Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 170885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
I open the door, ready to jump him from behind and attack his ticklish sides until he bursts out laughing. The sound is so rare that I can’t resist any chance to make it happen.
Usually, he laughs or smiles effortlessly whenever I’m telling him about my past adventures in school or with Mom and Dad, so I need to narrate more of those tonight. I even called Mom to ask about any shenanigans I might not remember…
My hand falls from the knob when I find him standing in the center of the room, in front of a canvas full of chaotic black strokes. His palette is on the floor, smudged in black as if he poured it out to murder all the other colors.
Splashes of black stain his feet and his khaki pants and even his usually spotless white shirt.
This isn’t like him. Bran is so organized and despises the idea of chaos. So to see him standing in the middle of it is not normal.
I slowly approach him and catch a glimpse of him staring at the canvas with a blank face. His hand pulls at the back of his hair so harshly, his nape is red, and his knuckles are white.
“Lotus flower?” I call, but he doesn’t make any sign of acknowledging my existence.
So I move in front of him, blocking his view of the canvas.
He looks straight through me as if his body is here, but his soul is floating somewhere else. I reach for his hand and pause when I feel how stiff he is, as if he’s hardening his body against a threat.
What the fuck is messing with you, Bran?
I have to apply pressure to peel his fingers from his hair one by one. My chest squeezes when I see brown strands in his hand.
“Brandon?”
I circle his nape, stroking the spot he abused. “Baby, look at me.”
My lips brush against his and they twitch. When I pull back, I find him watching me with bemused, lost eyes.
“Nikolai? When did you get here?”
“Just now,” I lie, my fingers still caressing his nape. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine. Your skin is pale and you’re standing in the middle of a mess.”
He looks at his surroundings as if he’s seeing it all for the first time.
Little by little, light blooms back behind his irises and he winces. “Bloody hell. Sorry.”
“Stop fucking apologizing.” I breathe harshly, watching him closely, trying to find a trace of the zombie version from a moment ago.
“Sorry…uh, I mean sorry. Jesus…” he trails off. “You should go. I’ll clean up.”
He starts to move, casting his gaze anywhere but at me.
My hold tightens on his nape and I clutch his jaw with my free hand so he’ll look at me. “What happened?”
An unnatural shine covers his eyes and it’s so similar to when he becomes panicked after I touch him in a semi-public space. “It was…an accident.”
“It doesn’t look like an accident.”
“I just dropped it. It’s nothing.”
He pulls away from me and grabs the palette then carefully places it on a few tissues on his sketching table.
For a few seconds, he remains there, hand gripping the edge of the table and his back crowding with tension as if he’s fighting his demons and shoving them back to where no one can see them.
When he turns around, he seems more like himself, and this time, he looks at me, like really looks at me, and instantly, his lips purse with disapproval. “Were you fighting again?”
I make an affirmative sound, not bothering to use my state as an excuse for him to touch me.
There’s something wrong with him, and the more he hides it, the clearer I see it. But if I ask him about it outright, he’ll just deflect and retreat behind his high walls. Or worse, he’ll revert back to his old habits and run away.
But I can’t take this anymore. I can’t watch him break in silence and do nothing.
Bran glides wet wipes over his hands, cleaning away the black paint, then walks to me, clutches me by the jaw, and rotates my head from left to right. “You seriously need to stop fighting. One day, you’ll really get hurt. You’re not immortal.”
He presses his finger against a bruise on my jaw and I wince.
“Does it hurt?” he asks with a note of concern that he obviously doesn’t have for himself.
“If I say yes, will you kiss it better?”
“I give up.” He releases me with a sigh. “I’ll go get the first aid kit.”
“I’ll do it myself. I need a bath anyway.” I walk to the entrance and glance back.
Bran watches me with a wretched expression, his body is angled my way like every time we’re in public, and then he opens his mouth, but just like all those times, he closes it again.