On the island I swore to never come to—except for participating in initiations with the Heathens and indulging in mindless violence-slash-release.
But the upcoming initiation is still a couple of weeks away, so I shouldn’t be here.
And I definitely shouldn’t be in Yulian’s den.
The mansion is too loud—pulsing music, undulating bodies, and the heat of overindulgence. The scent of cologne, sweat, and expensive smoke drifts through theopen archways. The whole place is decadence wrapped in decay.
And I just stand here in the shadows, my mask cool against my skin and my hands in my pockets as I watch him.
I managed to infiltrate their security, mostly due to hacking an invitation to the Serpents’ compound.
Unlike the Heathens, who don’t throw parties often, the Serpents have these types of hedonistic gatherings on the regular in their mansion.
But then again, my group of friends doesn’t contain a certain unhinged guy who loves to advertise his pleasure-seeking tendencies.
The thorn in my side I came here for.
No. I’m not hereforhim—I’m here to teach him a lesson if he goes anywhere near Nikolai.
I’d like to consider myself responsible for my entourage’s well-being. And Niko’s well-being would be impossible if he got involved with the terminal cancer called Yulian.
So my presence comes down to putting that bastard Yulian in his damn place.
Said bastard is right across from me.
He’s wearing a black skeleton mask with gold serpents that gleams beneath the chandeliers. His obnoxious laughter lingers in the air as he talks to a group of people surrounding him in a reverent circle. The slightly husky sound is loud and carefree, like he’s not shackled by any rule in our world.
He runs his fingers along a guy’s arm, his body language loose and welcoming. The same slender fingers he had all over Danika not a week ago. The same type of sensual touch he used to steal my girlfriend.
It’s on a random guy now—that same flirtatious edge. The same sensual appetite.
Yulian lifts his mask, only revealing his lips, then lowers his head toward the bottle in the guy’s hand. His eyes on the guy, Yulian opens his mouth and closes it around the neck of the bottle. The guy tilts it, and Yulian takes a sip, his mouth still sealed around it.
As Yulian pulls away, some of the drink dribbles down his chin, winding over the taut veins of his neck before disappearing into the collar of his shirt. His lips are stained with something red—not sure if it’s a drink or lipstick or both.
The guy who’s holding the bottle swipes his hand along Yulian’s neck, on the liquid shining there, then strokes the skin.
My fingers flex in my pocket the more the guy rubs Yulian’s skin, but I force my hand still, even as inexplicable fire incinerates me.
I don’t move. Don’t speak.
Just watch.
And bide my time.
I’m good with waiting.
Monitoring.
Observing.
From a young age, I’ve always been described by my teachers as extremely bright but slightly withdrawn.
I’m not really withdrawn, per se. I just couldn’t care less about the noise that’s been surrounding me since I was born.
Tuning out distractions and carefully selecting what to focus on have been the most useful tools in structuring my life.
Though my brain would argue that my being here isn’t part of that careful selection. I’m clearly succumbing to a distraction I thought I’d eradicated long ago.
