I tried to ignore it, but the approaching person’s heavy boots and the creaking of the floorboards shifted the air around me.
Calculatedly, I set my cup down with the grace seeping coffee didn’t exactly require.
The man halted by the table near me, his hand lifting to push his baseball cap further down his forehead.
His gaze proceeded to sweep over the cafe, resting briefly only on me, then sharply shifting to the counter.
After getting the attention of the barista behind the counter, he finally pulled out a chair and sat with the harmless leisure of a regular man. But I had a feeling this man’s presence differed from a regular man needing a caffeine refill.
He was here to kill me…well, Callan.
Reasons such as this, was why I really hated that I had to wear my brother’s face. His enemies were always after me. I could just be strolling on my own, minding my damn business, and bullets would be flying.
However, a smirk lifted the corner of my lips, my fingers drumming against the body of the ceramic cup.
Someone sent someone to kill Callan. And it wasn’t something I found out-of-the-ordinary. I was well aware that despite Callan’s oath to stay in the shadows even as the regent emperor of the Raskov Dynasty, some still managed to figure out the real identity of the current leader. Because my brother was careless and naive and so fucking trusting. It was a big flaw.
Callan was as harmless as a dove, a man who just wanted to read his silly little books, draw on that stupid white book of his, and solve puzzles all day long. He was a simple man. But hidden foes who could eagerly incite a million-dollar bounty on his head just for the sake of it lurked in the corners of Glenfallow, Torvane and Braemont.
Why would they want to kill this divine angel, you asked?
According to legend, the Raskovs fled Russia in 1918 after the fall of Tsar, bringing arts, gold, military, and political contacts. Now, the country’s military tech and private security survived under Raskov’s protective wing, thanks to the Raskov Defence System. They built houses and companies, railway stations, inflating the country’s GDP through Raskov Holdings. Scotland was now leading in Whiskey production. And that was made possible by none other than the Raskov Distilleries. Thousands of people were taken off the streets and given a better life every year through The Raskov Foundation.
Nearly every corner you turned, there was Raskov embedded into the wall.
See where the rage was coming from? Foreigners were about to take over their land. They desperately needed to bring downtheir empire. And to do that, they needed to cut off its head…my brother’s head, literally.
Anyway, I wouldn’t be wasting my time wondering who among Callan’s growing enemies sent another killer. Because really, the foes were numerous and it could be anyone. So I was just going to kill this man and save myself the trouble.
With my master plan blooming in my mind, my smirk deepened enough to form a shadow on my face. Nothing stirred the rot in me quite like the promise of blood. Warm, bright and fucking terrified. The terrors I drew from the victim’s eyes always felt so…personal.
Indeed, a nice kill in this hidden corner of Braemont was a grand way to end my seven days of prancing around town freely in my brother’s body.
I was about to set this sweet plan of mine in motion when the bell chimed again. And a low grunt settled in my throat.
What a bloody annoying day I was having. Was a party being held here or what?
Lifting my gaze to the door, I saw the intruder; a girl. And right behind her was an Asian boy.
The fiery red hair of the girl seemed to have absorbed all the glow from the sun as the strands glinted under the dull beam of the light in the room.
The spot the strange girl and the boy were suddenly staring at though, began to puzzle me. Why were they looking at me? Pointing at me?
I couldn’t help but question their purpose when within a whisper of seconds, they were at my table indeed, invading my fucking privacy, forcing me to put my plan on hold.
The air though; something bubble-gummy and flowery consumed the air around me, choking the fuck out of me.
“I-um, sorry, hi.” She fumbled with her words, voice quite like silk, and her cheeks were immediately flamed red.
Standing so close to me, I began to see something; a strange, familiar quality that resided within her green eyes.
Forest eyes. Fire hair.
Where had I seen her before?
Then in a blink, like a switch was turned on in my head, the memories played like a film.
Six years ago at the Raskov Foundation Cultural Advancement. The girl who was awarded a scholarship for writing a poem that made adults cry. Some were sure she found it on the internet. There was no way a girl with such innocent eyes could harbour pain deep enough to bleed poetry.
