back. “If we intend to keep a low profile, I suggest caring more about the time and place before attempting to assault me again.” That sarcastic tone of hers always does something to me. Makes my blood boil and my lips twitch in that dangerous way she hates and secretly loves. I lean in, crowding her space again just to watch the way her breath catches, the way her lashes flutter before she glares at me.

I lower my head, lips brushing the shell of her ear as I murmur. “Don’t tempt me, lunichka. You know I never needed a time or place to ruin you.”

And the way she shivers?

Delicious.

She likes it when I forget to play nice. The girl is a masochist in hiding, wanting me to hurt her, feeling euphoric at the thought of my fingers wrap around that breakable neck where my grip bruises her windpipe blue and my bites make pretty red, teeth-mark flowers bloom on her skin. She fights, claws, bites, retaliating the instinct to give in but in the end, something in her, small as it may, craves being preyed upon and relish in the defeat as I take her body for my own use.

Assault.

That word rings in my mind. Not sure whether I like the term or not, not sure if it suits the nature of our…’relationship’, and I’m using that term loosely because I haven’t decided what we are. In a way, she’s right. Maybe it is assault to push her down the ground as she struggles while I stroke my cock that was bursting for release, painting her face with white ropes of cum. Oh, she enjoys it, I know she does from that content lust-filled face. My little manic practically lapped the come off my finger. Iris wasn’t complaining when I cut her work short to steal her away and made myself known to those girls at the shelter what Iris is to me, with one them being Cecily Knight. That girl also has a mouth on her but compare to Iris’s sassy, elusive tone and biting remarks, Cecily played mostly the peacekeeper.

Boring…

I have rules and for my past partners, which were short-term romp in the hay or one-night stands that were used to sate my physical needs, I laid out those iron-clad rules. I needed a distraction, and they were willing bodies who gave it to me freely. A good exchange for what we needed in the short pleasure that temporarily clouds my sense of judgement.

I make them understand my terms because a damn misunderstanding of them thinking we are official is the last fucking thing I need. I don’t need complications with my fuck buddies. I use them, they use me, and then, bye-bye. And I intend to do so with my little manic, setting up rules for Iris and me. Even if the stubborn girl tries to deny it again, thinking she can simply say yes to this and run away like nothing happened. Fucking no.

What I know, she’s mine. Even if this is just a way for me to quench this desire burning inside whenever she’s close to my vicinity. Like I told her, this isn’t forever but I intend to leave a permanent, gruesome scar on her to make myself untouchable like a nightmare she can’t get rid of even if she tears her hair out or destroy herself to forget.

My presence in her mind and body will be unforgettable. And the girl better remember that before she goes and be grabby with others. Don’t blame me when I show her why I’m not to be tested.

Because it won’t be her that receives my wrath. If Iris isn’t careful, one of those little friends of hers will take her place as a lesson, that I’m not someone to be trifle and play games with, unwilling or not.

Plus, I need time to hash out my plan to have Iris agree in our ‘play time’. I noticed she gets easily bored this one, and I don’t like my prey getting too comfortable just because I soften up before giving the harsh blow. I’m not nice and Iris knows it.

Have I ever played nice before with her? Never. Iris would call me a rude bastard for even faking an ounce of politeness.

I look at her, taking this rare chance to really see and memorize her in a way that’s disgustingly poetic. Starting with the part which caught my attention of her that first time.

Her hair is in a wild, messy state of 70% dark ebony hair with 30% bleached imitating ashen gray. Its not white, not silver, but a certain gray that tries to imitate the ‘I was born with it, bitches’ platinum blonde hair I’ve seen on Maya and Mia. As if Iris lazily decided halfway that this was good enough and was left with a gray tail that I now associated with a dying shooting star losing its light.

My fingers run through those dark strands, the softness to the rat’s nest imitating hair is surprising. The scent of sweet nut I’m currently unable to identify grows stronger as I nose the back of her ear. Is it perfume, a hair product? or just her? That maddening, lingering scent that clings to my skin hours after I’ve walked away. It’s driving me insane, the kind of scent you start chasing in crowds or dreaming about in the middle of a fight.

My fingers tighten slightly, a subtle anchor to keep from losing myself. Her hair’s a mess, a war zone of black and ash-gray, but even in its chaos, it suits her. Wild. Unapologetic. Beautiful.

I turn her face slightly to mine and again, capture those pinkish lips that beckons me like a neon sign. A warning should be hanging around this girl because behind those tempting cupids bow lies a whole damn minefield. Secrets wrapped in soft sighs and a smile that doesn’t always reach her eyes. She kisses like she’s daring me to survive her, like each brush of her lips is a test of how deep I’m willing to fall.

I pull back just enough to whisper against her mouth. “You’re trouble, little manic.”

And she answers, breathless and smug. “Regretting already, Volkov? Didn’t think you were a quitter. It’s only been a few hours, already regretting your choice?” Teasing me with that whimsical voice, edging me like a harp with its strings close to snapping.

“My regret now is not putting you in your place.” She yelps when I have my hand on her perky ass, squeezing them firmly, pulling her flush against me, my breath hot against her ear. “You keep talking like that, lunichka, and I might just remind you how loud you get when I do.”

Her body, a lithe combination of dancer’s grace and fighter’s poise, moves with an effortless confidence that suggests she’s both used to being watched and skilled at pretending she doesn’t care. There’s something unpolished but magnetic about her, like a blade forged in chaos, rough around the edges but undeniably sharp. She obviously has some fighting experience, from the manic, unhinged way of her dealing with the three Serpents at the alley that night to the way she avoided getting captured by the initiates with fades, twirls and quick side-steps (an elusive, playful ballerina) ending up with me eliminating them off as she watches with delight. And then, our ‘mock fight’ in the woods.

She’s good, but my little manic was more excited at the notion of being chase and capture by me than to return my attacks. It wasn’t about winning for her. It was the thrill, the game, the delicious tension of predator and prey where she got to be both. There’s a gleam in her eyes when she runs, a wildness that says catch me if you can, knowing damn well I will. And when I do, the way she goes fought and struggle until I had the upper hand as she hits the ground and goes still under my hands…its not fear. It’s surrender wrapped in defiance, a dare hidden in a smirk.

I played right into it.

Because there’s something intoxicating about a girl who grins through danger, who tempts you to catch her but never begs to be saved. Iris Reed—my little manic, lunichka—doesn’t want protection. She wants to be pursued, devoured, known down to her cracked, burning core.

And damn it, I might be the only one fucked up enough to do exactly that.

My hand absently move but the instant I do so, Iris flinches. The annoyance builds itself up in the back of my head.

There is one thing that has been niggling at the back of my mind. Iris doesn’t let me touch her back. I mean her physical back because she lets me touch her, more than gladly so, but the moment I have my palms place there, or even attempt to get them under her clothes, she flinches like a bad burn and then she covers it up like it never happened. A quick shift of her body, a joke, a smirk, a distraction. She’s good at that, redirecting, controlling the narrative. But I’ve seen it more than once now, and it’s not a coincidence.

Something’s there. Something she doesn’t want me to see. The kind of reflex that’s trained into someone, not something learned through discomfort. No, that kind of reaction is the mark of something darker. Something old.

And I’m not sure if it’s a scar, a mark, a memory, or all of the above. But whatever it is, it means something.

And I hate that it makes me hesitate.

Because I want to know everything about her. I want all her sharp edges and soft spots, her violence and her quiet. But I’ve also learned that with Iris, if you press too hard, she’ll shut the door in your face and throw the key in a fire just to prove she can.

I don’t push. Not yet. But it gnaws at me.

What the hell happened to you, lunichka? And more importantly, who do I need to bury for it?

Fuck…

Fuck me, I am sounding more and more like a hopeless romantic by the second. If Annika hears me saying all this out loud she’d burst into tears, declare it character development, and probably start planning our wedding playlist before I even finish my sentence. And if the rest of those assholes, a.k.a my fellow Heathens, find out…

God, I’d never live it down.

I scrub a hand down my face, trying to shake the thoughts loose, but they cling like a bad habit. Her laugh, the way her eyes sharpen when she’s about to say something reckless, the way her body moves like it’s meant to lure and destroy.

This isn’t love.

No.

It’s obsession wearing cologne.

“I need to head up.” She’s shutting down on me, from the way the playful, teasing tone seconds ago turns quiet, guarded. Like a curtain being drawn over her expression, sealing something off before I can reach it. Her gaze drops, no longer holding mine with that usual fire, and the tension shifts. Thickens.

Her eyes are the thing that draws me in.

Now that I have her close, being able to feel the way her body responds under my touch, being able to memorize her features that hide the sharpness behind the delicate curve of her brow, the plumpness of her lips, the pinks on her sickly skin, the mischievous way she tilts her head the entire picture of her is chaos wrapped in beauty.

Her eyes, though—those damned eyes that welcomed death with heavy eye-bags that show lack of sleep—are what keep me anchored. They shimmer like cracked glass in moonlight; broken, dangerous, and still breathtaking. They dull when she feels bored, when the days pass by and nothing excites her, but the moment something ignites that spark, they come alive like wildfire. Unpredictable. Hungry. Alive.

I’ve seen it. When she dances on the edge of chaos, when she’s toying with danger like it’s a game only she knows the rules to. That glint? It’s addictive. It tells you she’s seen hell, made a home in it, and dares you to step in with her.

She’s a contradiction I can’t stop chasing. A siren call to the worst parts of me. The part that wants to ruin and protect in the same breath.

Her eyes sparked in the midst of danger and I want those dull eyes to glow their greens whenever I’m around. I want to be the chaos that lights her up, the reason her gaze sharpens with thrill instead of numbness.

It’s selfish. I know that. But fuck, if anyone’s going to make her burn brighter, it’s going to be me. No one else.

I’m not here to fix her. I’m here to match her madness.

I study her, unwilling to let her retreat just yet. “Iris…”

But she’s already stepping back, putting that careful distance between us. “Thanks for the ride.” She says, soft but final, as if she’s drawing a line in the sand.

Iris moves to head inside but I held her wrist, tugging her back into me. The furrow of her brows pinches together the moment her back meets my chest, her breath hitching just slightly. She doesn’t say anything, but I can feel the tension vibrating off her like a live wire.

“Invite me up.” I murmur low, just above her ear. “I still haven’t gotten my fill of you, lunichka.” Maybe I wanted to make a point, with how we kept running around each other without the desire release we crave, I was getting agitated. I let her feel the outline of my cock pressing against her hip, the intent in my body unapologetic. Subtlety was never my strength, not when it came to her. Her breath catches, and her fingers twitch around the edge of the hoodie like she’s trying to ground herself.

She doesn’t pull away.

“Is this your version of asking nicely?” Iris whispers, voice rough at the edges, like desire caught between defiance and surrender.

“Lunichka,” I smile against her skin. “This is me being nice.”

Honestly, I don’t know shit about treating someone, anyone, decent. And to be honest, I don’t want to treat Iris like she’s some fragile thing I’m supposed to be careful with. But with her, it's so difficult not to put that line between us as I keep reminding myself that this wasn’t permanent. This was escapism. Sweet, dangerous, addictive escapism.

Still here I am, memorizing the way she leans into me when she thinks I’m not looking, the way her voice dips when she lets her guard slip. It’s not supposed to mean anything.

And yet, every time I tell myself she’s just a temporary high, I catch myself wanting more.

But I can’t give her permanence.

I’m not built for forever.

Only this, this brief, stolen moment where we pretend like the world can’t reach us.

Her body, so responsive, always one to be honest despite her mouth saying differently. But I almost forgot, Iris isn’t someone that gives in so easily.

“I ain’t that easy, wolf.” She purrs out that nickname, leaning up to her tip toes to press a lingering kiss to my jaw, the softness of her lips skimming the stubble of my five o’clock shadow that by the time her lips shortly separate, I’m a growling mess. “I’m still deciding whether if you’re being serious or not.” And she uses the opportunity in my daze state to leave my embrace, twirling around like the dancer she is with that cheeky smile on her.

“Serious?” I growl in disbelieve. “How serious do you want me to fucking be, Iris.” The audacity of this girl, was she deaf to what I said when I had her on top of my bike? She’s mine and my little manic have better drill that notion into her brain by now.

I take a step after her, slow and deliberate, the echo of her laughter still dancing in my ears like a challenge. She’s halfway up the stairs when I call out, voice low and edged with warning.

“Don’t run from me, lunichka. You won’t like how I chase.”

She pauses, back still to me, but I see the tension in her shoulders—the thrill, the anticipation. Her head tilts just enough for me to catch a glimpse of that wicked grin.

“That’s the thing, Jeremy.” She throws back over her shoulder, voice teasing, playful, and maddeningly addictive. “I like it when you chase.”

And just like that, she disappears behind the door, leaving me standing there burning.

She wants a game? Fine. But when I catch her again, she’ll learn there’s nothing casual about the way I want her.

Nothing.

***

“The princess said you made a scene at the animal shelter.” Killian passes by me at the stairs, wearing only a pair of sweats hanging around his sharp hips and a sheen of sweat clinging to his torso like a second skin, muscles flexing with each effortless step showcasing those crow tattoos of his. His lazy smirk doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but the amusement is there.

I pause mid-step, glancing down at him. “Anoushka exaggerates.”

He snorts, running a towel through his damp hair as he glances back at me with a lazy smirk. “Jeremy Volkov, causing a scene over a girl? Sounds pretty on-brand to me.”

I grit my teeth, hiding my face from Killian before he could decipher whatever was going through my mind. My friend was often overanalyzing everything. “She’s just some girl who unfortunately caught my attention. Its temporary.” I say calmly, almost bored as I press myself to believe in the insignificant presence of Iris haunting me like a ghost even now.

Killian’s brow quirks, amused. “Didn’t say she wasn’t. But you might want to keep your leash tighter if you’re planning to parade your possessiveness through campus.”

“Its none of your business if I decide to drag her across the grounds in front of the student body. I don’t question your sexual escapees, you should do the same with mine.” After blanking my expression and calming my anger, I kept my eyes on Killian who nonchalantly shrugs his shoulders as if I didn’t expose his recent activity. If the strong scent of sex and musk clinging to him wasn’t an indicator of it, the swagger to his hips, the satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, and the fresh set of nail marks disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweats sure as hell were.

Killian chuckles low, unbothered. “Touché. But dragging her around like a Neanderthal?” He tosses the towel over his shoulder. “You’re either marking your territory or trying to scare her off. Which one is it?”

I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I watch him, jaw tight. Because the truth? I’m doing both.

“She keeps looking for the edge.” I say finally, voice low. “I’m just showing her where it is.”

Killian hums, steps past me with a lazy stretch. “Careful, Jeremy. Some girls don’t want to be saved. This one in particular is searching for a high that might be more than she can handle.”

And don’t I know it.

I internally sigh, taking deep breaths and forcing myself from dragging Killian by the throat to the sparring mat of our mansion gym just to teach the damn brat a lesson. Because if I do so, Gareth will retaliate worse like the last time someone put their hands on Killian. People might not see it but both Killian and Gareth are possessive with each other, and I don’t think either one of them notice the other guarding their virtue. They fight, they curse each others’ existence, they wish on each others’ death like a bad, looping record but make no mistake, Killian Carson and Gareth Carson would hurt and kill a person for one another if anything happened to them. These two are as much as a drug to one another despite their rocky, landmine-infused siblingry.

“My little manic won’t be an issue, Killian.” I stated firmly, looking over the younger man who arches a brow, clearly unconvinced. There’s a flicker of something in his expression—curiosity, maybe even doubt—but it’s gone just as quick, replaced by that smug detachment he wears like armor.