GLYNDON

Idon’t know how I drive home.

There’s definitely crying and some blurry vision as I

strangle the steering wheel. But the persistent feeling is the

constant need to follow in Devlin’s footsteps and just hit the gas

to the nearest cliff.

I shake my head.

Thinking about Devlin under the current situation is about the

worst step I can take.

The best step I take, however, is stopping across from a police

station with the intention to report what just happened.

One thing stops me from opening my car’s door. What

evidence do I have?

Besides, I’d rather die than have my family battle a media war

for my sake. Yes, Dad and Grandpa, and even my mum, would

probably shred the stranger to pieces and be willing to battle all

types of wars for me if they knew.

But I’m not like them.

I’m not antagonistic and I sure as hell don’t want them to be

in the spotlight because of me.

I just can’t do that.

And I’m so damn tired. I’ve been tired for months, and this will

only add to the weight that has been perching on my shoulders.

Mum will be so disappointed in me if she hears that her little

girl is covering for a predator. She raised me with the motto of

holding my head up. She raised me to be a strong woman like

herself and my late grandma.

But she doesn’t need to know about this.

It’s not that I’m covering up for him. I’m not. I won’t make any

excuses for him. I won’t consider it anything less than what it is.

However, it’ll remain buried between me and myself. Just like

everything about Devlin.

Is justice that important? Not when I have to sacrifice my

peace of mind for it.

I’ve already dealt with a lot of things on my own. What’s

another thing to add to the list?

I finally arrive at my family home with a heavy soul and a

shredded heart. The blue hues of early dusk start descending over

the vast property as the huge gate closes behind me. The door

creaks with a haunting sound, and the fog forming in the distance

doesn’t help in diminishing the spookiness of the scene.

I step out of my car and freeze, staring behind me. The hairs

on the back of my neck stand on end and my limbs start shaking

uncontrollably.

What if that crazy bastard followed me here?

What if he hurts my family?

If he so much as poses a threat to them, I’ll become

homicidal. No doubt about it.

I might be ready to move past what he did to me, but it’s

different when my loved ones are involved. I swear I’ll go mental.

Long moments tick by as I inspect my surroundings with my

fists clenched by my sides. Only after I’ve made sure I didn’t

actually bring a rabid dog with me do I start heading inside.

Mum and Dad made this house so big, imposing, but with

enough warmth to feel like a home.

The building stretches over a large piece of land on the

outskirts of London. The wooden gazebo that sits in the middle of

the garden is filled with multiple paintings from our childhood.

The stars I drew when I was around three appear grotesque

and absolutely appalling compared to the ones my brothers

painted. I don’t want to look at them or be hit with that inferiority

complex.

Not now.

So I remove my shoes and sneak down to the basement. It’s

where our art studios are.

Right next to a world-renowned artist’s.

Anyone in the art circuit knows the name Astrid Clifford King,

or they’d recognize her signature, Astrid C. King. Her sketches

have captured the hearts of critics and galleries all over the world,

and she’s often asked to attend as a guest of honor at an opening

here and an exclusive event there.

My mum was the reason behind my and my brothers’ artistic

tendencies. Landon is damn effortless about it. Brandon is

meticulous.

Me?

I’m chaotic to the point that I don’t understand it sometimes.

I don’t belong to their inner circle.

My hand trembles as I open the door leading to the studios

Dad had built for us when the twins were ten.

Lan and Bran share the big one, and I have a much smaller

one. I used to hang with them in my early teens, but their talent

crushed my soul and I spent months unable to paint anything.

So my mum asked Dad to build me a separate one so I could

have more privacy. No clue if she figured that out by herself or if

Bran confided in her, but it didn’t make much of a difference. At

least I didn’t have to be slammed by their genius and feel smaller

every day.

In reality, I shouldn’t even compare myself to them. Not only

are they older than me, but we’re also so different. Lan is a

sculptor, a hardcore sadist who can and will make his subjects into

stones if he gets a chance.

Bran, on the other hand, is a painter of landscapes and

anything that doesn’t include humans, animals, or whatever has

eyes.

I’m…a painter, too. I guess. A sketcher and a dabbler in

contemporary impressionism. I’m just not as defined as my

siblings.

And definitely not as technical or talented.

Still, the only place I want to be right now is the small nook in

my art studio.

My hand feels cold and stiff as I open the door and step

inside. The automatic lights illuminate the blank canvas lining the

walls.

Mum often asks where I hide my paintings, but she never

pushes me to show them, even though they’re just in the closet

on the far wall where no one can find them.

I’m not ready to let anyone see that part of me.

This part of me.

Because I can feel the darkness shimmering under the surface.

That suffocating urge to let it consume me, eat me from the

inside out and just purge everything.

My fingers tremble as I pick up the can of black paint and

splash it on the biggest canvas available. It smudges all the

others, but I pay it no attention as I grab another can and

another until it’s all black.

Then I get my palette, my red colors, my palette knives, and

my large brushes. I don’t think about it as I create bold strokes of

red, then I kill the red with the black. I even use the ladder,

sliding it from one end to the other to reach the highest point on

the canvas.

I go at it for what seems like ten minutes when it’s actually a

lot longer. By the time I step down from the ladder and slide it

away, I think I’ll collapse.

Or dissolve.

Or maybe I could just go back to that cliff and let the lethal

waves finish the job.

I’m panting, my heart pounding in my ears, and my eyes are

about to bleed the same red on the painting I just finished.

This can’t be.

This…just can’t be.

Why the hell would I paint this…this symphony of violence?

I can almost feel that raw touch on my heated skin. I can feel

his breath over me, his control, and how he took it from me in

return. I can see him in front of me with those dead eyes, tall like

the devil and with the same imposing presence, his way of taking

everything from me.

I can almost hear his mocking voice and his effortless manner

of speech.

I can even smell him—something woodsy and raw that causes

my air to get stuck at the back of my throat.

My fingers slide to my neck to where he touched me—no,

choked me—when a zap slashes through my body and I drop my

hand, startled.

What the hell am I doing?

What happened earlier was obscure, disturbing, and absolutely

not something I should paint with these raw details.

I’ve never even drawn anything this big before.

Wrapping my arms around my middle, I’m about to hunch

over from the assaulting pain.

Shit.

I think I’m going to throw up.

“Wow.”

The low word coming from behind me startles me and I flinch

as I turn my head to face my brother.

The more approachable of the twins—thankfully.

Brandon stands near the door, wearing khaki shorts and a

white shirt. His hair, a realistic imitation of dark chocolate, flies in

all directions, as if he just rolled out of bed and landed in my

studio.

He throws a finger in the general direction of my horror-esque

canvas. “You did that?”

“No. I mean, yeah…maybe. I don’t know. I certainly wasn’t in

my right mind.”

“Isn’t that the state of mind all artists strive for?” His eyes

soften. They’re so blue, so light, so passionate, like Dad’s. So

troubled, too.

Ever since he developed that strong aversion to eyes, Brandon

hasn’t been the same.

It takes him a few steps to reach my side and wrap an arm

around my shoulder. My brother is about four years older than me

and it shows in every contour of his face. In every sure step he

takes.

In every calculated move.

Bran has always been orange to me—warm, deep, and one of

my favorite colors.

He doesn’t speak for a moment, silently eyeing the painting. I

don’t dare to look at it or how he studies it.

I almost don’t dare to breathe as his hand lies nonchalantly on

my shoulder like whenever we need each other’s company.

Bran and I have always been a team against the tyrant Lan.

“It’s…absolutely fantastic, Glyn.”

I stare at him from beneath my lashes. “Are you teasing me?”

“I wouldn’t do that about art. I didn’t know you were hiding

this talent from us.”

I would rather call this a disaster, a manifestation of my

fucked-up muse, than talent.

It can be anything but talent.

“Wait till Mum sees this. She’ll have a blast.”

“No.” I step away from him, the reassurances from earlier

fading into terror. “I don’t want to show her… Please, Bran, not

Mum.”

She’ll know.

She’ll see the violation in the bold strokes and the chaotic

lines.

“Hey…” Bran pulls my shaking body into a hug. “It’s okay. If

you don’t want Mum to see, I won’t tell her.”

“Thanks.” I bury my face in his chest, and I must dirty his

clothes with all the oil paint, but I don’t release him.

Because for the first time since the ordeal, I can finally let go.

I feel safe from everything.

My own head included.

My fingers dig into my brother’s back and he holds me.

Silently.

This is why I love Bran the most. He knows how to be an

anchor. He knows how to be a brother.

Unlike Lan.

After a while, we break apart, but he doesn’t allow me to

leave. Instead, he perches down to stare at me. “What is it, little

princess?”

That’s what Dad calls me. Little princess.

Mum is the original princess. The one Dad worships at her

altar and makes all her dreams come true.

I’m the princess’s daughter and, therefore, the little princess.

I wipe at the moisture in my eyes. “Nothing, Bran.”

“You don’t sneak to the basement at five in the morning, paint

this, and then say it’s nothing. It can be every word under the

sun, but nothing should not be on the menu.”

I grab a palette and start mixing random colors just to keep

my mind and hands occupied.

Bran, however, doesn’t drop it. He takes a long detour, then

stands between me and the painting I’m totally going to throw in

the nearest fire.

“Is it about Devlin?”

I flinch, my throat bobbing up and down with a swallow at the

name of my friend.

At one point, my closest friend.

The boy who understood my haunting muse as much as I

understood his lonely demons.

Until one day, we were ripped apart.

Until one day, we went in different directions.

“It’s not about Dev,” I whisper.

“Bullshit. You think we haven’t noticed that you haven’t been

the same since his death? His suicide is not your fault, Glyn.

Sometimes, people choose to leave and nothing we could have

done would’ve stopped it.”

My eyes blur and my chest constricts until it’s impossible to

breathe properly. “Just drop it, Bran.”

“Mum, Dad, and Grandpa are worried about you. I am worried

about you. So if there’s anything we can do, tell us. Talk to us. If

you don’t express yourself, we’re unable to go anywhere with this

situation.”

I feel myself disintegrating and losing ground, so I stop mixing

and push the palette into his hands. “You can probably make a

beautiful forest à la Bran style with all that green.”

He doesn’t refuse the palette, but he sighs deeply. “If you’re

so intent on pushing us away, you might not find us when you

actually need us, Glyn.”

A small smile grazes my lips. “I know.”

I’m good at keeping it all in.

Bran isn’t convinced and stays around to try and fish

information out of me. This is probably the first time I’ve wished it

was Lan who found me and not him. At least Lan wouldn’t push.

He doesn’t care.

Bran cares too much.

As do I.

After a while, however, he takes the palette and leaves. As

soon as the door clicks closed, I fall to the ground in front of the

painting of a dark cliff, a black star, and reds of passion.

Then I hold my head between my hands and let all the tears

loose.

By the time day breaks, I’m ready to escape without facing anyone

in my family.

I pack my suitcase for the new semester, then I take a shower

that probably lasts for an hour. I scrub my mouth, my hair, my

hands, my nails.

Anywhere that psycho touched me.

Then I put on a pair of jeans, a top, and a jacket, ready to hit

the road. I pull out my phone and text my girls. We’ve had a

group chat since we were basically in nappies and it’s where we

always talk.

Ava: Is it weird that I’m losing hair because of Ari? She won’t

shut up about wanting to join the group chat.

Cecily: Tell her to reapply in two years once she’s of age. We

only talk big girl stuff here.

Ava: Big girl stuff? Bitch, where? Didn’t see that on your

prude menu in the last…nineteen years.

Cecily: Very funny. Rolling on the ground as we speak. Not.

Ava: You know you love me, Ces kisses emojis

Juggling my bag on one shoulder, I type with my other hand.

Glyndon: Ready to hit the road for uni. Who’s driving?

We can actually fly to the island in a shorter amount of time,

but that would mean taking a plane, and I’m scared of flying.

My screen lights up with a reply.

Ava: Not me. That’s for sure. We stayed up with Mum, Dad,

and our grandparents last night, and I feel like a zombie.

Cecily: I’ll do it. Give me another hour. Still didn’t get my fill

of Mum and Papa.

I’m about to type that I’m in a hurry but stop mid-text when

Ava texts back.

Ava: Gonna miss Mum and Dad like fucking shit. Grandpa and

Grandma, too. Sigh. I’ll even miss the troublemaker, Ari. Have you

guys seen her new IG handle? Ariella-jailbait-Nash. That bold little

bitch, I swear. If Dad sees it, he’ll lock her the fuck up. Did I

mention that I’m losing hair because of her?

With both of them being sentimental, if I said let’s leave right

now, it’d seem as if I were the one who was running away from

my parents or something.

I’m not.

And really, I’ll miss them like hell, too. Maybe even more than

Ava and Cecily will miss theirs, but sometimes, I just don’t like

myself around my family.

When I peek down from upstairs, the dining table is already

buzzing with energy.

Mum is putting some eggs in front of Bran, and Dad is helping

but somehow getting in the way since he touches her every

chance he gets. Something that she scolds him for but still laughs

about anyway.

I stop at the base of the stairs to watch them together. It’s

been a habit of mine since I was young and dreamed about my

own Prince Charming.

Dad is big, tall, muscular and so blond, it’s like he’s a Viking

god, as Mum likes to call him. He’s also one of the two heirs of

the King fortune. A man of steel with a ruthlessness that’s often

spoken about in the media.

However, around Mum and us? He’s the best husband and

father. The man who gave me higher standards.

Ever since I was young, I’ve seen how he’s treated my mother

as if he can’t inhale oxygen without her around. And I’ve seen

how she looks at him as if he’s her protector. Her shield.

Her partner.

Even now, she shakes her head as he slips a hand around her

midsection and steals a kiss from her lips.

Her cheeks turn red, but she doesn’t attempt to shoo him

away. I inherited her height and the rich depth of her green eyes.

But other than that, we’re as different as night and day.

She’s such a talented artist, and I can’t even reach her ankle.

She’s a strong woman, and I’m just…me.

Bran is oblivious to the PDA happening near him as he

elegantly cuts his eggs and focuses on his tablet. Probably reading

some arts magazine.

It’s Mum who notices me first and promptly pushes Dad away.

“Glyn! Morning, baby.”

“Morning, Mum.” I plaster the brightest smile on my face, drop

my backpack on the chair, and kiss her cheek, then Dad’s.

“Morning, Dad.”

“Morning, little princess. Where did you sneak to last night?”

I step back with a start and stare at Bran, who merely lifts a

shoulder. “I wasn’t the only one who noticed.”

“I just went out to get some air,” I whisper, dropping down

beside my brother.

Mum and Dad take their seats with my father at the head of

the table. He picks up his fork and knife and speaks without

taking a bite. “You could’ve gotten some air within the property.

Roaming around at night is dangerous, Glyndon.”

You have no idea how true that statement is.

I take a sip of my orange juice to stop myself from reliving the

rotten memories from last night.

“Let her be, Levi.” Mum passes me a boiled egg—well-cooked,

the way I like—with a smile. “Our Glyn is a big girl now and can

take care of herself.”

“Not if she’s attacked by some crazy scum in the middle of the

night.”

I choke on the bit of juice that’s stuck in my mouth. Bran

passes me a napkin and gives me a weird look.

Shit.

Please don’t tell me it’s written all over my face.

“Don’t jinx it,” Mum tells him with a frown, then points at the

egg. “Eat, honey.”

I stuff my mouth with the white of the egg and Mum shakes

her head when I basically throw most of the yolk away.

“Do you need anything?” Dad asks, seeming suspicious of me.

Jeez. I really hate having him in this mode. He’s like a crooked

detective fishing for any sort of information.

“No, no. I’m fine.”

“Good. But if you happen to need something, let me or your

brothers know,” he says after swallowing his food.

“Will do.”

“Speaking of your brothers,” Mum fixes me and Bran with her

stern parental gaze. “I heard you two avoid Landon on campus?”

“It’s not that we avoid him…” I start.

“It’s that he doesn’t have time for us with all the attention he

gets from both professors and students,” Bran finishes, lying

through his teeth.

Because we do try to spend as little time with him as possible.

“Still.” Mum makes me a piece of toast, still treating me as if

I’m a little girl. “You guys go to the same university and even the

same art school, so I’d hoped you’d at least keep your bond.”

“We’ll work on it, Mum,” I say in my pacifying tone, because

even though Bran isn’t antagonistic either, he can definitely

channel that energy when it comes to Lan.

I start to get up, my stomach feeling heavy and absolutely

refusing to accept more food.

After kissing my parents goodbye and telling Bran I’ll see him

later, I contemplate driving to Grandpa’s house, but he’s probably

at work now.

Also, if a slight interrogation from Dad rustled my feathers, an

encounter with Grandpa will probably make me break down.

So I send him a good morning email. Because my granddaddy

doesn’t do texts. Doesn’t even honor them with a look.

I’m about to tuck my phone away when it pings with a text.

I think maybe Grandma is texting on Grandpa’s behalf, but it’s

an unknown number.

My heart nearly explodes from my chest when I read the

words.

Unknown Number: Maybe you should’ve died with Devlin,

huh? After all, that was the plan, wasn’t it?