Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 140896 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 564(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140896 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 564(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
It might also have to do with the fact that I haven’t been able to purge the asshole out of my thoughts ever since he flung through my walls and touched a part of me that’s been dormant.
I don’t know what came over me that day. I blame it on the haunted gothic vibe of the art studio dedicated to imperfections. But most of all, I blame it on the man himself.
The absolute enigma of a man who’s merely projecting an image onto the world, and they gobble it all up. It makes sense that he thinks of himself as an arrogant god. If they can love him for a personality he specifically created for them, why wouldn’t he become conceited and prideful?
The asshole probably thinks of his existence as a gift to humans.
I click on the tags and then go to his profile. landon-king. He actually has over a million followers. Wow.
Part of that must be due to his flourishing art career, and the other part is because he’s one of those annoying people who’s effortlessly popular.
His pictures are a translation of his posh rich boy/genius artist status. Some are taken at parties, others are with what I assume are family members. He has one picture where he’s kissing a statue on the mouth.
Jesus. The man is a lost cause.
And yet I can’t help but look at his expression, the euphoria in his mystic eyes, as if he could breathe a soul into the cold stone.
Which is ironic since he obviously lacks a soul.
He has pictures with what appear to be world-renowned artists, professors, mentors, business people, and half of the British aristocracy.
It’s like he has a hundred hours in a day.
The devil works fast, but Landon King works faster.
I scroll to the top of his profile and read the caption.
Landon King. The Prince Charming your nana told you fairy tales about.
More like the monster.
I wonder if he’s always been in control of the image he projects onto the world and what gave him the incentive to invent this image.
If he was born this way, like my cousin was, then there must be some form of a process that led him to where he is.
Not that I’m interested in his story. I am not.
I’m about to click the link to his website, but I accidentally follow him back.
Shit.
Jumping up into a sitting position, I unfollow him, hoping he doesn’t notice. Then again, an account like his must receive thousands of notifications, so he probably won’t pay attention.
With a sigh, I fall back against the bed and exit Instagram altogether. My phone lights up with a text and my breath catches.
Devil Lord: Playing hard to get?
What the hell is he doing up this late? But monsters don’t really sleep. What’s worse is that he actually noticed.
My cheeks heat and I curse internally. There goes my attempt to escape this shameful situation.
My phone lights up again.
Devil Lord: You make a cute stalker.
I lose my grip on the phone and it falls on my face. Pain throbs in my forehead and nose and I groan.
I can’t believe I’m being chastised by none other than Landon.
When I look at my phone again, there’s already another text from him.
Devil Lord: Stalker is a better and more decadent description than a coward.
Mia: Who are you calling a coward?
Devil Lord: Why, hello there. Here I thought my texts were for some reason being written with invisible ink.
Devil Lord: But I digress. Good to know you’re still awake. I planned a little something.
Mia: I’m not going anywhere with you.
Devil Lord: There’s no need.
I narrow my eyes. He’s surprisingly not threatening me with my sister or offering ultimatums, and while that should be good news, it actually isn’t.
From my unfortunate interactions with him, I’ve come to the conclusion that he’s the type who’ll go the extra mile to make sure he gets what he wants, come hell or high water.
So the fact that he gave up so easily is suspicious at best.
I continue staring at the screen, expecting him to bombard me with another series of texts, but none come.
Maybe his body finally gave out on his evil brain and he fell asleep or—
The lights go out.
My heartbeat skyrockets and I grab my phone in a tight grip as I study my surroundings.
All I find is black and more black.
Pitch-black darkness spreads around me, smothering my skin with a coat of the monster’s sticky scale-like skin.
No.
No…
This can’t be happening. Why would the lights go off?
Don’t tell me the monster has finally come for me…?
I will my leg to move. My best option is to run to Maya’s room, but I can’t even stand up.
Terror comes in different shades. Mine has always manifested in turning completely frozen.
Maybe I don’t want to leave the room, because I’d go to Maya first. A part of me vehemently refuses to get my sister involved in this.