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)
“You never specified that!” Yulian protests.
“I did before the start of the match.” The man sighs. “It helps if you actually listen to instructions.”
“But that’s a waste of time!”
I drag my gaze to Yulian as he fights with the mentor, my temples throbbing, my fists clenching at either side of me.
The motherfucker made me break the rules. Me.
I actually deviated from a code of conduct because I wanted to see his brains spill on the ground.
For a minute, I forgot about the need to get along with the Chicago mafia that my parents drilled into me and that I’m here to represent them and our organization.
For the duration of the fight, I was consumed by the one thing I was meant to control and erase.
Bloodlust.
And it was because of this degenerate motherfucker—
He stops grumbling at the mentor and glides his freaky eyes toward me. Earth and sky, that’s what they look like. Elements of nature that brighten at the same time.
He says nothing, just holds my gaze as he wipes the blood off the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.
And I stare back, square into his bruised face.
He looks like shit, his lip busted, the black eye looking terrifying around his blue iris, and his chest is full of bruises.
I’m proud of my handiwork—of thrashing him—but I can also feel throbbing at my lip, my chest, and my cheek. We did a number on each other, it seems.
The silence stretches for a disconcerting beat in the midst of the chatter from the others.
The mentor says something about punishing us by having us gather wood together.
Alone.
Not even the guards are allowed to accompany us.
Just the thought of spending alone time with this bastard makes my skin prickle.
Yulian is the one who gets punished, not me. Whether for causing trouble or smoking or being caught watching porn on the big screen that’s reserved for events.
And I’m pretty sure he made one of the guards tattoo some stupid doodle he made in the dirt on him the other day.
He’s a walking hazard pumped full of bad habits.
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’s never silent.
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 a rush.
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.