We were already wary about the guy whom Dad dropped in our midst, telling us he was part of the family now. I thought he was his son—wouldn’t have been the first time he’d spawned kids outside of marriage, since I already had two older half-brothers, but no, Cyrus clearly didn’t belong to Dad.
Because Yaroslav abuses his sons, and he’s always been more protective of Cyrus.
However, Cy didn’t speak to us and refused to utter a word for weeks. He looked like he came out of a nightmare—or maybe was still living in one. The only evidence that remained of whatever had happened to him was the scar that slashes along the corner of his mouth, breaking up his fae-like looks a bit.
Mom and Alina tried their best to make him feel welcome, but he justrefusedto speak. During that time, he’d stand in front of the gate for hours as if he were waiting for someone to come pick him up. He still does that sometimes—just stands outside for a long time, staring at the horizon.
Dad made me take him to school and I wasn’t thrilled, mainly because Cy was an antisocial freak who was hated by everyone. I was the opposite, quite popular—naturally—and was warned by my friends to stay away from him.
No one talked to him, and in the beginning, I couldn’t care less, but as the days went by, I felt bad for him, so Isat with him at lunch and yapped endlessly about the most random shit. At first, he ignored me, but I grew on him.
The first thing Cy said, months after he was fostered by my parents, was, “You talk too much, Yulian.”
After that, I adopted him.
No, really. I’m his only real friend. Kind of improved his image, too, which he’s been changing over the past couple of years to serve his agenda better. Whatever that agenda is.
“What?” I ask when he continues watching me silently.
“What did your dad say?”
“Before or after he kicked me to near death?”
“Be serious.”
I blow out a long cloud of smoke. “Same old bullshit about not humiliating him.”
“Told you not to test your luck too much.”
I shrug. “I was just acting normal.”
“You were acting beyond normal, knowing full well he’d get reports of your behavior. Would it kill you to stay in line for just a few weeks?”
“Nah, not for me.” I grin, then wince when the cut in my mouth throbs and I taste blood.
It’s like a neuron snaps in my head, a current, a bout of electricity.
A goddamn spark.
I’ve always had this sense of restlessness. Ever since I can remember, I just can’tstop.
Can’t stay still.
It’s just impossible.
Hitting, punching, talking, being hit, being punched, being cussed out nonstop.
Well, fuck me.
Keeping the cigarette in my mouth, I flip over and do some push-ups, clapping my palms in between. This rhythm dulls the electricity to a spasm.
A throb.
A flare, maybe.
Cy releases a long breath. “At this rate, you’ll go home in a body cast.”
“Not happening,” I speak around the cigarette, “you know how Mom worries and Alina cries whenever I get hurt.”
