“What the Fuck is this? Shitting in my parade day?”

I don't pause at Nikolai's voice on my way inside the mansion. Instead, I reach the fridge and grab a bottle of water.

He throws the nearest object he can find at me, a Zippo, and I tilt my head to the side, letting it collide with the bottle of vodka. It shatters against the counter in a ceremony of glass and liquor.

"I'm assuming you'll clean it up and replace my vodka," Jeremy says from the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed.

"It's my vodka. Fuck off." My cousin shoves an ice pack on his swollen jaw and props his foot on the edge of the sofa.

Leaning against the counter, I cross my legs at the ankle.

"Bad mood?"

"And you're not? That loser won against you." I lift a shoulder. "I won something better than a meaningless match."

Like {{user}}’s company and even a temporary truce from fighting me once they were watching those fireflies - and I wasn't touching them.

They eventually relaxed once I forced my hand to remain still. Something that proved to be harder in practice than theory.

Turning this into a habit is out of the question. After all, I only need them to get their guard down a little, let me in a little so I can figure them all out and, in retrospect, delve into the reasons behind my interest in them.

"What's better than winning, motherfucker?" Nikolai grunts. "Next time, don't take my fight if you're going to lose it. My image is at stake here, Satan's heir."

I pull out my pack of cigarettes and stare at it for a beat, remembering {{user}}’s words from earlier about poison. Then I shake my head and stuff one between my lips.