Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 147801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
But how long would that last?
I’d still kill.
It would be impossible not to.
Especially after…him.
I know because bloodlust is the only urge I can’t fully control. I watch people’s pulse points and I wish I could turn them red. To see them choke on their own blood and let it fill the void inside me. I look into their eyes and I want them empty. I fantasize about dead eyes looking at me, knowing I’m the god who ended their lives.
It happens a lot during sex as they’re moaning while I wrap my hand around their throats, and I want to squeeze that pulse point to nothingness.
I want their pleasure to turn into death. It’d be poetic, really. To end their lives in their happiest moment.
Unfortunately, that would ruin this whole image I’ve spent my entire life curating, and I do care about my image more than my need to see people die.
So, sadly, I can’t kill Yulian.
I pause as I run my gaze over him again, the music thumping from downstairs barely audible.
Was he always this tall? I know he’s big like that brute Nikolai, and they often go at each other in the fight club, but I thought he was closer to my 6’3” than Nikolai’s 6’4”.
And he’s not standing, so he shouldn’t look this tall.
With a mental shrug, I stroll toward him and pull a knife from my calf sheath.
Step one: Undress him.
But I won’t be undressing a guy personally—I don’t even like undressing girls—which is why I brought the knife to cut his clothes off.
Step two: Empty the vial containing lube that looks and feels like semen over him.
Step three: Take a picture of my cock in my hand as if I just came on him.
Step four: Blast it all over the internet with his face on full display.
Step five: Retreat to my public persona, knowing I’m the one who brought his ruin.
Might punch and kick him a few times after, just to release this aggression that’s been bubbling in my veins lately.
I pull on the hem of his shirt with a finger, not wanting to touch his skin. Preferably at all. Begrudgingly, once or twice for necessity.
The sharp knife cuts through the fabric and I pause as the two pieces of the torn shirt fall to either side of him, revealing a muscular chest, an eight-pack, and a very wrong tattoo.
Due to all the fighting he participates in, I’ve often seen Yulian half naked. While his back is tattooed with all sorts of shit, he only has one small tattoo on his chest—a scripture in Russian.
That’s not what I see right now.
The guy lying in front of me, his chest exposed, has a massive 3D black snake coiling across his abs, its scales rising and twisting like they’re alive, winding down to his side with menacing grace. Its mouth is open, fangs bared, inches from his heart like it's ready to sink in and tear into him.
I take a step back.
Unless Yulian got a new tattoo in the last forty-eight hours, this isn’t him.
My mind races. How?
I clearly heard his voice when I slipped him the drug, and I kept my eyes on him from then on.
Except for when he went up the stairs first.
Fuck.
If this is a trap, I’m not waiting around to find out. My legs carry me toward the door in quick, silent steps.
The moment I grab the knob, a metal barrel is placed against my temple, and a gun clicks.
A deep, unfamiliar voice whispers in my ear, “It’s bad form to get a man excited and then leave. How about we fix that?”
2
GARETH
The reason I’ve kept my mask on for almost twenty-two years isn’t due to a coincidence.
Or a lack of observation by my parents, teachers, or any of the adults in my life.
It’s not an accident or something I’ve grown into.
It’s a conscious decision I made when I was younger, and I’ve done everything necessary to make sure the image stays in place.
Mostly because I plot ahead.
Way ahead.
I don’t move without having plans for all the variables in the equation. Multiple plans. So if one fails, I have several more to fall back on.
But tonight, I didn’t count on Yulian being substituted.
It’s not like him. At all. If he’d figured out I roofied his drink, he would’ve faced me head-on and tried to bash my head in.
He’s not a coward, and he definitely loves using his fists.
So it’s not Yulian who’s behind this mishap. It’s the guy holding a gun to my temple, his chest emanating repulsive heat at my back.
He better not touch me.
I consider opening the door and leaving anyway, but I only plan to die in my sixties, so being killed now would be getting in the way of that plan.
Letting my hand fall, I turn around in one swift movement and swing my knife, aiming at his throat.