God of Fury (Legacy of Gods, #5)

by Rina Kent

I’ve just never been good with choices. Don’t appreciate them. Don’t care for them. Would rather not be presented with one.

No matter how much I attempt to delude myself, the reality is that I’m in the last place I should be. And I’m not one to challenge fate or go places I’m not supposed to.

My brother has always been the reason I’ve deviated from the core of my existence, though he’d argue this is my true character, and what I consider normal is a product of repressing. Hiding. Shackling my real self.

But then again, it’s impossible for me to understand some people due to how drastically different my personality is compared to the rest of my peers. Don’t get me wrong. I get along with almost everyone and I’m often described as extremely polite and a good sport, but my close friends are only a few. The only reason we’re tight is because we grew up together and I spent several years familiarizing myself with their personalities. Maybe my inability to form close connections after my childhood is due to being completely detached from most people’s source of happiness.

Yellow Mask can only be Nikolai Sokolov. Another Russian mafia prince, Killian and Gareth’s cousin, and the craziest twat who ever walked the earth. If rumors are anything to go by—and in Nikolai’s case, they probably are—he’s capable of punching someone to death just because they had the audacity to piss him off. I’ve only stood close to him once, a week ago when—again—my twin brother was fighting him in an underground fight club. I honest to God thought he’d pummel Lan to death. He didn’t, because my brother is a cat with nine lives.

It’s important to keep order and discipline, and I’m nothing short of perfection in creating stability and habits. Besides, if I don’t maintain a routine, I’ll only slither down that rabbit hole of nothingness and eventually skid into an unfortunate freak accident. No thanks.

I’ve never been good with direct confrontations and prefer not to engage in them.

Besides, if what I’ve heard of his infamous reputation is true, I could never take on Nikolai Sokolov, even if I were reincarnated a few times in the spirit of a warrior. He’s notorious for his savage behavior, unhinged tendencies, and penchant for breathing violence instead of oxygen. The evidence is splattered in red all over his person.

“Bossy. I like it. But you know what I like more? Your posh little accent. Question. Does it sound the same when you say crude things?”

It’s me against the screwed-up notion of time. It’s always been that way.

“Anyone ever tell you how fucking hot you feel when struggling for control? I could swallow you alive and leave no crumbs.”

I don’t care if he’s crazy or downright insane. If he messes with my loved ones, I’ll be his worst enemy.

You have issues. Lots of them. You don’t want to be a disappointment.

I don’t do violence. Ever. This crazy wanker won’t be changing that.

On a scale of straighter-than-straight Jer to fluid-as-lube Kill to confused-as-shit Gareth, I wonder where Brandon King falls. Not that I’m tempted to find out. That would be crazy. * * * Just kidding. I am crazy.

I’m a creature of habit. Neurotically so. In every sense of the word. Without my carefully laid-out routine, I’d crumble and crash into a million irreparable pieces. Without my punctual set of actions, I’m nothing.

“Oh cool, you remember! Nice to officially meet you, Brandon. Or, hold on! I actually found you a perfect nickname. Lotus flower. You know, because you managed to bloom so beautifully while surrounded by the muddy swamp that is Landon. Isn’t that so fucking poetic?”

He tastes like my own downfall and I’m ready to drown in it.

“Then let me see your face, hon,” Mum says softly, almost pleadingly. She’s always pleading with me, my mum, imploring, asking, probing, and disturbing my routine. I exhale a long breath. I sound like a damn twat to the mother who only ever treated me with care, love, and understanding.

And maybe I’m on edge because I don’t want her to hate me. I hate me enough for both of us.

She never has to choose her words with the family's golden boy, Lan. Apparently, I screw up everything, Mum’s caring side included.

You have to say that because you’re our mum and can’t be caught showing favoritism.

that I ever am—and she started probing and worrying. I hate it when I’m a constant cause of concern for her. It’s the worst.

My poor friend has had the worst love story to ever exist. Not that I believe in that emotion. After all, love is just an illusion made up by empty people who crave companionship. In reality, it doesn’t exist.

He got on my nerves enough by doing everything wrong earlier in the pub. From the way he pretended I was invisible, to saying he’d been in love, to denying we ever did anything. Every. Fucking. Thing. Now, I have to leave so I won’t throttle the fuck out of him. This is why I’ve stayed away. Why I’ve removed myself from any situation he’s in or any environment where he can exist. I see him, and I’m burning. The harder I’ve tried to stay away, the wilder my obsession with him has grown. I just can’t fucking help it.

Using my hold on his shirt, I drag him into a tight alley and shove him against a grimy brick wall. He releases the most delicious startled sound I’ve ever heard and I’m done for. Finished. Absolutely jumping off a cliff, rolling and cracking a few bones and not giving a flying fuck, because I have my prize at the bottom. Him.

Fuck. Fuck me. Fucking fucker of all motherfucking fucks. He tastes like sweet surrender, all wound up and ripe for the taking. I can’t believe I didn’t do this sooner. I think I’ve found my new favorite drug in the form of his lips. I suck the lower one into my mouth, biting down on the cushion so he feels the pain as deep as I do.

I’ve always prided myself on being in control. Everything has gone according to a plan, a schedule and an end goal. Spontaneity and I fell out of each other’s favor years ago and I never reconciled that relationship. And I was okay with it. I am okay with it. Losing control once threw my life in a loop of chaos and fucking destruction and I can’t do chaos. Chaos is the source of all evil. Chaos would push me over the edge I’ve been walking for as long as I can remember.

It’s done. All I have to do is pretend last night never happened. I’m a master at pretending. Have done it my whole life and have always succeeded. This isn’t any different.

If anyone asks, I’ll say I cut myself while shaving. Deny. Forget. Pretend. My holy mantra will work its magic this time as well. It always does.

Lotus flower is such a cock-fucking-tease, but I’ll make him come around. Even if it’s the last thing I do. Am I too obsessed? I don’t think I am. This is pretty much a good amount, in my humble opinion. Now, I’ve never played this type of intense push-and-pull game before, but that’s what makes this a lot more thrilling. Brandon is making himself into a war that I’ll conquer and bring to his fucking knees. Literally.

Brandon King is the epitome of a nice guy. All prim, proper, and kind. He smiles at everyone’s jokes, no matter how corny they are. Checks on the people around him to make sure they’re okay. He plays lacrosse. Loves his afternoon tea. Volunteers at a fucking animal shelter on the weekends. Donates his paintings to various charities. Participates in marathons for multiple causes. Runs for women's rights. Runs for cancer. Runs for mental health awareness. Runs for abused animals. Runs for climate change. Let’s say he runs for everything. Tell him to run for a poor worm trapped underground and he’ll be all over that shit. But here’s the thing that I’ve suspected for some time. It’s an image. I’m not saying he doesn’t care about all of those causes, but he’s using his goody-two-shoes personality as camouflage. A crutch. He’s repressing, fighting, and struggling. Against what? I’m not sure. It’s why I go fucking feral whenever he slips out of his self-imposed shackles and lets his true self show through. He’s still an asshole, but at least he’s not putting on a fake front. At least I get to see the real him. Like right now.

“You’re a fucking nightmare,” he mutters, his throat working beneath my fingers. “Your nightmare.” “I hate you.” “I don’t.” “You’re fucking crazy.” “About you,” I whisper against his lips and claim them with a guttural moan.

One of his hands is on my shoulder, pushing me away, but the other one is in my hair, pulling me close. He’s a fucking conundrum, my lotus flower, and I can’t wait to break him into fucking pieces.

“You taste like my new favorite addiction, baby.”

This was supposed to be a little game, but I don’t think I’m playing anymore. The worst part is that I feel like I’m already losing.

And I’m hit by the survival instinct to run away. To open the door and sprint into the night, then do what I excel at. Pretend. Avoid. Deny.

I pause inside, my forefinger hovering over the yellow ground-floor button, and then I do what I’ve done my entire life. Run away. Deny. Pretend.

“Get out of my life, Nikolai.” “The answer is no.” “I want you gone.” “It’s still no.” “Do you have no pride?” “What the fuck is that? Is it edible?”

I watch his hair flying in the wind and I hate that the only urge I have is to touch it, run my fingers through it. But I can’t. Wanting him is a painful struggle. Wanting him is ripping a hole in the very marrow of my existence and making me question everything. I can’t afford to question everything. I need my system and routines, and he simply does not belong there. He’s an error in the matrix. A plot hole in a story.

“Why do you want me, Nikolai?” I ask instead of answering his question. “We’re nothing alike—I’m too proper for your liking. You’re too violent for my preferences. So why are you this obsessed with me?” “Do I need a reason?” “Of course you do.” “That’s where you’re wrong. I don’t need a reason to want you, lotus flower. I just do. And if you put a pause on the useless thoughts cramming that head of yours, you’ll also admit that you just want me, too. Simple. Normal.” “You don’t even know me.” “I know you’re such a gentleman and you love running at the same time every day. I also know you’re different from your psycho twin brother and have a good relationship with everyone. Except for Clara, because she’s finally out of the fucking picture, but here’s the most important part.” He smirks. “I also know you love kissing me.” “I do not.” “Wanna prove it?”

“Is there a way I can get rid of you?” I ask, my shoulders hunching. “If I die, maybe. Scratch that, I’ll haunt the fuck out of you until you join me, my Prince Charming. Then we can have a fuck fest in ghost land.” “You need help.” “Then help me, baby.”

“Don’t run away from me again. If you do, I’ll flip the world upside down to find you. You’re mine now, baby.”

The blood and the penthouse. Both are dangerous addictions of different proportions. Both are pulling me apart and leaving me completely desolate and unable to look at the distorted face in the mirror anymore. Only one addiction can actually lead to my decimation. One addiction forces me to forget everything else whenever he’s in my vicinity. Whenever he touches me, kisses me, fucks me. I pretend my outer skin doesn’t exist. I’m not Brandon King. I’m not the broken entity who sees black ink instead of his reflection in the mirror. Not the weak man who’s more often than not swallowed by disgusting nausea and the terrifying notion of nothingness. I’m just me. His lotus flower. His Prince Charming. His baby.

He acts like he’s okay with everything, but deep down, he tries to manipulate the situation so it works the exact way he wants it to. He’s picky, standoffish, and meticulous. Difficult and grumpy, too.

The quiet ones are the fucking scariest.

My brain checked out and my thoughts came to terms with how utterly fucking tired I am. Of myself. Of everything. I still am.

I’m withdrawing from social circles with all sorts of excuses. Studies. Work. Pending deadlines. I just don’t have the energy to deal with anyone or anything at the moment. But more alone time only pushes me toward bad habits. Cutting and blood and fucking self-loathing. I’m spiraling and I can’t stop it. I’m falling and can’t hit the bottom.

The doomsday feeling racks my brain and saliva floods the inside of my mouth. Tick. You’re so fucking weak. Tick. A disgrace. Tick. Fucking useless.

It scares me that I’m the disappointment who’s nothing like him in any shape or form. He might have been strict with Lan, but, really, that’s because he reminds him of his younger self. I’m the fucking anomaly who only ever caused my parents' concern. A fucking hurricane of disappointment and failed potential.