God of Fury (Legacy of Gods, #5)

by Rina Kent

Every night. Every time. As if he expects the answer to change. And every night, it gets harder to say “Yeah” or “You know I am.” So I just nod now. And even that is excruciatingly difficult.

“She’ll eat other people's food and be like, nah. No one can cook like my Levi. Watch and learn, son. The best way to chain someone to you for life is to own their stomach.”

I must fall asleep, because when I open my eyes, my head is lying on a muscled thigh and long fingers are stroking my hair. My heart thumps loud in my chest as I look up at Nikolai’s masculine face, his eyes focused on the telly.

A part of me is fighting to get up. I hate it when he treats me so delicately like I’m some girl. It’s enough that he fucks me. I’m still not fully comfortable with the fact that I like being fucked by a man. It makes me feel less manly, less…normal.

It’s different when he kisses my nose and eyelids and strokes my hair. It’s different when he lays me on his thigh, like now, with one hand resting on the middle of my chest and the other lost in my hair. There’s no sex involved and I don’t like how horrifyingly comfortable it feels. Still, I don’t attempt to move.

He dips his head and steals my lips and I just give in. It’s impossible to fight the pull he has on me, and at this moment, I don’t want to. We kiss for what seems like hours, tongues stroking and teeth nipping. Only, this time, it’s not urgent or leading up to sex.

Though he’d lose his marbles if I were to call it a relationship. It’s a situationship. A deal at best and a whoring contract at worse.

He’s so fucking adorable. Though I wouldn’t tell him that out loud or it’d freak him out. He gets antsy whenever I treat him gently outside of sex. It’s like he’s scared of the prospect of us growing closer or something. And yet he’s the one who does my grocery shopping and cooks for me.

It’s a bit similar to his expression last night when I pressed him against the wall as soon as he was out of the elevator and fucked him there until he couldn’t stand up straight.

He might bottom and enjoy it, but he’s the control freak outside the bedroom.

Typical Bran. To be honest, I don’t know why I keep hoping he’ll one day come out in epic fashion and kiss me in front of the world like he loves to do in private. That’s just impossible.

Why the fuck does he act as if it’s the end of the world if someone catches him kissing me?

“You have no right to act butthurt when you’re the one against a public relationship. If you don’t like people thinking I’m with Simon, boo-fucking-hoo. It’s your fault.”

It’s been two weeks since Nikolai told me we were done—in a text—and I’m still not over the bursts of loneliness. Two weeks and it’s getting worse, not better.

Around ten thirty, which is when I usually go to the penthouse, he posted a picture of the telly on a scene from the nightly murder mysteries. The hashtags were #Watching #Alone

and I cursed myself for the overconfident tone I used when, really, I just wanted to hear his voice, even angry and wrong. Even if he was calling me by my full name, it was still his voice that I’d spent way too long without.

But most of all, I’m sorry that he even wants me. I need him in ways words can’t express, and he’s the only person I can do this with, but he can have anyone he wants, considering he’s infinitely secure in his sexuality. I’m not secure in my body, my sexuality, or my own fucking head. But he touches me as if he’s blind to all those flaws.

“But you just said you don’t like it.” “I’d rather let you fuck me than you running off to experiment with someone else.” My lips part. Wow. He’d really go that far for me?

“I lied. I don’t only want a morning kiss.” His lips ghost over mine. “I need a morning fuck as well.” This man will fucking destroy me. I just hope I don’t destroy him in the process.

One day, and I mean very, very soon, Bran won’t be content with only kissing me behind closed doors. He’ll be proud about being with me just like I’m over the moon about being with him.

He doesn’t smile back as he fists my hair in a painful grip. “You belong to me, Nikolai. I do not share, are we clear?” “Fuck. I love it when you get all possessive.” “That’s not an answer. I don’t want to see you with girls or guys hanging onto your arm or sitting on your lap. I don’t want anyone to touch you, period.”

“Aren’t you curious about me?” My voice comes low, a bit vulnerable, and I don’t even do that. Why is it that Bran looks at me and I feel this sense…of doubt? Not in me, but in his feelings for me.

I can sense myself falling deeper and harder, but he’s still a blank board most of the time, and that does shit to me.

“Tell me something in Russian.” I cup his chin and stare deep into those eyes that have become my undoing as I say the words Grandpa said Russians take seriously and literally. “Ya nee ma goo bees tee byah zhit.”

That queasy feeling only gets more intense the longer my mouth ravages his. My insides melt when he meets me stroke for stroke, grunt for grunt. If I wasn’t sure before, I am now. I’m completely and irrevocably in trouble because of Brandon King.

I usually wake him up with my lips around his cock or my cock nudging inside him. He picked up on it and started trying to wake up before me just so he can suck me off first thing in the morning.

You better remember who the fuck you belong to, Nikolai.

There’ll be a day when he’ll come out. I know it. I feel it in his eyes when we’re in public. I see it in his body language when he angles himself in my direction as if he wants to walk to me, hug me, and kiss me. He stops himself every time, but that’s looking more painful for him lately.

He’ll break one day and I’ll be there to pick him up with open arms and an open mouth.

“I just want you to know that you deserve to be loved in the light, Niko. Just like everyone else.”

The fact that he refuses to let me in even though I’m a damn open book is messing with my fucking head.

“Please…” His voice is muffled. “Please let me hold you like this. It doesn’t hurt when you touch me.”

Not even if I burn with him. For him. In him. I’d willingly catch fire if he so much as asked me to.

I’m losing myself because of him.

For the first time in fucking ever, I don’t have myself under control. And that’s saying something since everyone always thinks I have a loose screw and can’t be labeled sane by any stretch of the imagination. It’s different this time.

I knew it was disastrously different when I didn’t want to talk to my dad. If I did, even he would be insisting on the pills. A part of me is insisting on the fucking pills.

I’m just proving a point. The fact that he belongs to me and only me. The fact that he still only wants me and will never fucking replace me.

When I remove my hand, Bran’s lips reach for mine, but I step back and out of reach. I’ve never seen him so hurt, so distraught as he looks right now. All the pleasure has vanished and he watches me slowly, warily, as if he’s seeing my eyes for the first time.

I can’t help thinking this is revenge for all the times I kept him at arm’s length. The push-and-pull game has reversed and I’m now on the receiving end.

And yes, I might have been distant at times, but I was there when he wanted me to be. He, on the other hand, has made it abundantly clear that he wants nothing to do with me anymore. He doesn’t communicate. Doesn’t come to the penthouse. And he’s completely fine with the prospect of losing me by hurting my brother. Forget about being heartbroken. I’m fucking livid right now.

I can’t stop thinking about the times I was cooking in the penthouse and Nikolai was being clingy, and while I called him annoying, I actually loved having him around.

I loved the fact that he couldn’t stay away from me—not even for a minute. He made it his mission to touch me all the time as if I were the magnet to his steel. Then everything came to an end.

I exit the texts and open Instagram, then go to his profile like a junkie. He hasn’t posted anything for a long time, but I scroll through the old pictures. As if I don’t have every single one saved on my phone in a special folder.

“We’re your parents, not your guardians or people you need to be wary around.” Mum takes my hand in her smaller ones. “You don’t have to think about it when you talk to us. You can tell us what’s on your mind freely.”

“Mum, Dad. I want to tell you something.”

“Did you find someone who understands you?” Dad asks. “Will you be too shocked if I say it’s a man?” Mum’s lips break into a grin. “I knew it.” “Me, too,” Dad says.

Fucking finally!!!! Near the end of the book too, typical. Lol

“Well, hon. You had your first crush on a guy.” “What?” “My stepbrother, Jayden.” “Jay?” “You called him a prince and said, ‘Mum, he’s so pretty,’ when you first met him. You were, what? Five at the time?

“Afterward,” Mum continues. “You were more into girls, so I thought maybe you were bi, but I didn’t want to broach the subject until you told me yourself. I’m happy you felt comfortable enough to tell us.”

“Dad? Are you…okay with it?” “Your sexuality? Naturally. This guy, however, I’m not sure yet. What’s his name? Age? Parents’ names?”

“What? I can’t have this bunch of psychos corrupting my children. I’m sure you’ll find someone better, son.” A sad smile curves my lips. “I don’t think so, Dad.” “What happened?” Mum asks in a soft tone.