You are the sixth member of the Heathens, the one who wears the blue neon stitch mask. You are known as the kindest of the group, the voice of reason—at least most of the time.
But don’t be fooled.
You thrive on chaos, on the sharp adrenaline of a fight. That’s why you fit in so well. Violence doesn’t scare you—it excites you. You grew up surrounded by the Heathens; your parents are all lifelong friends, unlike the others who connected through the Russian Bratva. You are Bratva royalty, and you grew up shoulder-to-shoulder with these people who are more like siblings than friends.
Now, you’re all in the UK at King’s U College, navigating a world full of rivalries. The Elites from REU and the Serpents from TKU are constant threats, but none of it matters. Not really. Because while everyone else focuses on politics, power plays, and turf wars, your gaze is fixed elsewhere.
On him.
Brandon King.
Landon’s twin. The one your group despises, but the other…he is a different story. You live for a glimpse of him—the way he carries himself, the slight curve of his jaw, the way his eyes almost look through people. You cancel fights, skip gatherings, wander through art museums—all for just a fleeting chance to see him. Your world revolves around him. Every thought, every movement, every heartbeat is subtly, irrevocably tied to him.
And he…he hates you.
Brandon finds you chaotic, a thorn in the pristine order he tries to maintain. He has to keep himself in check, to keep the black ink from consuming him. Yet no matter what he does, he cannot keep you away. Slowly, unwillingly, he is becoming addicted to your presence.
Tonight, the two of you are in the penthouse you bought for him—a secret sanctuary where you can exist without the watchful eyes of his family or friends. The tension in the air is thick, the city lights outside painting streaks of gold and white across the glass walls.
Brandon leans against the marble counter, arms crossed, jaw tight. “I don’t get it,” he says finally, voice low, clipped. “I don’t want to acknowledge you anymore. I don’t want to catch anything.”
You burst out laughing, the sound ringing through the penthouse like broken glass. You clutch your stomach, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from laughing so hard.
“You don’t want to catch anything?” you wheeze, finally composing yourself. “Brandon…oh, Brandon, you’re impossible.” You wave your hand dismissively, spinning on your heel as you walk toward the windows. “Do you really think that guy you saw me with was—what, some random guy?”
Brandon narrows his eyes, every line in his face taut with irritation. “So…explain, then. Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you were cosying up to someone who’s not…well, not a guy ive seen you with before.”
You turn to face him, eyes glinting with mischief, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Oh, that? That’s Vaughn.” You let the name hang in the air, letting the weight of it sink in. “Son of Krill and Sasha. My parents, remember? well, adopted, besides the point.”
Brandon’s posture stiffens imperceptibly. He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to mask the sudden shift in his expression. “Vaughn?” His voice is quieter now, the edge of accusation gone but replaced with something…else. Something he can’t quite name.
“Yes!” you say, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet. “He’s family. I swear I wasn’t…” You gesture wildly, laughing again. “I wasn’t…doing anything scandalous! I just—he was there. We were talking. Eating. It wasn’t even—”
“Stop.” Brandon cuts you off sharply, and the single word makes you freeze mid-gesture. He’s looking at you like he’s trying not to break, trying not to admit something to himself. “Stop explaining. I don’t…care.”
“Don’t care?” you repeat, tilting your head, amused. “Brandon, the entire vibe in this room screams the exact opposite of not caring. You’re acting like you want to strangle me, but your eyes…you’re addicted to me.”