And I shouldn’t be lumped in the same distasteful category as him.
But it’s not the punishment that’s making me clench my fists.
It’s the way he’s watching me with that blood on his hand. I’ll be damned if I let him get his germs all over me again.
Besides, he’s silent.
Yulian’sneversilent.
He’s a goddamn yapper who doesn’t shut up—as proven by the entire essay he directed at the mentor just now.
“What?” I grumble when he just keeps staring as if he’s been possessed.
He lifts a shoulder. “No one won.”
“And?”
“And we still don’t know who’s at the top, genius.”
He rushes toward me.
And it’s arush.
He doesn’t jog. He runs at full speed as if he’s being chased.
I step back, expecting him to touch me with his bloodied hand.
But he doesn’t.
Yulian comes to a halt as abruptly as he sprinted forward, then speaks low. “How about we continue later? Behind the utility garage or in the basement or… Oh! When we go to gather wood. I found a sick open space near the peak that would be perfect for a fight?—”
“No.” I start to bypass him, not bothering to let him finish talking.
The yapper is back, and Yulian truly doesn’t shut up unless he’s cut off. The only one who seems to tolerate listening to his word vomit is Cyrus, but I suspect part of that has to do with their familiarity or the fact that Cyrus doesn’t talk much.
A harsh grip pulls at my hair until my skull throbs as Yulian yanks my head back so that he’s looking down at me, his smile gone, his eyes darker. “Hey, it’s not good manners to walk away while I’m still talking. Your parents didn’t teach you that, fake Russian?”
I whack the side of my palm against his windpipe. He gags, the sound echoing in the air like a choked sob, but he doesn’t release me. If anything, he tightens his grip on my hair, so I kick his shin, and then he kicks my calf.
Fuck.
My leg throbs and my skull hurts, but I’ll be damned if I give this moron the upper hand.
“Hit a nerve?” He speaks in Russian, his lips tilted with a mocking edge. “Do you even understand what I’m saying? Should I speak slower?”
“I speak flawless Russian,” I say in the same language.
“Flawless?” He laughs, the sound rich and smooth and…disconcerting.
“Like a native, actually. It’s not my fault you don’t hear correctly.”
“I heard wolf just fine.”
“I’ll have you know that both my parents are pure Russian. My mother was even born in Russia and comes from the aristocracy, and my uncle owns an empire in Russia.” I don’t know why I tell him all of this. In Russian. As if I want to prove a point to him or something.
I speak five whole languages, while this prick only knows two and is barely literate in English. I shouldn’t even want to prove anything to him, but I had to.
Call it a matter of pride.
