The Mist and the Lightning. Part 19 - стр. 4
“Stop immediately!” Kors told him sternly. “From the fact that you now knock yourself on your bad head, your mind will not increase, but only the last one will be knocked out!”
And Nik was sitting in front of him, sniffing and stubbornly rubbing his eyes. But Kors considered it the best when, nevertheless, one or two tears fell from glass eyes. Then, filled with incredibly pleasant emotions himself, like Nik’s eyes with tears, Kors impetuously hugged his son and explained that he was scolding him for his own good, in order to help him become better. And Nik should understand this, not be offended by his father and be grateful to him. And Nik thanked and asked for forgiveness.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
Even now, after everything that had happened between them, those memories still made Kors feel good in his stomach.
Nik was driving nearby and seems to have noticed Kors’ looks or heard his thoughts about him. Kors understood this, because the Demon slightly turned his masked face towards him, and then, turning away, let go of the reins, and, raising both hands, put the cloak hood over his head, covering his hair. He pulled his hood up, shading his already covered face. Passing his black-gloved hand a few more times over his mask, he carefully tucked a few unruly white strands under his hood. Kors saw how, on his hand, wrapped in an expensive thin leather glove, a golden ring with a dark green stone was put right over the glove. Kors’ gift. And Nik wears it. The stone shines brightly and shimmers. True blacks wore precious rings on their fingers, but never wore them over a glove, it was considered a vulgar sign of bad taste, and before Kors would never allow Nik to do this, but what can he say now? He no longer has the right to point and make remarks, and Nik, with his savage notions of beauty, of course, put a ring on top of his glove for everyone to see and so that he could show off the jewel.
Nick spurred on the Unclean Power, driving a little ahead and away from Kors.
Kors thought that the Demon’s real face was as black as his mask, and now he understood why the Demon liked to wear it so much. As strange as it may sound, but in the mask he looked more like himself. And the Demon used the cute features of Kors’ son only for seduction and deception.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
Kors became very sad. How good it was to be ignorant of the lies that reigned around him, suffocate with love and delight, squeezing “his boy” to his chest, the boy who he considered Nik to be, in a slightly rough and passionate embrace. To look into those transparent eyes, often made up, lined with black and burning on a pale face, to hear his groans, to see and feel how Nik cuddles and clings to him. How could Kors assume that they themselves, and not at all their ill-wishers, would destroy such an ideal relationship? And now what? Now what?!
There is no longer his little white boy, his beautiful doll, so sweet, affectionate and obedient, and bright eyes in long eyelashes will no longer look up at him from the bottom up, waiting for him to order. And seductive lips will not pout cutely from frustration because of offensive words. And now, from the bitterness of unfulfilled hopes, Kors himself had treacherously tears in his eyes. All immersed in his grief, he didn’t immediately notice Zaf, but he rode up to him, and Kors, recollecting himself, quickly wiped his wet eyes with his palm. “Damn, what does he want?”