God of Malice: Chapter 18

I stare at the scene, dumbfounded.

You know that moment when you freeze up and have no idea whether moving or even breathing is okay?

Actually, screw it.

The prominent emotion that tears through my chest isn’t feeling like a third wheel or being slammed in the face by PDA—it’s something worse.

A burst of energy slashes through my veins so similar to…rage.

I swear I’m not the jealous type.

In secondary school, I found my boyfriend making out with my classmate and just closed the door and broke up with him via text.

I don’t feel any resentment toward Bran for being Mum’s favorite, for being the vessel of her talent. Nor for the fact that she goes the extra mile in her attempts to protect him from Lan.

I also have no resentment toward Lan for getting all the attention in our family. Or toward Ava for looking like a goddess and being perfect at everything she does. Or Cecily for being the most balanced human I know.

In short, I don’t feel jealous.

So why the hell do I feel the need to dig myself a hole in the ground and disappear in it?

It’s not jealousy. I refuse to categorize it as such. Because if I’m jealous, it means I care, and that’s not close to possible.

I even came up with the proper explanation for it with that suspension bridge effect theory.

That one makes sense. This whole situation doesn’t.

The leggy blonde all but thrusts her tongue against Killian’s lips. I know because I can see it being stopped by said lips—closed lips, thinned-into-a-line lips.

If it were me, clearly rejected like that, I would dig that hole deeper and vanish farther in it. Maybe bury myself alive while I’m at it, too. However, the blonde doesn’t stop and even goes on to bite his lower lip.

Instead of asking for a kiss—she’s demanding it.

Unable to keep looking, I stare at the ground, my eyes blurry and my ears so hot, I think they’ll explode. Is there an exit somewhere? Maybe it’s on the other end of the house?

In my peripheral vision, I make out Killian’s hand shooting out, grabbing the girl by the hair, and wrenching her away from him. Then he steps back, letting his hand fall to his side.

I guess that means he’s not savage with only me.

I expect her to whine or yelp—I would’ve definitely shrieked from how painful it looked—but she just licks her lips, showing a piercing in her tongue. “I love it when you’re being rough. Rawr.”

Is she crazy? Why the hell would she like the bastard’s violence?

Oh, wait.

Aren’t there people who get off on it? Like Killian, for instance.

I lift my head to watch them openly, not bothering to hide the fact.

“What are you doing here, Cherry?”

Of course her name is Cherry. She looks like a Cherry.

A seductive grin curves her lips. “I always wondered about your secret club, so I thought I should join. Look. I won.”

My heart sinks at the reminder that I didn’t win, and the bastard eliminated me at the last second. This Cherry, however, is already a member.

Killian’s expression remains blank, so she steps toward him, swaying her hips and biting the corner of her lower lip. “How about a celebratory fuck to welcome me to the Heathens? You can choke me.”

I step backward as if I’ve been slapped. I can’t stay here anymore. My chest aches at the thought that he’s done the things he did to me to someone else.

He choked them, too.

He probably ambushed them and made them feel alive just to drop them when he got bored.

I know all of that, I do, so why the hell do I feel like crying?

One thing’s for certain, I definitely won’t stay to watch them hook up.

“I’m…going to go.” My whisper is barely audible.

Refusing to lower my head, I turn around and start to walk from where I came.

Though maybe I can go into the house and see if there’s a way out—

A strong hand wraps around my elbow, jerking me to a halt. I stare up at Killian who all but fuses me to his side.

“I have someone else for a celebratory fuck. Better luck next time, Cherry.”

I want to say no, there’ll be no fucking and absolutely nothing to celebrate, but for some reason, I remain silent.

It’s due to the change in Cherry’s face from proper flirtatious to frightening calculation. “And who is this lost lamb?”

“More like a little rabbit. She runs fast.” Instead of mockery, there’s a hint of…pride in his tone. But before I can comment on that, he slides his palm from my elbow so he can wrap it around my waist. Possessively. “The door is to your left, and so are the dicks you can suck.”

“You’re still mad about that? We weren’t exclusive, Killer.”

“I’d have to care to be mad.”

Cherry waltzes in our direction until she’s glued to Killian’s other side. “Do you honestly think you’ll be able to replace me with this…boring lamb? She’s looks as ordinary as a grandma from fairy tales and doesn’t have what it takes to keep your mind and body stimulated. She’ll never understand you like I do, give you the thrill that I do. So don’t waste your precious time on some neurotypical human who’s not worthy of your attention. And you”—she directs her malicious glare at me—“stop running after him. You’re not on his level.”

“Who told you I’m the one running after him?” I’m surprised my voice remains calm. “In fact, he’s the one bugging me, even though I’ve told him countless times to leave me alone.” I dig my elbow into his side and try to pull away from him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, this neurotypical human is leaving.”

Hot breaths tickle my ear and send shivers through my body. I stiffen as Killian whispers, “If you leave, I’ll fuck her.”

“I don’t care! You can go to hell and it would mean shit to me,” I all but yell, then with superhuman strength—that’s probably a result of the adrenaline—I push him away and storm in the direction of the house.

My fingers twitch and I rub my hand against my shorts as I barge into the hall.

I pause when I find two of the neon purge masks inside.

Green Mask stands by the corner, watching the scene outside, apparently. The yellow mask, however, sits on a sofa with a participant on his lap.

No kidding. The one with the number eighty-nine is using Yellow Mask as a chair.

Judging by his form, he’s most definitely a man and…he looks a bit familiar. I try to meet his eyes, but he lowers his head, remaining still.

Yellow Mask—who’s been watching him the whole time—jerks his attention to me. I swallow a scream at the sight of blood on his mask and his hands that he’s using to grab eighty-nine’s waist.

“Lost?”

I startle at the sound coming from behind me and stare back to find Green Mask staring down at me.

“Uh, yeah. Can you tell me where the exit is?”

“Follow me.”

He walks in front and I hesitate for a beat, but at the yellow mask’s glare, I slowly follow the green one.

The Heathens are a complete freak show and no one will be able to convince me otherwise. A shiver slashes through me at the thought of what they might do in the dark.

As I leave the hall, I can’t help feeling bad for eighty-nine. He’ll be okay, right?

Maybe that’s what Devlin felt at the hands of these guys before he decided to drive straight off that cliff.

He’s not antagonistic, and if they made him indulge in violence or mind games, it might have shattered him.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

I jerk out of my thoughts to focus on Green Mask who’s leading me down a barely lit hallway with gothic-like red wallpaper.

For some reason, I’m waiting for a creepy hand to shoot out and drag me into one of the rooms, horror film style.

Green Mask is tall but lean, and he has a calming presence, definitely not threatening like the yellow one.

“Why not?” I ask.

“You were eliminated and this place is exclusive to members.”

Eighty-nine is a member? It can’t be. The yellow mask looked like he could’ve easily eliminated him.

“I didn’t know that and I just want to leave now,” I say, hoping he’ll drop it.

I’m trying, and probably failing, to not think about the scene I left behind.

Green Mask stops near a closet, opens it, then looks at my wrist. I remain still as he rummages through it, then produces my phone. It’s wrapped in a plastic bag with the number ‘69’ on it.

“Thanks,” I murmur, tucking it in my pocket.

Green Mask only nods, then continues his silent march. We arrive at the double doors that lead to a patio with stairs. A short distance away sits a black gate—smaller than the front one, probably a back entrance.

He stops in front of me and slowly removes his mask, letting it fall around his neck.

The man behind it is none other than Gareth.

As in, Killian’s older brother Gareth.

Where Killian has dark hair, expression, and everything, Gareth is more blond, with light green eyes and a less sharp presence.

There are still a few traits that makes him look like Killian’s sibling. Only, he seems more trustworthy—probably due to his calm appearance.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“You should stay away from Kill. He’s bad news.”

“So everyone keeps telling me, but he’s the one who won’t leave me alone.”

His expression softens and he releases a long sigh. “Then my condolences.”

“Why?”

“Because he doesn’t stop until he gets what he wants, and what he wants isn’t often known.”

“He won’t be able to come near me now that he has someone else.” I throw my hands up in a vague gesture. “Like that Cherry.”

He’s going to fuck her, as he promised, and I’m never allowing him near me again.

Not even if I have to suffer for it.

Not even if I have to unleash Lan on him.

Actually, both Lan and Eli, and Creighton if I’m in the mood. I didn’t want to get them involved before, because I was genuinely scared to cause them trouble, but I’ll go against my nature and ask for their help this time.

Gareth unhooks the mask from around his neck and strokes the creepy neon smile. “I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you. I’ve known Kill all my life and I still can’t figure out what the hell he’s thinking about most of the time.”

My interest perks up. “How…do you deal with him? If you don’t mind me asking, of course.”

A sad smile pulls his lips, resembling the shades of autumn. That’s what fits him—a mixture of warm, dying colors. “My way of dealing with him is nowhere near impressive. Are you sure you want to hear it?”

“Yes, please.”

“I just avoid being the subject of his entertainment.”

“Are you scared of him?”

“No, but I’m scared of his lack of empathy. I’m also scared he’ll end up hurting our parents in an irrevocable way, which is why I try to monitor him as much as possible—while staying out of his way.”

“You mean like a big brother.”

“No, like a lawyer.” He releases a sigh. “He’s a criminal in the making, and just because our parents refuse to see that doesn’t mean I don’t. Killian started by killing mice, then scaled up to hurting his classmates, then me. Then he got himself in mafia business just so he could witness the brutality firsthand. Not to mention these initiations that he keeps escalating in intensity with each season. At some point, all these stimulants won’t be enough for his mind and he’ll end up killing. It’s a matter of when, not if. And when that happens, he won’t be able to get enough of the taste of finishing a life. He’ll keep doing it again and again, just to experience that intoxicating thrill, until he’ll eventually get caught. So I’m just waiting for him to fall into that hole.”

I frown. “That’s not true.”

“What isn’t?”

“The fact that he’ll surely become a criminal. He has more control than anyone I know.”

“Or that’s what he wants everyone to think. Kill is not completely in control—he’s merely suppressing his true desires, and one day, they’ll rule him.”

No.

Gareth is only seeing him in a dark light, probably because of their history. There’s more to Killian than his violent intent.

And no, I’m not defending him. I’m just thinking of it as I would about Lan.

Though my brother is a bit different. I think. He loves our parents and us. Or maybe he fakes it so well that we’re blinded to it.

“You be careful out there.” Gareth points at the door.

And I take that as my cue to go.

Once I’m outside, I can’t help stealing a look behind me. Gareth has both hands in his pockets as he watches me with a blank expression that somehow makes me uneasy.

I leave with images of Cherry and Killian assaulting my head. Even as I make myself think that I absolutely do not care.

I don’t.

Right?

Maybe I do care a little.

Or a lot.

Considering I haven’t been able to sleep.

After I sneak into the flat, I think I hear moans of pain. But after close inspection, it’s only Ava’s cello. Cecily’s light is out, so she must be asleep.

Me? I toss and turn in bed for half an hour, picturing Killian on top of that blonde. In my imagination, he’s thrusting inside her and roughening her up as she likes it and—

I stuff my face with a pillow in an attempt to shoo the image away.

Then I roll onto my back and open my Instagram app. The first image that comes up is a selfie of Annika, pouting while leaning on one hand as the sun glows from the tall French doors behind her.

There’s beautiful and then there’s photogenic beauty like Anni’s.

She captioned her picture ‘Bored. Tell me something about yourself.’

The first comment that appears is from lord-remington-astor.

My lack of knowledge on Greek literature has always been my Achilles’ elbow.

Annika answers with a line of laughing-out-loud emojis. Then she and Remi keep talking back and forth for like twenty comments in the midst of which they tag Creigh five times, but he doesn’t honor them with a response.

Wait. Did these two actually make an Instagram account for Creighton?

I scroll down to find another comment from a familiar name.

Might want to delete this before Jeremy does his night patrol.nikolai_sokolov:

I click on his profile and find that he has tens of thousands of followers. No kidding.

Nikolai’s profile has a whole dark grungy mood. It’s full of smoky pictures, fighting pictures, and among them are weird family ones that don’t fit. In one, he’s surrounded by two stunning identical blondes who are laughing at the camera as he frowns.

Still trying to deceive me, but I know the one on the left is Maya… Right?

There’s a screenshot from what looks to be a group chat with an interesting caption.

Surrounded by idiots.

Gareth: Group study?

Nikolai: I have a better idea. Group sex.

Gareth: Gross.

Jeremy: Try again in a hundred years.

Killian: I’m blocking you.

I can almost hear Killian’s monotone voice as he says that, and my stomach flips, but I exit the screenshot and continue scrolling through Nikolai’s account.

In the last picture he posted, Nikolai is grabbing a struggling Gareth and a bored-looking Killian in chokeholds.

Stuck with these motherfuckers for life. Not that I’m complaining…okay, maybe a little.

I tap on the tag section, my finger trembling as I click on killian.carson.

My heart nearly leaps out of my throat when I find the Follow Back button.

Just when the hell did he follow me?

Though he did mention that he saw my Inception-inspired painting and my stories earlier.

I run back to my notifications and find he liked a lot of my pictures. I scroll down and down, and holy hell, the crazy bastard liked all five hundred pictures I posted on Instagram.

Every single one.

An hour ago.

Isn’t that around the time I came back to the flat? Does that mean he didn’t continue his plan or am I just looking for excuses?

I return to his profile.

If I expected him to have about the same following as Nikolai, I’m terribly mistaken—it’s way more. Like two hundred thousand more.

Of course the prick is popular. No surprise there.

His profile’s description is: Med student. Lover of fine things.

Killian’s account is less chaotic than Nikolai’s. In fact, it’s aesthetically pleasing with warm colors and a lot of positive energy. Parties. Med students’ gatherings. Friends. Family. People.

Lots and lots of people and faces and smiles and life.

It’s the perfect façade for his rotten insides.

He’s either smiling or laughing or smirking in pictures. Some are taken in exotic places, others are on filthy-rich properties. Not only does his family have money, but he likes to show it, too.

The more I scroll, the surer I am that Killian is the male version of the social butterfly that’s taken over Ava and Annika, but without their sincerity.

Killian is flat out mimicking the youth’s obsession with social media and he’s doing it way better than they do since charisma comes naturally to him.

But I know that each of his smiles is undeniably fake.

As I go through his profile, I can tell why people would be so attracted to him. There are a lot of beautiful men around, but there are only a handful with his level of easygoing attractiveness. He doesn’t have to try to attract people’s attention like a magnet.

They flock to him like a moth to a flame without knowing they’ll burn if they get too close.

Or if he sets his sights on them.

I click on a family picture in which an elegantly dressed woman, whom I assume is his mother, sits on a high-back baroque chair. Her expression is of a badass queen as she holds the hand of a man that rests on her shoulder. Her husband—considering his resemblance to both Gareth and Killian—stands right behind her wearing a smirk. Both Gareth’s and Killian’s faces, however, are full of horror.

I scroll sideways for another picture in which she’s laughing, her husband’s expression is solemn, and Gareth appears relieved. Killian is throwing his head back in laughter.

Unlike the other picture, this laugh doesn’t seem completely fake. It’s not genuine either—just right in the middle.

My attention slides to the caption.

The difference between ‘Maybe I’ll give you boys a little sister, after all’ and ‘Just kidding, look at your faces.’

I notice a pattern where Killian posts more family pictures with his mother and his aunt, his mum’s identical twin, who’s also Nikolai’s mother, than with his father or Gareth.

In fact, the only time he posts a picture of his father is when his mother is around.

And there’s only one time where he’s posted a picture of Gareth, who’s out for a run in the rain.

My big bro’s leg day might turn into swim day in this weather. Get it together, England.

However, there are tons of pictures of his mother. In the last one, he has a selfie of her trying to feed him a biscuit while he scrunches his face.

I told my favorite woman that I stopped being six more than a decade ago, and she said “Not on my watch” as she stuffed me with a cookie. Thoughts on convincing your mom you’ve grown up?

Then he has another picture where he’s standing between his mother and aunt. His mum pinches his jaw while laughing and his aunt grins.

Guess who’s the queens’ escort for the night? Be mad @nikolai_sokolov.

My eyes blur with all the similar images. The normal, hyper, absolutely mesmerizing documentation of his life.

Oh, he’s good.

He’s so good at blending in that even I am starting to wonder if it’s all real.

I go back up to the last picture he posted about five hours ago of the five neon purge masks.

Night of mischief.

I scroll up and I freeze as the profile refreshes. During my snooping, he posted another picture.

It’s black and white, showing his middle and ring finger inside a mouth.

My mouth.

This is the picture he took earlier when I was underneath him as he told me I can hide from the whole world but not him.

Nothing is visible aside from my neck and my lips, but I know it’s me.

Damn him.

God damn him.

My fingers shake as I scroll to the caption.

Caught a little rabbit tonight and I decided to keep it.

Keep it, my butt.

I’m fuming, and all the ‘that’s hot’ and ‘holy fuck’ comments aren’t helping. So I close the app and throw the phone on my bed.

Then I think better of it. How dare the bastard post that picture of me after the whole show with Cherry?

He wants to play?

I will play.

It takes me five minutes to find the sketch I was playing with at lunch earlier. I place it beside the blank canvas and pick up my warm colors.

I only have a vague idea of where I’m taking this, but stroke after stroke, the image comes into focus.

For the first time, I’m thankful I don’t have a problem painting humans, and I do so with flying colors.

My creation stares back at me with a soft expression. It’s an imaginary man who, unlike Killian, has blond hair, hazel eyes, and a dimpled smile. There’s a softness in his gaze and he looks so nice that I get a huge grin.

After adjusting the lights, I take a picture of the painting and post it on IG with the caption ‘My type.’

Annika is the first one to comment.

SO cute *heart eyes emoji*annika-volkov:

Bitch, what? I mean WHAT? Where’s this fine specimen and why haven’t we interrogated him yet?the-ava-nash:

What Ava said.cecily-knight:

Go, girl.ariella-jailbait-nash:

No, no, go back? I reserve veto rights on this cunt who looks untrustworthy as fuck.lord-remington-astor:

Cecily and Ava gang up on him. Ariella defends him, and Annika keeps fawning and creates a separate thread for her and Ava’s socializing column.

I smile, pleased with myself. Mission accomplished.

As soon as I sit down, my phone vibrates.

I startle as the message across the screen reads:

Psycho: Like fuck he is.