Total pages in book: 148
Estimated words: 147734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
He watches me for a few more minutes, tilting his book to the side, which is…well, let’s say shit has hit the fan if Cy finds anything more interesting than his boring books.
His gray eyes scan my face as if he’s trying to find the little freak he knows so well behind the bruises my dad left as a parting gift. Thank God Cy wasn’t in the room when that happened, but as soon as he walked in a while ago, he noticed exactly what was up.
Sometimes, like today, I hate that he sees me at my worst. It makes me feel worthless.
Like a weakling, as Dad says all the time.
Finally, Cy reaches under his pillow and produces a Zippo and a pack of cigarettes, then throws them on my stomach. “You look like you need them.”
“No shit.” I slide a cigarette between my lips and light it as I fall back on the wooden floor while taking a long drag.
The nicotine hit doesn’t quiet the chaos, but it dulls my senses to a melody of nothingness or some shit.
Anyhow, I’d love a drink as well. I’m about to bring it up to Cy so he’ll make it happen—after some nagging, because he’s an old man trapped in a teenager’s body. Not that I can’t play my useless Yaroslav’s son card to make the guards do my bidding, but they report back to Dad in a flash, and he loves to make me see his fist and the sole of his shoe any chance he gets.
Cy can get any shit he wants just by sweet-talking his way through it or manipulating people into thinking it’s for some made-up reason.
I stare at him, and he’s still not focused on his book. Fuck me, that’s an anomaly.
Cyrus has the face of someone trustworthy. Ethereally handsome with platinum-blond hair, gorgeous East Asian-shaped light-gray eyes, sharp features that bewitch girls, and a silver tongue that makes everyone fall for him instantly.
Truth is, he wasn’t always so captivating with his speech. When I first met him a couple of years ago, when he first moved in with us, he didn’t speak. At all.
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 just refused to 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 I sat 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’t stop.
Can’t stay still.
It’s just impossible.