Nicknamed Death for his position on the team.
He doesn’t know that death isn’t a title. Death is the beginning of every war, and I’ve already started mine.
I stole his will, his future, and soon enough, his life will follow.
I have a secret, I’m a thief.
Ronan Astor is my next target.
As well as my future husband.
2
Teal
Beauty is subjective.
I read that once, and since then, I’ve had this weird feeling that it spoke to me.
Beauty is a strange concept for me. Black is beautiful, and dark chocolate with nuts can also be considered beautiful.
But other than that, what’s human beauty? Gigolos — sorry, I mean guys with model-like looks such as Knox’s — are considered beautiful. Aiden, Elsa’s boyfriend, is handsome, too.
There’s a different type of beauty that’s darker, a bit sinister, hiding under the surface rather than pushing to the top.
I guess that’s beauty for me. It’s not about the physical aspect but rather about what the exterior hides. You can feel it when someone possesses no beauty by societal standards but their charisma speaks to you in one way or another. You can’t see it, but it’s there.
Ronan, however, has no beauty at all.
His is the shallow type like gigolos. If he were a woman, he would be labelled a slut, but in his case, he’s called a playboy.
From the outside, he has a well-proportioned face, and it’s symmetrical, actually. It’s the same on either side of his proud straight nose, from the eyes to the cheeks to the sharp jaw and even to the ears.
It’s a symmetry like I’ve never seen in my entire life. Some people, like actors, have what resembles symmetry, but never actually a perfect one.
He does.
His face is too symmetrical, as if it were sculpted by a Greek god. People’s eyes usually have a slight asymmetry — not his. Even as the outside sun shines on them, they both glow in a rich identical brown colour.
I guess it’s part of his filthy aristocratic blood, a heritage he claims by being the whatever generation of the world’s nobility.
His beauty makes no sense at all for two reasons. A, he’s too aware of it; it’s cringy. B, and most importantly, there’s no depth behind it.
At least in Knox’s case, he uses the plastic easy-going personality as a defence mechanism to get what he wants. I know all too well what he’s hiding beneath all the laughs and grins.
In the few weeks I’ve watched Ronan, he’s never shown another facet of the sickly, cheerful personality. He’s always smiling, laughing, grinning, throwing parties, fucking, and fucking, and more fucking.
It’s…boring.
And yes, I have watched him. After all, he’s part of my plan.
He just doesn’t know it yet.
Soon, though. So very soon.
“Drop your arm, Van Doren.” Aiden stops in front of us. He’s smiling, but there’s no warmth behind it.
That.
The depth.
The human desolation.
It’s what makes him beautiful, not as a man, but as someone who stands out from the crowd of normal.
Aiden is anything but. He’s all darkness with little light that he only shows to Elsa.
“Come on, King.” My brother grins. “She’s my sis.”
“You share no blood. Actually…” He pauses. “Even if you did, I’d tell you to drop your arm.”
Elsa suppresses laughter by biting her lower lip as Aiden tugs her to his side by her other wrist. I tilt my head as she snuggles to him, wrapping her arm around his waist while he holds her with a hand at the small of her back.
It’s like they can’t get close enough or touch each other long enough.
Why would they do that?
Human touch is overrated. I’ve tried it, and it didn’t really matter. At least not in the way I wanted.
Knox and Aiden go into some sort of argument that doesn’t really register. It’s like they’re speaking in outer space — no idea if I’m the one blocking it out or if it just doesn’t exist for me anymore.
As I slide my attention back to my phone, a harsh glare registers in my peripheral vision. When I lift my head and my eyes collide with that infuriatingly symmetrical gaze, a grin greets me, all perfect and put together and worthy of an earl’s son.
I could swear someone was glaring at me just now, but he’s the only one in sight. Someone with his reputation and shallowness doesn’t even know how to glare. Ronan is all about laughs and having a good time to the point that negativity is considered below him. I’ve never seen him angry or displeased. Even when Elsa was taken to the emergency room, he came by filled with laughs and jokes, trying to cheer her up.
“Bonjour, ma belle,” he tells me, his tone light, welcoming, and I think there’s some flirting in there, too, but I’m not sure.
Ma belle.
My beautiful.
I don’t know why he calls me that when he’s never once thought I’m pretty. I heard him talking to Kimberly — Elsa’s best friend — the other day, and when she told him I’m pretty, he said, “There’s pretty and there’s creepy, and she falls in the latter category. Mmmkay?”
It was the first time someone said those words. Creepy? Sure. I’ve felt it during my limited interactions with humans, but no one has said it out loud, or maybe no one has said it out loud for me to hear it. They usually think I’m crazy, abnormal…mad.
I’m curious to see how he feels now that he’s forced to marry a creep, but I have neither the mind nor the patience to pursue it.
Curiosity can be beneficial, but its outcome is usually disastrous, and I have no time for that in my life.
Focusing back on my phone, I turn around.
They’re all so busy talking and throwing shade, so I doubt anyone will notice I’m gone.
Knox nudges me, a sly grin on his lips.
Okay, anyone but my brother.
I ignore him and walk down the hall. I’ll have to take the longer route to get to the classroom.
I don’t mind as long as it gets me away from that circle.
Lacking a talkative nature can be a disadvantage when surrounded by people who won’t shut up. Sometimes, Elsa and Aiden’s group of friends throw remarks my way, and I usually figure it out too late. I hate that.
It’s not my fault I’m not so witty like all of them seem to be.
I pass by the faceless students and try focusing on one of them, squinting to form an image. How hard could it be? Two eyes, a nose, and a mouth. It’s that easy.
Only it’s not.
I need a lot of focus to form faces, a familiarity of sorts, but I still don’t have that with RES’s students. The one I concentrate on barely has eyes; they’re washed out, and the person quickly strides past me, shattering any focus I had.
I shake my head and rekindle the connection with my phone.
Maybe one day after the war finishes, I’ll stand in a public place and recognise every face and every person. I’ll be normal.
Though, what’s normal? I never lived it, never experienced it, so how come I want it so much?
I’m a human, after all, like my therapist says. I can deny it all I want, but I keep snapping back to what’s considered normal even without my permission.