A black hole—that’s what lookshot as fuckto this lunatic.
Might call my dad and tell him we’re done here, and we should wrap it up.
“Don’t mind Yulian.” The house manager who’s standing in the doorway tries to smooth things over, his tone apologetic. “He’s…” He hesitates, his face tinting red before he finishes, “Never mind. He enjoys defying logic and gravity for some reason.”
“For some reason,” I echo, not caring what that might be.
“You should go change before we meet the New York kids,” Cy says to Yulian.
The latter glances at himself—dirt, blood, smudges of black powder staining his fingers—then smirks. “I’m perfectly presentable.”
The sound I make isn’t quite a laugh. More like a scoff edged with disgust. It ripples through the air loudly enough for both Cyrus and the guards to look up.
Yulian’s head lifts last.
He stares up at me, and I look down from the balcony, standing taller because I was taught to always present myself as the most powerful from the get-go.
The most dominant.
Yulian’s lips curve and it’s lopsided, as if he’s intrigued. Maybe entertained.
By what?
He holds my gaze, and I stare square into his creepy eyes. One is pale blue, and the other is dark brown, like a drop of ocean in the middle of a forest. A touch of mud on ice.
It’s disturbing.
But somehow…slightly riveting. I’ve never seen such a mismatch before.
Of course, someone like him would be a paradox of epic proportions. I’ve done enough research on Yulian Dimitriev to know what I’m dealing with, and he seems to be an absolute wreck of a person in every sense of the word.
He runs toward the cottage at full speed, and I expect him to come inside, so I get ready to leave, which will force him to follow me around, begging for scraps of my attention.
Because that’s how it’ll be at this summer camp. I don’t care that he’s a year older than me; I’m the one who’ll dominate this relationship.
Instead of coming inside, Yulian grips the wooden pillars, uses them for balance, and then leaps and grabs the railing of the balcony, pulls himself up with impressive strength, and jumps directly into my space.
I have to step back so he doesn’t crash into me and stain my perfectly clean clothes with all that grime.
To my dismay, up close, this dirty heathen is slightly taller than me, but we’re about the same build, though his shoulders are wider. His face is less angular than mine, more square and defined.
He smells of musk and the actual woods and pine. Leaves cling to his skin and hair, one stuck stubbornly behind his ear.
He offers his hand—the one covered with dirt, dried blood, and multiple lacerations.
I stare down at it but make no move to take it.
“Ah! Sorry.” He wipes his palm on his equally soiled jeans, rubbing it back and forth before he offers it again.
This time, I reach into my pocket, then drop a handkerchief in his hand. “I don’t touch unclean things.”
If my jab affects him, he doesn’t show it on his face. He’s still smiling, displaying an unsettlingly open expression, not attempting to school his features or mask his emotions.
Surely, he was taught how to control his reactions.
Though it does seem like he couldn’t care less about the traditional ways of doing things.
Yulian scrunches the handkerchief in his grip, running his dirt-smudged fingertip along the embroidered initials at the corner.
